“… at latis otia fundis

Speluncae vivique lacus; at frigida Tempe

Mugitusque bourn mollesque sub arbore somni

Non absunt.”

Virg. Georg. Lib. ii.

Ye sylvan Dryads! turn the harass’d mind

From talk of towns to themes of rural kind;

Amidst decadent sights a spot disclose

Where ancient woodlands give their blest repose;

Where clement Time hath spar’d his alt’ring hand,

And left unchang’d our own ancestral land.

Quinsnicket! haven of the weary’d heart;

Close to the busy town yet far apart:

Whose azure lakes and verdant pastures blend,

And as one fair harmonious whole extend;

Whose shady glens the years dissolve away,

And lead us backward to a happier day.

Enchanting hour! when first the trav’ller scales

Th’ encircling hills, and wanders down the vales.

‘Tis Spring; the buds deck ev’ry forest bough,

While honest rustics labour with the plough.

Among the trees the feather’d songsters cheer

The vernal scene, and hail th’ increasing year.

Yon tiny torrent, fed by swollen springs,

Leaps in the sun, and o’er the Mountain sings;

Thro’ fields below, the streamlet flows along

With greater amplitude, but less of song;

At length the force of thankless toil to feel,

And strain incessant at the whirling wheel.

Thus with mankind, the sweetest days are first;

From youthful lips the songs spontaneous burst:

Maturer years a graver aspect give,

And men become more wretched as they live.

Away, Reality! and let us roam

Quinsnicket’s realm—Imagination’s home.

Let us ascend the gently rising mound,

And from its summit view the country round.

What city of the blest is that which lies

Far to the south, half hidden from our eyes;

Whose gold-pav’d avenues astound our gaze;

Whose spires and domes reflect the morning rays?

Bewitching distance! by thy aid alone

The sordid town to splendour thus hath grown.

Would that I might display in nobler rhyme

Quinsnicket’s beauties in the summer time!

As sun-burn’d farmers gather in the hay,

In sylvan shades we shun the heat of day.

Charm’d by the fragrance of the leafy bow’r,

Within the glen we pass the noontide hour.

On ev’ry side the rugged slopes arise,

And verdure shields us from the blazing skies.

In yonder reedy pool we half expect

Some timid Nymph or Satyr to detect:

Our raptur’d eyes for fleeing Naiads scan,

And ears are strain’d to hear the pipes of Pan.

The rushing waterfall its music lends;

Creation smiles, and ev’ry joy attends.

Autumnal days their sweetest boons bestow

Where cool Quinsnicket greets the milder glow.

The harvest field, with order’d rows of sheaves,

Vies with the forest and its tinted leaves.

The wild ravine an added grandeur gains,

And brooklets swell with equinoctial rains.

Yon rocky bluff, above the water’s side,

Defies the ages with primeval pride.

Of those stern heights, to ev’ry tempest turn’d,

How oft the Indian’s council flame hath burn’d!

How oft his tribe have grateful shelter found

Betwixt the cloven rocks that stand around.

Imagination brings once more to view

The squatting chief and braves of copper hue:

The sober look, the pipe pass’d to and fro;

The reckless war-dance to the tom-tom’s blow.

How little hath the silent landscape chang’d

Since dusky warriors o’er the forest rang’d!

In neighb’ring meadows all unalter’d stand

The ancient dwellings of an ancient land.

No modern finger yet hath dar’d to mar

These quaint reminders of an age afar.

Behold yon stone-built mansion by the road;

Of stately outline—gentry’s own abode.

What powder’d beaux have dwelt within its walls!

What revelry hath cheer’d its spacious halls!

Alone it stands, each trav’ller to remind

Of brighter, happier ages left behind.

Midst fruitful orchards, by Pomona blest,

The simple cots of old New-England rest;

By stone protected on the forest end

From flaming darts that lurking braves might send.

In massive chimney, hearth, and vine-clad side,

The signs of long-departed years abide.

What rugged men have trod these sagging floors!

What pious bliss hath reign’d within these doors!

Contented households here have held their sway;

Would that they fill’d our spacious land today!

A Boreal blast the suff’ring country chills,

And Winter next invades Quinsnicket’s hills.

Yet what can Winter’s beauty better shew

Than fields and forests clad in virgin snow?

The bending boughs a diamond wealth amass,

Whilst lakes and streams are turn’d to crystal glass.

Night soon steals on, and from the gorgeous sky

A thousand blazing beacons cheer the eye.

High in the south Orion lends his beams;

Th’ adjacent Bull with rival radiance gleams.

Above the ice-clad trees see Sirius shine,

And Leda’s heav’nly twins their light combine.

Straight overhead behold Capella’s rays,

And glitt’ring Perseus with his golden blaze.

In dazzled towns such sights are left unseen

To save their splendour for the wild demesne.

Hail! fair Quinsnicket, fair thro’ all the year;

Where ev’ry season’s blessings most appear:

Remnant of old New-England’s brighter age,

To cheer our spirits, and our grief assuage.

No modern menace here our joy can blast:

Who sees Quinsnicket sees the beauteous past!