Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/147

Rh 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