HYMN ANCESTRAL.
O, the glory of the Autumn
On the old New England hills,
When the summer-leaf is dying in its pride;
O, the song of wine and wonder
Where the wild grape’s udder fills;
O, the hymn of homage where the gentians hide.
O, the dream enchanted woodlands;
O, the spell that’s on the seas,
And the cricket’s lovesick murmur of repose;
O, the gossamer and damask
Spreading underneath the trees;
O, the silken tassels where the tangle grows.
Let me slumber ’neath the shadow
Of the old New England hills,
Weave my raiment of the starlight when I die;
May the storms caress my temple,
May the winds caress my throne,
In the Pilgrims’ hallowed sands O let me lie.