380 SIGHT OF NATIVE LAND.
With your chuchyard s grassy sod, Where my musing childhood trod, With your music on the glade Which the roving Indian staid, Who of yore, at twilight dim, Startling caught the white man s hymn, Hallowed spires ! that fleck the vale, Heaven s ambassadors, all hail !
Trees ! with arch of verdure bright, Gleaming on the gazer s sight, Have ye met the wintry blast Bravely, since we saw ye last ? Was your spring-tide wakening sweet, With the grass-flower at your feet ? Nest the birds with breasts of gold Mid your branches, as of old ? Pours the thrush his carol fair ? Glides the crimson oriole there ? Have ye o er their callow young Still your kind protection flung ? Blessings on ye ! Dews and rain Fill with sap each healthful vein ; Blessings on ye ! Wear serene Nature s coronal of green, And no woodman s savage blade Dare your birthright to invade.
Roofs ! that in the vista rise Rude or towering toward the skies,
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