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OUR NEIGHBOR.
Your legends hang on every hill,Your songs have made it dearer still.
Yours is the river-road; and yoursAre all the mighty meadow floorsWhere the long Hampton levels lieAlone between the sea and sky.Fresher in Follymill shall blowThe Mayflowers, that you loved them so;Prouder Deer Island's ancient pinesToss to their measure in your lines;And purpler gleam old Appledore,Because your foot has trod her shore.
Still shall the great Cape wade to meetThe storms that fawn about her feet,The summer evening linger lateIn many-rivered Stackyard Gate,When we, when all your people here,Have fled. But like the atmosphere,You still the region shall surround,The spirit of the sacred ground,Though you have risen, as mounts the star,Into horizons vaster far!
