The Hills of New England.
The hills of New England, how proudly they rise,
In their wildness of grandeur to blend with the skies,
With their far azure outline, and tall, ancient trees,
New England, my country, I love thee for these.
The vales of New England, that cradle her streams,
And smile in their beauty like land in our dreams;
All sunny with beauty, embosom’d in ease.
New England, my country, I love thee for these.
The woods of New England, still verdant and high,
Though rock’d by the tempest of ages gone by;
Romance dims their arches, and speaks in the breeze,
New England, my country, I love thee for these.
The streams of New England, that roar as they go,
Or seem in their wildness but dreaming to flow;
Oh! bright gilds the sunbeam their march to the seas,
New England, my country, I love thee for these.
The homes of New England, free, fortuned, and fair;
Oh, many a heart treasures its seraphim there,
E’en more than thy mountains or streamlets they please,
New England, my country, I love thee for these.
God shield thee, New England, dear land of my birth,
And thy children that wander afar on the earth;
Thou still art my country, where’er I am cast,—
Take thou to thy bosom my ashes at last.