English

On yonder hill, with oak and hickory crowned,
What sight is that which draws, from far and near,
The thronging people up the dusty roads,
And through each field where'er a by-path leads?
See, where the red and new-arisen sun
Points his bright finger through the upland grove,
Flushing the white tents to a rosy hue!
And hark, the call of the resounding horn,
Which echo, from yon hill, with slumberous shell
Blows softly back! Are these the tents of war,
By some proud general pitched, where bayonets gleam,

Now comes the Muster's jovial, motley day,
Remnant of troublous times; and after this
Election follows. To the neighbouring town
The farmers flock, and gathering in crowds,
Discuss their candidates with growing warmth;
Then drop the powerful scrip into the poll—
The little weight which turns a nation's scale—
Where oft a world-wide interest is weighed
Beyond recall, and settled. Let no vote
Be dropped with careless thought; for it may be
The last strong hand which draws the lever down
Which moves the giant destiny of man

Approaches now the time to Christians dear,
Hallowed with grateful memories; the hour
Which startled Herod on his throne, and drew
The star-led Magi through the manger door,
Where lay the infant Saviour of a world,
More terrible to Eden's serpent vile—
Which now, affrighted, backward shrunk, chagrined,
Coiling upon himself—than was the boy,
The cradled Hercules, unto the snake
He strangled in his grasp. This is the eve,
Welcome to all, by childhood chiefly hailed,
Bringing that day the angels ushered in

The-winter speeds, yet, ere the spring comes in,
On many a tree which at the cross-roads stands,
And at the village tavern and the store,
And on the blacksmith's wall—in staring print,
Or in coarse written lines—unnumbered bills
Proclaim the dissolution near at hand.
There the choice farm and stock, or household wares
Are offered, and the day of vendue set;
And, ere from off the fields the last snow melts
From crops, another than the hand which sowed
Shall in the harvest reap,—the sales begin;

Here, by the highway, let us stand and note
The long, slow, labouring caravan which takes,
To-day, its westward course. Like moving tents,
The laden wagons pass. Along the road
Some, who remain, collect in wayside groups,
And wave the 'kerchief, uttering heartfelt words
Of cheer; some join the pilgrimage a space,
Walking behind the wains in converse meet,
Speeding the adventurers on. Some, in advance.
Who started earlier on the way, with gaze
Cast frequent back, and leisure, mournful steps
Hold melancholy talk with those whom they,

Another morning finds them on their way:
Another still, and still another flies.
To-day beside the Susquehanna leads
Their road romantic; and to-day, the sun,
Looking betwixt the hill-tops to the vales,
Beholds, with cheerful eye, the climbing line
Which by the roaring Juniata winds;
Till lo! upon the windy mountain height,
While glows the eve above a sea of hills,
Flushing the Alleghanian peaks, the train
Hangs like a cloud that, with the coming day,
Beside the brook which takes a westward course

Between the hills whose perforated sides
Bleed to the watered banks, from veins of coal,
The black bituminous mass, for days they float
Delighted with the changing view. The shore,
On either hand, a lovely landscape glides:
And Beaver passed, lo, presently appear
The fields of other States. Here, on the left,
Virginia, whose historic name recalls
The scenes of chivalry and old romance—
A State which lavished heroes, as a mountain
Gives to the land its rivers. The broad home
Of Raleigh's hope and Pocahontas' love,

Once came an exile, longing to be free,
Born in the greenest island of the sea;
He sought out this, the fairest blooming isle
That ever gemmed a river; and its smile,
Of summer green and freedom, on his heart
Fell, like the light of Paradise. Apart
It lay, remote and wild; and in his breast
He fancied this an island of the blest;
And here he deemed the world might never mar
The tranquil air with its molesting jar.
Long had his soul, among the strife of men,
Gone out and fought, and fighting, failed; and then

Thus sang the poet-lover, mid the scenes
Where happiness once brooded like a dove.
The mournful tale is ended with a sigh,
And she who listened weeps; and where they stand
The sad moon ponders, like the ghost of Eve
All night a-gazing on an Eden lost.
The conjuring fancy fills the place with shapes,
Holding their doubtful tryste; the o'ershadowed eye
Peoples the dusk with phantoms; and the ear,
By keen imagination finely tuned,
Like a light cord to fullest tension drawn
Vibrates to each accordant sigh of air,

Adieu the island! Lo, the Sabbath dawns,
A cloudless April-day. Still toward the West
The broad stream bears them onward in its arms.
On either shore, and through the neighbouring fields,
While sounds the bell from yonder village spire,
The unknown people throng. Then to the deck
The various inmates of the ark collect,
And round the pastor drawn, in pious groups,
Flood the calm air with the melodious hymn;
While, as they pass the town, an answer comes,
Like a clear echo, from the hill-side church.