CONNECTICUT.
FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.
“The woods in which we had dwelt pleasantly rustled their green leaves in the song, and our streams were there with the sound of all their waters.”Montrose.
I.
till her gray rocks tower above the sea
That crouches at their feet, a conquered wave;
’Tis a rough land of earth, and stone, and tree,
Where breathes no castled lord or cabined slave;
Where thoughts, and tongues, and hands are bold and free,
And friends will find a welcome, foes a grave;
And where none kneel, save when to Heaven they pray,
Nor even then, unless in their own way.
II.
Theirs is a pure republic, wild, yet strong,
A “fierce democracie,” where all are true
To what themselves have voted—right or wrong—
And to their laws denominated blue;
(If red, they might to Draco’s code belong;)
A vestal state, which power could not subdue,
Nor promise win—like her own eagle’s nest,
Sacred—the San Marino of the West.
