Fair orchards laden with their golden fruit
And gardens rich in bursting pod and root
Diversified the scene, and to my eyes
Seemed like a Peri's dream of Paradise.
The merry harvesters were all a-field,
(Keen are the scythes and sickles that they wield),
With jocund song, the reaper and the mower
Went through the fields and garnered in the store,
While ripe'ning nuts, from tall majestic trees
Came down in showers before the merry breeze,
Gay squirrels scolding frisked from limb to limb
And woke the woods and swelled the harvest hymn;
And as I journeyed through that pleasant lane
Where peace and plenty seemed to ever reign,
I thought how sordid is our bitter strife
For gold beside this quiet country life.
And gardens rich in bursting pod and root
Diversified the scene, and to my eyes
Seemed like a Peri's dream of Paradise.
The merry harvesters were all a-field,
(Keen are the scythes and sickles that they wield),
With jocund song, the reaper and the mower
Went through the fields and garnered in the store,
While ripe'ning nuts, from tall majestic trees
Came down in showers before the merry breeze,
Gay squirrels scolding frisked from limb to limb
And woke the woods and swelled the harvest hymn;
And as I journeyed through that pleasant lane
Where peace and plenty seemed to ever reign,
I thought how sordid is our bitter strife
For gold beside this quiet country life.
But now the dear old homestead comes in sight
Upon the hill above me, on the right,—
Ah! can it be the same, the grand old place,
The mansion on the hill, that oft my face
In childhood's happy days so eager spied,
The home that was our father's joy and pride,
That kin had held two hundred years and more,
Since first the Pilgrims landed on this shore?
Or is it that a flood of blinding tears
And all the growth and change of many years
Have come between me and the dear old scene,
Upon the hill above me, on the right,—
Ah! can it be the same, the grand old place,
The mansion on the hill, that oft my face
In childhood's happy days so eager spied,
The home that was our father's joy and pride,
That kin had held two hundred years and more,
Since first the Pilgrims landed on this shore?
Or is it that a flood of blinding tears
And all the growth and change of many years
Have come between me and the dear old scene,
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