I.
Happy the man, not doomed afar to roam,
In distant lands, beneath a foreign sky,
Who hath a humble and secluded home,
Bathed by the little brook that prattles by,
With trees begirt, and birds that warble nigh.
He, as he sitteth at his cottage gate,
Breathes not for earthly wealth the troubled sigh;
Nor doth he envy whom the world calls great,
Encircled with the pomp which guards their haughty state.

II.
The king upon a throne a sceptre wields,
The cotter for a sceptre wields a hoe;
But kings have griefs, which he, who tills the fields
In humble honesty, doth never know.
He, who through life in quietness would go,
Far from the noisy world his way will keep,
Beside the streams in solitude that flow,
Contented with his little flock of sheep,
Nor seek, in glory's path, her fading wreaths to reap.

III.
Far to the woodland haunts I turn mine eye,
Nor longer in the troubled world remain,
Where I have known no sweets of liberty,
And seeming joy hath turned to real pain.
Welcome to wood, to mountain, and to plain,
To silent streams, and forests reaching wide!
But chiefly guide my weary step again
To youth's rude scenes, Cocheco's gushing tide,
And that old Cottage, once that graced its verdant side.

IV.
Meekly arose its moss-besprinkled wall,
Where broad and green the elm majestic bore
Its branches o'er it, overshadowing all
The space around its hospitable door;
Within, might one behold its little store,
The plates well ranged, the shelves that neatly graced,
The chairs of oak upon the sanded floor,
The wheel industrious in its corner placed,
The clock, 'that hourly told, how life runs on to waste.'

V.
Once more the pensive eve with silent tread
Returns to hush the noisy world to peace;
Once more the Farmer seeks his humble shed,
Glad from his daily toil to gain release,
His task accomplished and his heart at ease,
And hails betimes the Fireside of his Cot;
And there, as from the hills the shades increase,
'The world forgetting, by the world forgot,'
He tastes the simple joys, that soothe his quiet lot.

VI.
His patient herd, ere set the beams of day,
With lowings oft alarmed the neighboring plain;
Now penned within the well known bars, they pay
Their milky tribute to his pails again.
His flocks upon the distant hill remain,
Their tinkling bells sound in the passing wind;
Though small the limits of his rude domain,
Yet fails he not, with unambitious mind,
From field and lowing herd, a due supply to find.

VII.
To greet him home the crackling fagots burn;
The housewife, busy round the blazing fire,
Cheers with her smiles her husband's loved return.
His children climb around their honored sire,
And to his fond caress once more aspire;
Inquisitive, they ask of each far field,
Whether its hills than their own cliffs are higher?
What wonders there of cascade are revealed?
What flowers enchanting bloom, what gifts the mountains yield?

VIII.
The smiling Father is his turn inquires,
What sights of joy hath bright-eyed Mary seen?
The king, parental look her voice inspires,
And she doth tell, where o'er their plat of green
The elm erects its sun-excluding screen,
She watched the lambs, and saw them at their play;
Nor had they long at their rude gambols been,
Ere two small birds, perched on a little spray,
Proud of their yellow wings, poured forth their joyous lay.

IX.
Her father's knee his Mary soon surmounts,
Around his neck her tender arms she throws;
From her bright eyes, as from celestial founts,
The laughing light through locks of darkness glows.
Nor she alone. He on them all bestows
Alike his kisses, and alike his tears,
Who bloomed, (on autumn's bosom like the rose,
'Mid cold and storm its loveliness that rears,)
To cheer his riper age, and deck his vale of years.

X.
To him, how blessed the daylight's closing gleam,
The hour, that ushers bliss supremely dear,
When bright his hearth expands its evening beam,
And needed rest succeeds to toil severe!
The cricket chirps his humble home to cheer;
The cheerful blaze illumes the white-washed wall;
Bowed on the hearth the wearied dog sleeps near;
The playful kitten, round and round, the ball
Urges with active sport, unmindfully of all.

XI.
The children, too, disposed to childish mirth,
Their busy laugh and prattle do not spare.
Such sounds of joy, such sports around his hearth,
Scenes, which each eve returning doth repair,
Charm from the farmer's breast corroding care,
And banish it to 'blank oblivion foul.'
Hark! Loud and startling through the misty air,
The prowling wolf resumes his nightly howl,
And from the hollow oak is heard the muffled owl.

XII.
How oft I sought that distant, lonely cot!
A grandam dwelt there, when my days were young,
And there, when Christmas logs blazed red and hot,
And wintry blasts their nightly descant sung,
My soul attentive on her lips has hung,
As spoke she oft of dreadful deeds of yore,
How savage men with savage fury sprung
Upon the lonely cot, and tides of gore
Were shed, as when the clouds their vernal treasures pour.

XIII.
Her hands were withered as an autumn's leaf,
Her cheeks were like a parched and shriveled scroll;
In truth she'd seen, though life at best be brief,
The wheels of eighty years their circuits roll,
And friends and kindred reach their earthly goal.
She sat beside her busy wheel to spin,
And as the hours at evening onward stole,
We teased her oft some story to begin,
At length she slowly moved her old, projecting chin.

