Classic Poem

Far from my home upon New-England shores,
Where Pilgrim feet the rocks have sanctified,
I tread Old England's crowded streets, alone
In the thronged capital, her boast and pride.

All day, for many a day, my thoughts have been
In the historic Past, and in the Tower,
Or in the Abbey where Fame's children lie, —
My heart has been with England every hour.

But now a rush of memories sad and sweet
Comes to my mind, as, gazing, in a trice
My spirit leaps at a familiar name:
There's magic in those words, " Lake-Wenham Ice! "

I seem to see that placid, silvery sheet
Spread out beneath the moonbeams far away,
Or hear its mimic billows kiss the shore
As there I linger at the close of day.

Far off! — three thousand miles of salt sea lie
Between me and thy waters fresh and clear:
I may not taste the nectar from thee quaffed,
Nor bathe in thee again for many a year.

Yet even here thy virtues may be known:
Thou hast a magic for the stranger too;
Thy name awakes sweet music in my soul,
Thy self , congealed, may soothe a stranger's woe.

Where the worn sufferer, with the throbbing pulse,
Awaits Death's mandate, thou may'st haply go;
Lay thy cool fingers gently on his brow,
Till the blood cometh evenly and slow.

So, like the fabled fountain, thou shalt be
The " aqua vitae " for the stranger's hand
That dips with faith the chalice in thy wave,
Wafted by commerce to our mother-land.

Lake Wenham! on thy shore I hope to stand,
And gaze again across thy waters blue,
And in that fairer than each foreign land,
Beneath the Stars and Stripes, thy beauty view.