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| FAIR RIVER! not unknown to classic song;— | |
| Which still in varying beauty roll’st along, | |
| Where first thy infant fount is faintly seen, | |
| A line of silver ’mid a fringe of green; | |
| Or where, near towering rocks, thy bolder tide, | 5 |
| To win the giant-guarded pass, doth glide; | |
| Or where, in azure mantle, pure and free, | |
| Thou giv’st thy cool hand to the waiting sea;— | |
| Though broader streams our sister realms may boast, | |
| Herculean cities, and a prouder coast, | 10 |
| Yet, from the bound where hoarse St Lawrence roars | |
| To where La Plata rocks the sounding shores; | |
| From where the urns of slimy Nilus shine, | |
| To the blue waters of the rushing Rhine; | |
| Or where Ilissus glows like diamond spark, | 15 |
| Or sacred Ganges whelms its votaries dark, | |
| No brighter skies the eye of day may see, | |
| No soil more verdant, nor a race more free. | |
| —See, where, amid their cultured vales, they stand, | |
| The generous offspring of a simple land; | 20 |
| Too rough for flattery, and all fear above, | |
| King, priest, and prophet, in the homes they love. | |
| On equal laws their anchor’d hopes are stay’d, | |
| By all interpreted, and all obey’d. | |
| Alike the despot and the slave they hate, | 25 |
| And rise firm columns of a happy state. | |
| To them content is bliss; and labor, health; | |
| And knowledge, power; and true religion, wealth. | |
| The farmer, here, with honest pleasure sees | |
| His orchards blushing to the fervid breeze, | 30 |
| His bleating flocks, the shearer’s care who need, | |
| His waving woods, the winter fire that feed, | |
| His hardy steers, that break the yielding soil, | |
| His patient sons, who aid their father’s toil, | |
| The ripening fields, for joyous harvest drest, | 35 |
| And the white spire that points a world of rest. | |
| —His thrifty mate, solicitous to bear | |
| An equal burden in the yoke of care, | |
| With vigorous arm the flying shuttle heaves, | |
| Or from the press the golden cheese receives; | 40 |
| Her pastime, when the daily task is o’er, | |
| With apron clean, to seek her neighbor’s door, | |
| Partake the friendly feast, with social glow, | |
| Exchange the news, and make the stocking grow; | |
| Then, hale and cheerful, to her home repair, | 45 |
| When Sol’s slant ray renews her evening care, | |
| Press the full udder for her children’s meal, | |
| Rock the tired babe, or wake the tuneful wheel. | |
| See, toward yon dome, where village science dwells, | |
| What time the warning clock its summons swells, | 50 |
| What tiny feet the well known path explore, | |
| And gaily gather from each sylvan door. | |
| The new wean’d child, with murmur’d tone proceeds, | |
| Whom her scarce taller baby-brother leads, | |
| Transferr’d as burdens, that the house-wife’s care | 55 |
| May tend the dairy, or the fleece prepare. | |
| Light-hearted group! who gambol wild and high, | |
| The daisy pluck, or chase the butterfly, | |
| Till by some traveller’s wheels aroused from play, | |
| The stiff salute, with face demure, they pay, | 60 |
| Bare the curl’d brow, or stretch the ready hand, | |
| The untutor’d homage of an artless land. | |
| The stranger marks, amid the joyous line, | |
| The little baskets whence they hope to dine; | |
| And larger books, as if their dexterous art | 65 |
| Dealt most nutrition to the noblest part. | |
| Long may it be, ere luxury teach the shame | |
| To starve the mind, and bloat the unwieldy frame! | |
| Scorn not this lowly race, ye sons of pride! | |
| Their joys disparage, nor their hopes deride; | 70 |
| From germs like these have mighty statesmen sprung, | |
| Of prudent counsel, and persuasive tongue; | |
| Bold patriot souls, who ruled the willing throng, | |
| Their powerful nerves by early labor strong; | |
| Inventive minds, a nation’s wealth that wrought, | 75 |
| And white-hair’d sages, skill’d in studious thought | |
| Chiefs, who the field of battle nobly trod, | |
| And holy men, who fed the flock of God. | |
| Here, ’mid the graves by time so sacred made, | |
| The poor, lost Indian slumbers in the shade; | 80 |
| He, whose canoe with arrowy swiftness clave, | |
| In ancient days, yon pure, cerulean wave; | |
| Son of that spirit, whom in storms he traced, | |
| Through darkness follow’d, and in death embraced,— | |
| He sleeps an outlaw, ’mid his forfeit land, | 85 |
| And grasps the arrow in his moulder’d hand. | |
| Here too, those warrior sires with honor rest, | |
| Who bared in freedom’s cause the valiant breast, | |
| Sprang from their half drawn furrow, as the cry | |
| Of threaten’d liberty came thrilling by, | 90 |
| Look’d to their God, and rear’d in bulwark round | |
| Breasts free from guile, and hands with toil embrown’d, | |
| And bade a monarch’s thousand banners yield— | |
| Firm at the plough, and glorious in the field; | |
| Lo! here they rest, who every danger braved, | 95 |
| Unmark’d, untrophied, ’mid the soil they saved. | |
| —Round scenes like these, doth warm remembrance glide, | |
| Where emigration rolls its ceaseless tide. | |
| On western wilds, which thronging hordes explore, | |
| Or ruder Erie’s serpent-haunted shore, | 100 |
| Or far Huron, by unshorn forests crown’d, | |
| Or red Missouri’s unfrequented bound, | |
| The exiled man, when midnight shades invade, | |
| Couch’d in his hut, or camping on the glade, | |
| Starts from his dream, to catch, in echoes clear, | 105 |
| The boatman’s song that pleased his boyish ear; | |
| While the sad mother, ’mid her children’s mirth, | |
| Paints with fond tears a parent’s distant hearth, | |
| Or charms her rustic babes, with tender tales | |
| Of thee, blest River! and thy velvet vales; | 110 |
| Her native cot, where ripening berries swell, | |
| The village school, and sabbath’s holy bell; | |
| And smiles to see the infant soul expand | |
| With proud devotion for that father land. | |
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