XIV.
Of other scenes and other years she told,
Of Hopehood's wars and Paugus' frantic yell;
And, as her lips those bloody deeds unfold,
And as, with upturned gaze, we heard her tell,
Unconsciously the chrystal tear-drops fell;
For, from our infancy we'd heard and read
Of chiefs from Canada, and knew full well
Of Sachem's wrath, that feasted on the dead,
And shook the haughty plume, and arm with life-blood red.

XV.
Oh, who can tell to what a storm of grief,
In those sad days our father's hearts were bared!
They were no common sorrows, few and brief,
For capture wasted what the sword had spared.
Yet strong in faith, for each event prepared,
To live or die, as God should order how,
The griefs and dangers of their lot they dared.
They walked in joy and glory with the plough,
And at the throne of God did morn and evening bow.

XVI.
Deem it not strange such recollections fill
With feelings new and strong the youthful mind;
They make e'en seared and aged bosoms thrill,
And mourn the woes that fall on human kind.
One evening to that cot my steps inclined,
The giant elm-tree waved before its door,
The frowning clouds were driven before the wind,
The distant cataract was heard to roar,
And pale the tranquil moon, as wave on ocean's shore.

XVII.
There, too, a soldier bent his nightly way,
('Twas long ago,) one of 'the Old French War,'
Who carried proof of fierce and bloody fray
Upon his visage, marked with seam and scar;
Weary his step, for he had wandered far,
The locks upon his silvered head were few,
His eye was like the winter's clouded star,
But much that eye had seen, and much he knew,
Though now his frame was bent, and towards the grave he drew.

XVIII.
The sturdy staff, that in his hand he bore,
Was parted from an oak, whose branches spread
Near wild Cocheco's oft remembered roar;
And turning to the cottage door his tread,
Though old and weary, well his purpose sped..
The farmer hailed him to his lone abode,
Gave him a portion of his cup and bread,
And soon, forgetful of the tedious road,
How fields were lost and won, the aged soldier showed.

XIX.
He told the deeds of Abraham's blood-red plain,
Where, as their standards flashed upon the gale,
The rival warriors fell like summer's rain,
And shouts were heard, triumphant songs, and wail;
Not unto him a visionary tale;
For, where the wide St. Lawrence winds his way,
He fought with Wolfe, called from his native vale,
And dark Piscatawa's glades of green array,
To cross the mountains blue to distant Canada.

XX.
Full well he knew the cruelties of strife,
For, as he trod, with blood-red foot, the field,
He saw full many in the morn of life,
Their parents' hope, to death and darkness sealed.
Alas, what woes that dreadful day revealed!
The day, when fell the chivalrous Montcalm.
And then more loud the trump its war-note pealed;
And, (withered be the hand that wrought such harm,)
Soon Wolfe sunk bleeding low, nerveless his mighty arm.

XXI.
Thus did the bowed old man, with hoary head,
Relate the sad and stormy times of yore,
When jealous France and England madly shed
Amid the forests of this Western shore,
As it were worthless dust, their bosom's gore.
So prompt are men, from pride or lust of gain,
Whate'er they have, still seeking after more,
To scoff at love, and justice to profane,
And with a brother's blood a brother's hand to stain.

XXII.
But though such tales were heard with many a tear,
And mem'ry, fancy, feeling all possessed,
Yet soon, in truth, the gayety and cheer
That ever animate the youthful breast,
By solemn thoughts, unconquered, unsuppressed,
Awoke in sports anew; the slipper's sound,
By youth and village maiden ne'er at rest,
Was driven through the circle round and round,
And every cheek did smile, and every heart did bound.

XXIII.
E'en the old soldier felt his bosom thrill
With memory of scenes, that erst he knew;
His mind the visions of his childhood fill,
And as around the room the children flew
At blind-man's buff, he would have joined them too;
But age to youth will not wing back its flight;
To sit and smile was all that he could do,
While he, who blinded was, to left and right
Pursued the flying group, and caught them as he might.

XXIV.
At blind-man's buff, who hath not often played,
At pledges oft the moments to beguile,
When sober evening lends her peaceful shade,
When heart replies to heart, and smile to smile?
The hearth is burdened with the oaken pile,
Such as New England's forests well can spare;
Still flies the slipper round; -- a few meanwhile
The warriors of the chequer-board prepare,
The garrulous old folk draw, round the fire, the chair.

XXV.
But now the moon, through parted clouds revealed,
Is climbing far the arches of the sky;
The Farmer's cot, the cultivated field,
The brook, the plain, the mountain soaring high,
Beneath her beams in peaceful silence lie.
The dog upon the ground hath lain his breast,
Stilled is his howl, and sealed his restless eye;
The sturdy wood-cutter hath gone to rest;
The flock is on the hill, the bird is on the nest.

XXVI.
Farewell, thou cottage, for 'tis late at eve,
Farewell, ye scenes to memory ever dear!
Now eld, and youth, and maiden take their leave,
With kindly wishes and adieu sincere.
In separate ways and groups they disappear;
Some through yon scattered woods, that skirt the moor,
Some to yon hills their frowning tops that rear;
And by the Fireside of the cot once more,
Devotion lifts her voice, as she was wont of yore.

XXVII.
The thoughtful farmer reads the Sacred Book,
Then with the wife and children of his heart,
With mind serene and reverential look,
He humbly kneels, as is the Christian's part,
And worship's Thee, our Father, