Page:New England Fallen.pdf/3

Sturdy he grew, by nature’s certain law;
No towns he knew, nor crowded streets he saw.

Each Sunday in his stout capacious chaise,
John drove to meeting, God on high to praise.
New-shav’d, and in the finest of his coats,
The psalms he sang, with cheerful ringing notes.
With mind devout, his soul he sought to save,
Whilst lib’ral off’rings to the church he gave,
With ear attentive he the sermon heard;
The parson’s counsels, and the holy word.
Blest was that parson, noblest of mankind;
True his belief, exalted was his mind
Sinners he sav’d, and all creation lov’d:
By simple words, his flock to tears he mov’d;
Inspir’d he preach’d, and seraphim above approv’d.

The farmer’s needs were few, and well supply’d
By laden ships that roll’d upon the tide,
From distant strands by fav’ring zephyrs blown
Up to the wharves that grac’d each seaport town.
On wind-swept docks the Yankees, wond’ring, view’d
The swarthy sailors, freaks of alien blood.
They little fear’d, as they enjoy’d the breeze,
Their realm would soon be fill’d by such as these;
Unwarn’d they were; their ignorance was bliss;
They knew not how their land should go amiss.
Would that I might possess such prescience as this!

Oft to the village drove good Farmer John,
To stock his larder, and supply his barn.
’Mid shady streets he sought the village store,
And hail’d the rustics cluster’d ’round the door.
He bought with wisdom, and with honest heart
He’d trade in horses at the rural mart.
Then when night came, toward home John’s wain inclin’d,
His new-bought nag a-trotting on behind.
And as he rode, with patriotic pride,
In sunset’s glow he view’d the countryside.
The planted fields spread out before his gaze;
The steeple pierc’d the gath’ring evening haze,
Whilst here and there a tidy farmhouse show’d
Its white expanse beside the dark’ning road.
Betwixt the trees, a wand’ring lane he saw;
Stone were its walls, and mossy was its floor.
The neighbours’ boys addrest him through the gloam
As with their dogs they drove the cattle home.
Beside the brooklet stood the water-mill;
The day’s work done, its pond’rous wheel was still.
Peace hover’d o’er each vale and gently rolling hill.