Page:The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 21.djvu/14

6 Our homes are cheerier for her sake,

Our door-yards brighter blooming,

And all about the social air

Is sweeter for her coming.

We send the squire to General Court;

He takes his young wife thither:

No prouder man Election-day

Rides through the sweet June weather.

So spake our landlord as we drove

Beneath the deep hill-shadows.

Below us wreaths of white fog walked

Like ghosts the haunted meadows.

Sounding the summer night, the stars

Dropped down their golden plummets;

The pale arc of the Northern Lights

Rose o'er the mountain summits,—

Until, at last, beneath its bridge,

We heard the Bearcamp flowing,

And saw across the mapled lawn

The welcome inn-lights glowing;—

And, musing on the landlord's tale,

'T were well, thought I, if often

To rugged farm-life came the gift

To harmonize and soften;—

If more and more we found the troth

Of fact and fancy plighted,

And culture's charm and labor's strength

In these hill-homes united,—

The simple life, the homely hearth,

With beauty's sphere surrounding,

And blessing toil where toil abounds

With graces more abounding.