Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/205

But freely, with a right good-will,
    Imparts its fountain store,
Whose heaven replenished crystal still
    Can wearied toil restore.

The Indian hunter knew its power,
    And oft its praises spoke,
Long ere the white-man's stranger plough
    These western vallies broke;
The panting deer, that wild with pain,
    From his pursuers stole,
Inhaled new life to every vein
    From this same Stockbridge bowl.

And many a son of Berkshire skies,
    Those men of noble birth,
Though now, perchance, their roofs may rise
    In far, or foreign earth,—
Shall on this well-remembered vase
    With thrilling bosom gaze,
And o'er its mirrored surface trace
    The joys of earlier days.

But one, who with a spirit-glance
    Hath moved her country's heart,
And bade, from dim oblivion's trance
    Poor Magawiska start,
Hath won a fame, whose blossom rare
    Shall fear no blighting sky,
Whose lustrous leaf grow fresh and fair,
    Though Stockbridge bowl be dry.