Far in the field or by the way appears

Far in the field or by the way appears That sacred mark upon the map of earth: The roomy house, the style of former years; The shelter where our fathers had their birth; Nay, neath its roof New England’s self was born; Here Freedom rocked her infancy to rest; The cheeks that blossomed here her grace adorn; And love, here nourished, warms her hilly breast.

Within, content and happiness repose, And doubled from the cellar’s treasured worth, Jack Frost avoiding through the cuddling snows, Which very robes he wore from the far north: Here is preserved the blood of Summer warm, And closed ’neath Autumn’s sure and ripening seal; Though buried be her torn and faded form, The family scenes her cheering spirit feel.

The Fire-king, so luxuriant and bright, ’Gainst winter bravely bears his flaming shield; Though chill and tempest wage determined fight, They’re driven from the kitchen’s cosy field; And Summer’s spirit fosters in his care; He, for her safety, bares his glaring breast; And in the face of winter’s haughty air, His smoking rage blows from the chimney’s crest.