Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/147

A blight is on the sycamores! Yon grove
That erst in healthful majesty aspired,
Surceaseth from good works, and stretcheth out
Unsightly, withered arms. From dripping rocks
Cool, trickling waters bathe the moss-clad roots,
The healing sunbeams woo them, the fond vine
Creeps up, and clasps them in her clustering arms,
Teaching them how to love, while at their feet
The glowing Kalmia opes its waxen breast,
As if in sympathy. But all in vain.
Death worketh at their heart, and mid the embrace
Of loving Nature, sullenly they stand
A bare and blackened wreck.
                                        How sweet to glide
Along these winding shores, so richly green,
Where mid his corn-clad fields the farmer toils,
And village after village lifts its spire
In freedom, and in plenty.
                                       Now we reach
The "Old Bay State," the mother of us all
Who in New England boast to have our birth,
And look through storms of revolution, back
To Plymouth Rock.
                              Fair heritage she hath
From mountain fastness, on to Ocean-shore,
And groweth beautiful with age, and strong
In her sons' strength.
                              God bless her, and the realms