Classic Poem

Vale of Otsego, ever dear,
Bright are thy seenes to fancy's eye;
And noble bosoms throb sincere,
Beneath thy mellow, radiant sky.
Peace to thy village walks and spires;
Peace to thy waters and thy shades;
Bliss to thy matrons and thy shades;
And bliss to thy unrivall'd maids!

Bright is Geneva's lake of blue;
Grand is Niagara's awful roar;
Wild is the Catskill's rugged view;
And sweet Lake George's placid shore.
But bright, and grand, and wild, and sweet,
Thy lake of blue, and hills of green,
Where thousand mingled beauties meet,
To shed a halo o'er the scene.

Nor art thou doom'd to waste unknown,
Nor fades thy loveliness untold;
For he, thou claimest as thine own, —
High on the list of fame enroll'd, —
Hath pictured in the glowing page
Each scene where mem'ry loves to dwell;
And Gallic youth, and German sage,
In other climes thy beauties tell.

They stand beside the precipice,
And mark the falling of the deer;
They linger o'er the steep abyss,
And tremble for the Pioneer .
They rove the mansion's lordly halls,
Where every object brings its charm;
Where, ominous, the pictured walls
Display Britannia's sever'd arm.

They wander through the pathless wood,
Where spring renews her leafy bower,
Where Nature, in her solitude,
Exerts her wonder-working power.
They view her now, as in her prime,
She sat in Eden's calm recess; —
Majestic, simple and sublime,
The spirit of the wilderness.

They leap on board the light canoe,
They skim across the crystal lake, —
With not a breeze the deep to woo,
With not a ripple in their wake;
Or silent spread the knotted twine,
At evening, from the distant strand;
Then, gathering in the fatal line,
Bring countless victims to the land.

Thus fancy's wand, the magic pen,
Thy forest charms hath well express'd;
And mirror'd thee, as thou wast then,
The model of the rising West.
Happy the author who can claim
A vale so lovely as his own;
Happy the village that can name
So worthy and so famed a son.

And thou art changed; — yet sweetly changed;
In thy maturer garb array'd;
More bright, more fair, but not estranged
From those who roam'd thy forest glade.
The lofty spires and cluster'd town,
The meadows wet with early dew,
Add lustre to the mountain's brown,
And yield the wave a softer hue.

I mark'd thee thus, one blissful morn,
When summer breath'd its balmy sighs;
When music's cheerful notes were borne
In echoes to the shining skies;
When gliding o'er the ruffled sea,
Our bark pursued its rapid way,
And maiden's smile, and manhood's glee,
Gave promise of that happy day.

We wander'd through the verdant bowers,
We listen'd to the murmuring rill,
Or on the lawn bestrew'd with flowers,
We met to dance the light quadrille.
We row'd beneath the pendant grove,
And cast abroad the tiny hook;
While many a lovely angler strove
To ensnare the rover of the brook.

We gather'd, in the sportive ring,
The merry sylvan games to share;
We cool'd our wine beneath the spring,
And spread our rural banquet there.
We parted when the moonbeam shone
Upon the water's misty breast;
When twilight music's dying tone
Composed the willing soul to rest.

'Twas thus, as poets tell the tale,
Arcadian shepherds pass'd the day;
And thus in Tempe's rivall'd vale,
The happy moments flew away.
And mem'ry oft on scenes like this
Shall bid enraptured fancy dwell;
Or whisper; waked from dreams of bliss;
Vale of Otsego, fare thee well.