Classic Poem

A foretimes, fruitfulness and tilth were here.
Snug granges held the harvests, acres broad
Were rich in grass and grain; the good-man's board
Groaned with its plenty, and a rustic cheer
Sat in the homesteads sprinkled far and near.
To-day, prosperity no more is lord;
Choked wells, roofs fallen, weed-grown ways afford
A vision desolate and a memory drear.
Sons of New England, your ingratitude,
Like that once shown to tragic Lear, is base!
For now ye scorn the teeming mother-breast
That gave you strength, and in a vagrant mood
Will turn to alien meadows of the West,
Or toward the peopled cities set your face.