The Stockbridge Bowl

The Stockbridge Bowl!—Hast ever seenHow sweetly pure and brightIts foot of stone, and rim of green,Attract the traveller's sight?High set among the breezy hillsWhere spotless marble glows,It takes the tribute of the rillsDistilled from mountain snows.

You've seen, perchance, the classic vaseAt Adrian's villa found,The grape-vines, that its handles chase,And twine its rim around,But thousands such as that which boastsThe Roman's name to keep,Might in this Stockbridge bowl be lostLike pebbles in the deep.

It yields no sparkling draught of fireTo mock the maddened brain,Like that which warmed Anacreon's lyreAmid the Tean plain;

But freely, with a right good-will,Imparts its fountain store,Whose heaven replenished crystal stillCan wearied toil restore.

The Indian hunter knew its power,And oft its praises spoke,Long ere the white-man's stranger ploughThese western vallies broke;The panting deer, that wild with pain,From his pursuers stole,Inhaled new life to every veinFrom this same Stockbridge bowl.

And many a son of Berkshire skies,Those men of noble birth,Though now, perchance, their roofs may riseIn far, or foreign earth,—Shall on this well-remembered vaseWith thrilling bosom gaze,And o'er its mirrored surface traceThe joys of earlier days.

But one, who with a spirit-glanceHath moved her country's heart,And bade, from dim oblivion's trancePoor Magawiska start,Hath won a fame, whose blossom rareShall fear no blighting sky,Whose lustrous leaf grow fresh and fair,Though Stockbridge bowl be dry.

They come! they come! by ardent memory led,From distant hearth-stones, a rejoicing train,And hand in hand, with kindred feeling, treadGreen Berkshire's vales, and breezy hills again,

Back to the cradle of their own sweet birth,Back to the foot-prints of their early prime,Where in the nursery of their native earthThey caught the spirit of their mountain clime;

The free, bold spirit, that no change can bind,The earnest purpose that no toil can tame,The calm, inherent dignity of mind,The love of knowledge, and of patriot fame.

They bring the statesman's and the student's dower,The honors that to rural life belong,

Of sacred Eloquence, the soul-felt power,The palm of Science, and the wreath of Song.

And thou, blest Mother! with unfrosted hair,Still made by age more beautiful and strong,Pour a glad welcome, at thy threshold fair,And breathe thy blessing o'er the filial throng.

Enfold them warmly in thy fond embrace,And with thy counsels of true wisdom guide,That, like themselves, their yet uncounted raceMay be thy glory, as thou art her pride!