Which from the settler’s broken spirit gleamed,
Only to show the dark!—then, where it beamed,
Died, leaving all its ashes on his heart!
And now he gazed into the fire and dreamed
Of home, of native mountains wrapt apart,
The village and afar the large and steepled mart.
He saw the haze lay o’er the landscape green,
Where, like a happy thought, the streamlet flowed
The fields of waving grass and groves between.
Afar the white and winding turnpike glowed—