Classic Poem

I like this Princeton, a most silent place,
Better than Chester, that I loved to pace
So many years ago; is stiller far,
Less people, they not caring who you are,
While Chester mortals have a certain wit,
By which they know you, or can fancy it.
In Princeton live a few good farming people,
Like spectres in a church-yard, while a steeple
Is pretty nigh the village, and one inn
Which Sam. Carr keeps, lonely and cool within,
One of the country taverns built before
Our recollection, shortly after Noah.
Here Boston sportsmen stop with dog and gun,
To bag shy Woodcock, and have quiet fun,
A ruddy, cheerful race, who interfere
Never with you, in truth know not you are.
No perfumed dandies smirch the lonely roads,
No artists wander with their sketchy loads,
'T is then a proper place for us to go,
Who love old solitude and hate new show.
I think it a good spot without this hill
Wachusett,—a small mountain, cool and still
As Princeton. To the summit is easy,
With scattered outlooks picturesque and breezy,
Not as flat level as a Salem beach,
And yet within a feeble body's reach.
A pleasant ramble up a rocky steep,
'Neath shady woodlands, where some Woodgods sleep,
Where maples, shad-barks, silver birches shine,
Second-growth forest where gay trees combine.