Page:The Poetical Works of Jonathan E. Hoag.djvu/67

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Pad and Pencil on The Mohawk Trail

The radiant morning sun was climbing high
  Upon that crisp and bright October morn;
From happy rural homes rose curling smoke,
  While glistening pearls set off the frosty corn.

The steepled church and mills went whirling by;
  The sun lit up each hill and wakening vale,
The eager herds lined hillsides far and near,
  As "Franklin" turned his nose upon the Trail.

In downy seat we settle back at ease,
  And list to "Franklin's" whirring wheels below.
The logy farm-horse pricks his floppy ears
  When "Franklin" heeds the way side-guard, "Go slow."

Yon Hoosac Mountains loom into the sky;
  Those slopes which feet of red men trod one day;
As camping by the icy mountain creek
  They sought the sportive speckled trout at play.

There now a whitened path of adamant
  Winds in and out among the birchen trees,
And far below, in verdant grassy mead,
  The happy children bask in Autumn's breeze.

The distant vista opens wide the scene;
  For miles on miles we skirt the mountain side;
With glass we sweep the rival peaks afar,
  While silvery clouds o'er all in splendor glide.

On jutting peak and gently rolling slope
  Autumnal tints ten thousand beauties bring;
No artist brush can rival such as these,
  Save Nature when she gilds the fields in Spring.

See Old Greylock, five thousand feet and more,
  On lesser peaks his haughty gaze inclines;
In years he rivals e'en the ancient Alps,
  And in his verdant grace superior shines!

Deep cut the wounds from Northern foe he wears;
  His head was bared by boulders old and gray
In onward march from frozen Arctic seas.
  And Io! we find them strewn along the way.

In shapely pines and firs on mountain side,
  In spreading oaks and birches tall and white,
In laden vines where wood-birds seek their nests,
  The weary tourist finds supreme delight.

With rod and gun he tramps the verdant vale,
  On mountain top and hillside far and near,
In sylvan dell beside the purling brook,
  Where bask at ease the timid, agile deer.

That ancient trail that winds the mountain side,
  Once trod by those who sought for human gore,
Could it but speak of tales of fear and war,
  Of blackened homes and war-whoops heard no more!

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