Could I but wake one never dying strain
Which Patriot hearts might echo back again,
I’d ask no meed—no wreath of glory crave—
If her approving smile my own Acadia gave!
Are those lines any less true, human, sincere, winning poetry than the opening apostrophe of Goldsmith’s Deserted Village?—
Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain;
Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,
Where smiling Spring its earliest visit paid,
And parting Summer’s lingering blooms delayed:
Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,