They point to where the daisied field and fragrant plain extend,
Where silv'ry brooks, 'mid verdant meads, their bubbling passage wend,
Where the lark, at morning startled, when the shadows tend to west,
Soars, bearing up her matin hymn, then carols o'er her nest.
Where the reaper blithely whistles, while falls the teeming grain,
Where the maid, some love tale warbling, responds in rustic strain.
While laughing children, angel-eyed, with cheeks of blooming hue,
Fill groves surrounding with their song, there oftimes point they too.
And now to scenes more solemn do they call the vision back,
As where in old historic lands, grey age has left his track;