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the prospect.
Over orchard, and woodland, and meadow, Where the Beaver its raving stills,O'er fair little ups and downs To the mighty, girdling hills,
What silence of expectation— What dreaming on the to-come,When up through these valleys and hillsides Yon hive shall swarm and hum!
For yonder, beyond our paling Of elm, and ash, and oak,Hangs soft on the purple distance A visible, brooding smoke;
There, masked in brick, Trimountain Rears somewhat snobbish and chill,But returns in its way the salute Of oak-crowned Meetinus hill
