Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/205

Rh 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.