Classic Poem

BY HUGH PETERS .

I loved to sit at night upon thy grass,
C ONNECTICUT , and hear the night air creep
Across the leaves; — to see the white clouds pass
Before the morn, and shroud the hills in deep,
Dark shade; and then to hear some clear-voiced lass,
In tones so soft and sad they made one weep,
From some still porch, breathe out a song to me,
Like this — a sweet but plaintive melody:

" There 's music in the gush of streams
When winter leaves the land: —
There 's music in the April breeze,
Which, beautiful and bland,
Comes rushing from the far South-west
Towards the burning zone: —
They have such in C ONNECTICUT ,
" My beautiful, my own."

There 's music in the voice of birds,
Hailing the coming morn; —
There 's music in the bleat of lambs,
And in the hunter's horn —
There 's music " in the laugh of girls,"
A thrill in every tone;
Such girls as thine, C ONNECTICUT ,
" My beautiful, my own."

They say there 's music in the air,
Up in the deep blue sky —
Where angels pour, from golden harps,
Unearthly melody —
I used to think I heard it there
When standing all alone,
At midnight, in C ONNECTICUT ,
" My beautiful, my own."

The rushing wind which curls the sea,
Has " music in its roar:"
And so has that which whistles through
The key-hole of my door:
And that which wreaths the hills with snow,
Has music in its moan —
Those hills of thine, C ONNECTICUT ,
" My beautiful, my own."

There 's music in the deep low tones
Of holy men at prayer, —
Which steals us from our worldliness,
Our miseries, our care:
Such prayers as oft are heard around
The hearth's pure altar stone,
On Sundays, in C ONNECTICUT ,
" My beautiful, my own."

There 's music in the bosom of
The home-bound wanderer,
When first his eager glances spy
His boyhood's haunts, afar:
I hear such music, when in dreams
All wearied, and alone,
I visit thee, C ONNECTICUT ,
" My beautiful, my own."

There 's music, ay, in every thing,
On earth, in sea, or air:
The ocean's murmurings are hymns,
The wind's low whispers, prayer —
And these from shore and hill I 've heard
Go up to God's high throne,
In thy fair land, C ONNECTICUT ,
" My beautiful, my own."