Hic, ubi nocturnae Numa constituebat amicae,

Nunc sacri fontis nemus et delubra locantur

Judaeis, quorum cophinus faenunique supellex;

Omnis enim populo mercedem pendere jussa est

Arbor, et ejectis mendicat silva Camenis.

—Juvenal, iii, 12-16.

When, long ago, America was young,

And held by yeomen from Britannia sprung,

New-England was with hardy rustics fill’d;

Green were her fields, and diligently till’d.

My grandsire John, beside a rocky hill,

‘Mid pastures water’d by a sparkling rill,

Erected firm his unpretentious cot;

Sunk deep his well, laid out his garden-plot;

Built sheds for poultry, hives for honey-bees;

Barns for his cattle; clear’d the land of trees.

The meadows wide with walls he fenc’d around,

Builded of stones digg’d from the rocky ground.

From dawn to darkness reach’d his daily toil;

Each spring with seed he sow’d the fertile soil:

And in the heat of each midsummer day,

With sharpen’d scythe he mow’d the leaning hay.

‘Neath harvest moon he reap’d the rip’ning crop;

In winter’s blast his axe was heard to chop

The wind-sway’d oaks and maples of the wood

That on his hillside slopes majestic stood.

In grassy pastures, teeming with rich loam,

His brawny kine were wont to feed and roam;

Thus did he live, and call’d his humble acres „HOME”.

The wooden farmhouse, painted snowy white,

Had in it more of broadness than of height.

A sloping roof its safe protection lent;

In vain the storms outside their fury spent.

Above the roof, the stone-built chimney tower’d,

Thro’ which the smoke in inky torrents pour’d.

Around the door, the clinging ivy twin’d;

The sunny garden brilliant flow’rs confin’d.

The rooms within were scrubb’d until they shone

By the good wife of honest Farmer John.

Beside the fire at night the rustic sat,

And listen’d to the singing of his cat,

Or read the Scriptures to his wife and son,

Or thro’ the window watch’d the rising moon.

His child by maxims wise and good was rear’d,

Virtue he lov’d, Immortal God he fear’d.

The vice and folly of the world he spurn’d,

But at the district-school true wisdom learn’d

From his kind master, who with precepts sage

Refin’d and shap’d the growth of tender age.

With no low trade his pliant mind was fill’d,

Nor was his wit by friv’lous notions kill’d.

Few were his studies, but with zeal pursu’d;

With solid learning was the youth imbu’d.

His hours of leisure were discreetly spent;

In harmless joys and sports he liv’d content.

Sturdy he grew, by Nature’s certain law;

No towns he knew, nor crowded streets he saw.

Each Sunday in his stout capacious chaise,

John drove to meeting, God on high to praise.

New-shav’d, and in the finest of his coats,

The psalms he sang, with cheerful ringing notes.

With mind devout, his soul he sought to save,

Whilst lib’ral off’rings to the church he gave.

With ear attentive he the sermon heard;

The parson’s counsels, and the holy word.

Blest was that parson, noblest of mankind;

True his belief, exalted was his mind.

Sinners he sav’d, and all creation lov’d;

By simple words, his flock to tears he mov’d;

Inspir’d he preach’d, and seraphim above approv’d.

The farmer’s needs were few, and well supply’d

By laden ships that roll’d upon the tide,

From distant strands by fav’ring Zephyrs blown

Up to the wharves that grac’d each seaport town.

On wind-swept docks the Yankees, wond’ring, view’d

The swarthy sailors, freaks of alien blood.

They little fear’d, as they enjoy’d the breeze,

Their realm would soon be fill’d by such as these;

Unwarn’d they were; their ignorance was bliss;

They knew not how their land should go amiss.

Would that I might possess such nescience as this!

Oft to the village drove good Farmer John,

To stock his larder, and supply his barn.

‘Mid shady streets he sought the village store,

And hail’d the rustics clutter’d ‘round the door.

He bought with wisdom, and with honest heart

He’d trade in horses at the rural mart.

Then when night came, toward home John’s wain inclin’d,

His new-bought nag a-trotting on behind.

And as he rode, with patriotic pride,

In sunset’s glow he view’d the countryside.

The planted fields spread out before his gaze;

The steeple pierc’d the gath’ring evening haze,

Whilst here and there a tidy farmhouse shew’d

Its white expanse beside the dark’ning road.

Betwixt the trees, a wand’ring lane he saw;

Stone were its walls, and mossy was its floor.

The neighbours’ boys addrest him thro’ the gloam

As with their dogs they drove the cattle home.

Beside the brooklet stood the water-mill;

The day’s work done, its pond’rous wheel was still.

Peace hover’d o’er each vale and gently rolling hill.

Agrestic bliss! Why canst thou not remain?

Why must the years bring evil in their train?

Why have the rustics’ sons forsaken home,

In dismal towns and distant lands to roam?

Why have they left the meadows of their birth;

Quit rural ease for urban want and dearth?

Why are base foreign boors allow’d to dwell

Amongst the hills where Saxon greatness fell;

Live their low lives, themselves in filth degrade

As monkeys haunt a palace long decay’d?

Less fresh and green seem now New-England’s hills,

The air is tainted by the smoke of mills;

The tott’ring houses, scarcely held erect,

Shake in the wind, and crumble from neglect,

Tho’ in a few some wretched aliens dwell

‘Midst hideous squalor, and repulsive smell.

The empty church with mould’ring rot decays;

The lofty steeple on its fast’ning sways:

Within its grass-grown yard, in peaceful sleep,

The parson lies, but none remain to weep.

The village rings with ribald foreign cries;

Around the wine-shops loaf with bleary eyes

A vicious crew, that mock the name of „man”

Yet dare to call themselves „American”.

New-England’s ships no longer ride the sea;

Once prosp’rous ports are sunk in poverty.

The rotting wharves as ruins tell the tale

Of days when Yankees mann’d the swelling sail.

The Indies yield no more their cargoes rare;

The sooty mill’s New-England’s present care:

The noisy mill, by foreign peasants run,

Supplants the glorious shipping that hath gone.

In arid fields, the kine no longer low;

The soil knows not the furrow of the plough;

The rolling meadows all neglected lie,

Fleck’d here and there by some foul alien’s sty.

The school no more contains the busy class;

The walls are down, the ruins chok’d with grass.

Within the gate-post swallows build their nests;

Upon the hill, the gentle master rests.

The mossy lane with briers is o’ergrown;

The bound’ry walls are shapeless heaps of stone,

And thm’ the mourning trees the winds in sorrow moan.

Whence comes this devastation of the land,

This awful blow of the Almighty’s hand?

Where is New-England, that our fathers knew,

Where pious men in rugged virtue grew?

Where law and order rul’d the rustic realm,

And honour stood unconquer’d at the helm?

Gone! with the noble race that gave it life,

And given o’er to foreign crime and strife.

The Saxon yeoman made New-England great,

And when he leaves, he leaves it to foul fate.

No baser tribe can take his honour’d place,

And with like virtues old New-England grace.

This pow’r lies lock’d within the noble BRITISH race!