Such is the land I proudly call my own

Such is the land I proudly call my own; Such is the soil my yearly furrows tear; Such are the scenes, to other lands unknown, ’Mong which are passed my joy, and pain, and care; Such are the hills whereon I thrill and glow, As I afar these rural homes survey; Such are the hearths that warm my bosom so, And light the friends and places dear to me.

Such are the hearths whose cheer-awaking flame Flashes upon one darling face the glow, And brightens round one ever-haunting name, That fills my soul with beauty, love and woe; With beauty to behold that Heavenly art So richly o’er her form and features shine; With love to feel the beauty of her heart; With pain to know they never can be mine.

Such are the skies that bended o’er my birth, And such will see my fate or fortune passed; And kindly will our rock-ennobled earth Unfold and wrap these weary bones at last. How enviable the quiet in such ground! Where slumber they from whom our annals rose; Though I, like them, shall never sleep renowned, ’Twere sweet to vie with them but in repose.

Such sturdy scenes New England’s glory make, Her poems, too, when pencils peer the theme; Scenes ever which the noblest rapture wake, And proudly merit genius’ brightest beam; Such are the scenes that wake this holy fire Within my heart of beauty, love and pride, Wherein is fondly flaming this desire, (A prouder goal than all the world beside.)

To raise my lyre in grandeur to my theme, To fill my verse as passion fills my veins, And leave at last another worthy name, And fit memorial to my native plains. With her my prayer through all her onward race, My pride and love deep rooted in her sod, I leave New England in her Sabbath grace, Grand in her homes, her annals and her God.