So the poor idiot on the moonlit hill,
Patting his dog, his last and truest friend,
Looks up with eye of more than usual fire,
And, ’mid his idle chattering, speaks the name
Of one who loved him best in boyhood’s dream.
Thompson, sweet village! throned upon thy hills,
With happy homes, and spires that gleam above
Thy sacred altars, where the fathers taught,
And generations learned the way to God—
How pleasant, with remembrance’s eye, to view