HUGUENOT FORT,
AT OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS.
I stood upon a breezy height, and marked
The rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn,
And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scythe
With a forgiving fragrance, even in death
Blessing its enemies; and broad-armed trees
Fruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streams
That cheered their sedgy banks.
But at my feet
Were vestiges, that turned the thoughts away
From all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stones
That formed their fortress, who in earlier days
Sought refuge here, from their own troubled clime,
And from the madness of a tyrant king,
Were strewed around.
Methinks, yon wreck stands forth
In ragged strength once more, and firmly guards
From the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France,
Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flush
Of purple vintage, found but welcome cold
