"Could they but know the wild enchanting thrill That in our homely houses fills the heart, To feel how faithfully New England's will Beats in each artery, and each small part Of this great Continent, their blood would start In Georgia, or where Spain once sat in state, Or Texas, with her lone star, desolate. · · · · · "'Tis a New-England thought, to make this land The very home of Freedom, and the nurse "Of each sublime emotion; she does stand Between the sunny South, and the dread curse Of God, who else should make her hearse Of condemnation to this Union's life,-- She stands to heal this plague, and banish strife. "I do not sing of this, but hymn the day That gilds our cheerful villages and plains, Our hamlets strewn at distance on the way, Our forests and the ancient streams' domains; We are a band of brothers, and our pains Are freely shared; no beggar in our roads, Content and peace within our fair abodes. "In my small cottage on the lonely hill, Where like a hermit I must bide my time, Surrounded by a landscape lying still All seasons through as in the winter's prime, Rude and as homely as these verses chime, I have a satisfaction which no king Has often felt, if Fortune's happiest thing. "'Tis not my fortune, which is meanly low, 'Tis not my merit that is nothing worth, 'Tis not that I have stores of thought below Which everywhere should build up heaven on earth; Nor was I highly favored in my birth; Few friends have I, and they are much to me, Yet fly above my poor society. "But all about me live New-England men, Their humble houses meet my daily gaze,-- The children of this land where Life again Flows like a great stream in sunshiny ways, This is a joy to know them, and my days Are filled with love to meditate on them,-- These native gentlemen on Nature's hem. "That I could take one feature of their life, Then on my page a mellow light should shine; Their days are holidays, with labor rife, Labor the song of praise that sounds divine, And better, far, than any hymn of mine; The patient Earth sets platters for their food, Corn, milk, and apples, and the best of good. "See here no shining scenes for artist's eye, This woollen frock shall make no painter's fame; These homely tools all burnishing deny; The beasts are slow and heavy, still or tame; The sensual eye may think this labor lame; 'Tis in the man where lies the sweetest art, His true endeavor in his earnest part. · · · · ·