The old road down to Plymouth leads from a farmhouse door, Leads like a jewelled ribbon, a thousand miles or more; The door has lost its hinges, the barn has tumbled down, But the old road down to Plymouth, the only road in town, Winds in and out the bluets, the butterflies and hay; I’ve sometimes made the journey a dozen times a day. And yonder lies the vision, a sheltered, calm retreat, For the old road down to Plymouth is a balm for weary feet. ROSE OF PLYMOUTH. (THE SABBATIA). By the fairy-gods who nursed thee, Suns and satellites grown cold, By the loves our fathers plighted, By my dearest thoughts untold, Rose of Plymouth, here’s my promise, I will wear thee in my heart, Shield and cherish as a lover, Nevermore with thee to part. I will wear thee as a rainbow, Radiant with light and spray, Radiant with tomorrow’s splendor, And a far-off yesterday. I will wear thee as an emblem. Of New England’s pride and power, Wear thee as a starry token, O my pretty, pretty flower. Symbol of the pure and comely, She that maiden of repose, She the one they called Priscilla, O my fair, my winsome rose. Scintilating, brave and blushing, Like that maiden time adores, She the one that crossed the waters, Idol of our Pilgrim shores. THE ANGELUS OF PLYMOUTH WOODS. I know a place ’mid desert wilds, From city cares apart, Where sheening ponds, like sleeping swans, Dream on the world’s warm heart; Its vesper-bells are calling, and ever calling me, To worshipful devotion, from every leafy tree. And none hath caught the music Of praise and prayer divine, More distant from life’s bitter hour Than murmurs in the pine; Nor acolyte of incense, nor robed Te Deum choirs, E’er awed my soul with mysteries, so free from vain desires, As cherubim and seraphim, Who stay their phantom flight, Amid the choirs of God’s green spires, To tune their harps of light, When evening’s drowsy whisper, the new moon in the west, Broods Nature’s benediction, where lapwings float at rest. PLIMOTH THROUGH AN OLD SPY GLASS. (A SKETCH). Deep nestled in my heart there glows, Against an azure sky, A picture I would paint for you, But O, how dare I try? My brush should be a sheldrake’s wing, My palette were the moon, My colors were the pulsing morn, With mystic odors strewn; Its background wandering tribes of men, The wilderness, the sea, Whose vast unbroken solitudes Were moaning to be free. Or yet, as on that natal day, The fate-winds, white and cold, The tide and wrack, far ebbing back, Strange secrets should unfold.