STANZAS TO MARY.

Thine eye is like the violet, Thou hast the lily’s grace; And the pure thoughts of a maiden’s heart Are writ upon thy face. And like a pleasant melody To which memory hath clung, Falls thy voice in the loved accent Of mine own New-England tongue. New-England—dear New-England! All numberless they lie, The green graves of my people, Beneath her far blue sky; And the same bright sun that shineth On thy home at early morn, Lights the dwellings of my kindred, And the house where I was born. Oh, fairest of her daughters! That bid’st me so rejoice ’Neath the starlight of thy beauty And the music of thy voice, While Memory hath power In my breast her joys to wake, I will love thee, Mary, for thine own And for New-England’s sake.