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The neat village, the school-house, and church,

Her broad hills, her deep valleys, and streams, The tall pine, the rough oak, the smooth birch,

Are all fresh in our day thoughts and dreams. 0, New England, wherever sojourning,

Thy children in sadness or mirth,
By distance unweaned, with fond yearning

Still turn to the land of their birth.

We can never the pathways forget,

We so oft in our boyhood have trod,
To the school, where our playmates we met,

And the house, where we worshipped our God. Ere we're found in our waywardness shunning

The lessons there taught us in love, Be our right hand bereft of its cunning,

And, palsied, our tongue cease to move.



ART thou ppy, lovely lady,

In the splendour round thee thrown, Can the jewels that array thee,

Bring the peace which must have flown?

By the vows which thou hast spoken,
By the faith which thou hast broken,
I ask of thee no token,

That thy heart is sad and lone.

There was one that loved thee, Mary!

There was one that fondly kept
A hope which could not vary,

Till in agony it slept.
He loved thee, dearly loved thee,
And thought his passion moved thee,
But disappointment proved thee,

What love has often wept.



ONE happy year has fled, Sall,

Since you were all my own,
The leaves have felt the autumn blight,

The wintry storm has blown.
We heeded not the cold blast,

Nor the winter's icy air;
For we found our climate in the heart,

And it was summer there.

The summer's sun is bright, Sall,

The skies are pure in hue;
But clouds will sometimes sadden them,

And dim their lovely blue;
And clouds may come to us, Sall,

But sure they will not stay;
For there's a spell in fond hearts

To chase their gloom away.

In sickness and in sorrow

Thine eyes were on me still,
And there was comfort in each glance

To charm the sense of ill.
And were they absent now, Sall,

I'd seek my bed of pain,
And bless each pang that gave me back

Those looks of love again.

Oh, pleasant is the welcome kiss,

When day's dull round is o'er, And sweet the music of the step

That meets me at the door.
Though worldly cares may visit us,

I reck not when they fall,
While I have thy kind lips, my Sall,

To smile away them all.



In a wild, tranquil vale, fringed with forests of green, Where nature had fashioned a soft, sylvan scene, The retreat of the ring-dove, the haunt of the deer, Passaic in silence rolled gentle and clear.

No grandeur of prospect astonished the sight,
No abruptness sublime mingled awe with delight;
Here the wild flow'ret blossomed, the elm proudly

waved, And pure was the current the green bank that laved.

But the spirit that ruled o'er the thick tangled wood,
And deep in its gloom fixed his murky abode,
Who loved the wild scene that the whirlwinds deform,
And gloried in thunder, and lightning, and storm;

All flush'd from the tumult of battle he came,
Where the red men encountered the children of flame,
While the noise of the warwhoop still rang in his ears,
And the fresh bleeding scalp as a trophy he bears :

With a glance of disgust he the landscape surveyed, With its fragrant wild flowers, its wide-waving shade ;Where Passaic meanders through margins of green, So transparent its waters, its surface serene.

He rived the green hills, the wild woods he laid low;
He taught the pure stream in rough channels to flow;
He rent the rude rock, the steep precipice gave,
And hurled down the chasm the thundering wave.

Countless moons have since rolled in the long lapse of

timeCultivation has softened those features sublime ; The axe of the white man has lightened the shade, And dispelled the deep gloom of the thicketed glade.

But the stranger still gazes with wondering eye,
On the rocks rudely torn, and groves mounted on high ;
Still loves on the cliff's dizzy borders to roam,
Where the torrent leaps headlong embosomed in foam.



Gone to the slumber which may know no waking

Till the loud requiem of the world shall swell ; Gone! where no sound thy still repose is breaking,

In a lone mansion through long years to dwell; Where the sweet gales that herald bud and blossom

Pour not their music nor their fragrant breath:
A seal is set upon thy budding bosom,
A bond of loneliness-a spell of death!

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