NEW-ENGLAND.
Reading edition
I.
Land of the Pilgrim-Rock! how broad thy streams, Thy hills how peopled with the brave and free! With glorious sights thy fruitful valley teems, And lavish Nature pours her gifts on thee; On every hand the smile of Beauty beams, And rich profusion spreads from lake to sea! Imperial land! from out thy mountain sides Flow the pure streams of ever-living tides!
II.
Fair are thy daughters, as thy skies are fair, Proud are thy sons, as proud thy mountains rise, And as the eagle loves the clear blue air, The soul of Freedom hovers 'neath thy skies! How strong in heart thy patriot-sires were! And, oh, how brave to win war's golden prize! To thee, fair land! our souls in love shall turn, And in our altar-fires thy heroes' deeds shall burn.
III.
Birth-land of Freedom! from thy mountain-height, From thy deep vales and forests fair and wide, Along thy sounding shores where ocean's might Expends itself in tide's returning tide, Rising, sublime, beyond the tempest's flight, The immortal sounds of Liberty abide! And, oh! how far along from shore to shore They meet and mingle with the sea's loud roar!
IV.
Oh! there are hearts that turn in pride to thee, Thou glorious land of blossom and of shower! Gathering sweet incense from each blooming tree, And tears of balm and freshness from each flower; And at thy altars gloriously and free The chainless spirit worships, hour by hour! While round thee all our holiest thoughts entwine; The fragrance of the heart, dear land! is thine.
V.
Radiant with rosy light are thy blue skies, Fair Italy! thou land of love and song! And thou, bright Isle of Erin! whence arise The avenging spirits of a nation's wrong, Thou too art fair, and worshipped in the eyes Of men and nations to whom tears belong; But yet, oh! yet we feel, blest land and free, One pulse more strongly beating, still for thee!
VI.
Autumn hath crowned thee glorious, radiant clime! Autumn, the holiest season to the heart, Making thy sunsets with all hues sublime, The faultless picture of the Eternal art! To love thee less, New-England! 'twere a crime, More could we not, ourselves of thee a part; Tears are thine offering; prayers unceasing be Poured from the heart Imperial Land! for thee.
New-York, July 1, 1843
E. B. G.