FullReads

NEW YORK, DECEMBER 22, 1855

NEW ENGLAND, we love thee; no time can erase
From the hearts of thy children the smile on thy face.
‘T is the mother’s fond look of affection and pride,
As she gives her fair son to the arms of his bride.

His bride may be fresher in beauty’s young flower;
She may blaze in the jewels she brings with her dower.
But passion must chill in Time’s pitiless blast;
The one that first loved us will love to the last.

You have left the dear land of the lake and the hill,
But its winds and its waters will talk with you still.
“Forget not,” they whisper, “your love is our debt,”
And echo breathes softly, “We never forget.”

The banquet’s gay splendors are gleaming around,
But your hearts have flown back o’er the waves of the Sound;
They have found the brown home where their pulses were born;
They are throbbing their way through the trees and the corn.

There are roofs you remember,–their glory is fled;
There are mounds in the churchyard,–one sigh for the dead.
There are wrecks, there are ruins, all scattered around;
But Earth has no spot like that corner of ground.

Come, let us be cheerful,–remember last night,
How they cheered us, and–never mind–meant it all right;
To-night, we harm nothing,–we love in the lump;
Here’s a bumper to Maine, in the juice of the pump!

Here ‘s to all the good people, wherever they be,
Who have grown in the shade of the liberty-tree;
We all love its leaves, and its blossoms and fruit,
But pray have a care of the fence round its root.

We should like to talk big; it’s a kind of a right,
When the tongue has got loose and the waistband grown tight;
But, as pretty Miss Prudence remarked to her beau,
On its own heap of compost no biddy should crow.

Enough! There are gentlemen waiting to talk,
Whose words are to mine as the flower to the stalk.
Stand by your old mother whatever befall;
God bless all her children! Good night to you all!