Our homes are cheerier for her sake,
Our door-yards brighter blooming,
And all about the social air
Is sweeter for her coming.
We send the squire to General Court;
He takes his young wife thither:
No prouder man Election-day
Rides through the sweet June weather.
So spake our landlord as we drove
Beneath the deep hill-shadows.
Below us wreaths of white fog walked
Like ghosts the haunted meadows.
Sounding the summer night, the stars
Dropped down their golden plummets;
The pale arc of the Northern Lights
Rose o'er the mountain summits,—
Until, at last, beneath its bridge,
We heard the Bearcamp flowing,
And saw across the mapled lawn
The welcome inn-lights glowing;—
And, musing on the landlord's tale,
'T were well, thought I, if often
To rugged farm-life came the gift
To harmonize and soften;—
If more and more we found the troth
Of fact and fancy plighted,
And culture's charm and labor's strength
In these hill-homes united,—
The simple life, the homely hearth,
With beauty's sphere surrounding,
And blessing toil where toil abounds
With graces more abounding.
