Who can be sad and live upon this earth

Who can be sad and live upon this earth,
A scene like this would make a Hermit mirth,
And turn mankind to Painters, or forswear
All sympathies save with this landscape-air,
While comes the breeze as gently as caress
Of pensive lovers in first blessedness.
A yellow tone sweeps southward the horizon,
The sun to weaving deeper shadows plies on,
More mountains loom, and hills burst up like isles
Shot in the sea by Earth's galvanic piles;
One clear black spot hangs o'er the valley there,
A solitary Hawk balanced on air;
Banks of gray squall-clouds swell below the sun,
The lake turns steel, another sketch begun,
Each instant changes everywhere the scene,
Rapid and perfect turns the Indian screen.
There comes a firmer yellow to the North,
The sun just opening showers more glories forth,
A lakelet dazzles like a bursting star,
The landscape widens in that Hampshire far,
The swelling lines of nearer hills arise,
The greater mountains ope their dreamy eyes;
Out bursts the sun, turns villages to gold,
Blazons the cold lake, burns the near cloud's fold,
Drops splendidly a curtain of warm tints,
And at an apple-green divinely hints.
What land is this, not my New England drear?
'T is Spain's south border, or warm Naples' cheer,
Sweet Provènce smiles upon the western side,
And Azores' velvet on the molten tide.
I see in front the great Savannahs lie,—
The endless deserts burnt by Afric's eye,
Shine in that dusky land the Moor's delight;
'T is Tangiers yonder and dark Atlas' height,
Or Mauritania with her sable skins,
And gold-dust rivers, elephants and kings,
And yonder looms the sandy Arab coast,
With yellow tassels of the Palm all crost,
And in that valley bakes a torrid Fez;
He is not right, who our New England says
Is a dread, cold inhospitable realm,—
Guides not the South this glowing landscape's helm?
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