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Scatters its squares of red and brown
Beneath the old familiar trees.
The white church gleaming on the hill
Beside its patch of village graves,
Lifts, like a lighthouse, calm and still,
Above the dark green swell of waves.
Beyond the vale the landscape looms
In mountain masses, crowned with firs,
Save where the golden chestnut blooms,
Or where the silver birch tree stirs.
Low at their feet, in sweet surprise,
Repeating every varied hue,
The “Mountain Mirror” scoops the skies,
And laughs in sunshine and in blue.
And over all sublimely broods
The spirit, by Nature only taught;
And all is peace, save where intrudes
One dark, deep shade of human thought.
Embraced within her mountain arms,
Few fairer scenes the eye have met:
Would that the soul knew no alarms--
Would that the gazer could forget!
Forget the far-off strife, that shakes
His country's glory into shame;
Forget the misery that makes
A by-word of the nation's name!
Forget that she, who years ago,
Brought Freedom forth, in throes and tears,
Now lies in second labor low,
Convulsed in agony and fears.
God grant swift safety to the land:
God haste the peace-returning morn
When our great Mother yet shall stand
Triumphant with her second born!
Then, like this fair and favored place,
Shall the Republic's grandeur be;
For she shall look from heights of grace,
And undiminished glory see.
Like this, shall glow her atmosphere
Bannered by day with blue and white,
While all her stars shall reappear
To shame the shadows of her night.
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