O, thou who dwell'st at Springfield city,
And charm'st us with thy weekly ditty,
Who o'er the wide, wide sea hast flown,—
To make our lovely land thine own,
Thou askest of a brother Bard
That which he deems severe and hard;
A task to which he will demur,—
A song in praise of Mauvaiseterre;
For he's been thinking all along,—
That neither stream is worth a song.
Though its smooth winding banks are rich,
Our Mauvaiseterre's a muddy ditch,
Save a slight ripple where the hills
Hem in its bed at Egypt's mills.
And then, methinks your Sangamo
Has not a rock to break its flow,
But glides along with sluggish pace,
With scarce a dimple on its face.
No glade of blossoms ope beside it,
But forest shadows ever hide it,
Such streams as these. I'm bold to say,
Can never warm my simple lay.
Your silver Thames I ne'er have seen,
Its populous town, its banks of green;
Nor Grongar's summit “clothed with wood,”
Whose feet are deep in Towy's flood,
Where the eye moves o'er vale and hill,
“Till contemplation has her fill.”
Nor rocky Ouse, by Cowper sung,
That winds the pleasant hills among;
Nor Avon, where at night's calm noon,
The fairies danced beneath the moon,
Nor banks nor braes of Bonny Doon;
Nor Ayr's, nor Thevi's crystal tide,
That Scotia's rugged steeps divide.
But then I know that many a stream
As worthy of poetic theme,
As bright as beautiful and bland
Adorns my own beloved land.
O, who can stand by Hudson's shore,
And scan her bright blue bosom o'er,
And see not there a glorious view,
And fair as pencil ever drew,
Majestic mingled with the mild,
The rocky steep abrupt and wild;
Outstretched the smooth and level lawn,
The glades among the hills withdrawn;
The towns that by its waters spring,
And vessels borne on snowy wing.
What though no mossy, mouldering tower,
The ivied seat of ancient power,
With iron gates whose hinges clank,
Frowns o'er the beauty of its bank;
For in the pure, cool upper air
Hath nature built her temples there;
And there in hoary grandeur stand
Huge pillars fashioned by her hand.
But still a lovelier stream is found
Within New England's rocky bound,
With softer beauty spread around.
I've stood upon the mountain's brow
That overlooks the vale below;
Outspread a lovely region lay,
The river winding far away;
The village spires that brightly gleam
In the great sun's reflected beam;
The long dark rows of planted maize,
The herds that on the pastures graze;
And on the slopes the scattered flocks,
And torrents dashing down the rocks;
And gladness seemed the reigning queen,
Of that broad vale so bright and green;
And lesser streams, without a name,
Unknown to poetry or fame,
That spring among the mountains high,
And dash in tameless freedom by;
And rivulets and gushing rills,
That gladden my dear native hills;
And sweeter than all named before,
The fountain by my mother's door.
I look upon the Mauvaiseterre,
And think of these bright streams afar;
I look, and turn away my eye,
And pass its wave unheeded by.
Haply in after years may rise,
A bard its loveliness to prize;
Whose bosom at its hard French name,
Will kindle with seraphic flame;
And who shall pour his rapturous lay
Along its devious, slimy way,
And shed a classic beauty o'er
The scenery of its weedy shore.
And here may dwell in coming ages,
Romantic youth and hoary sages;
And College sophs here try their art,
To gain with song the fair one's heart.
But I have naught of sympathy,
O, Mauvaiseterre, for such as thee;
Thou canst not waken wild and strong,
The spirit of unstudied song.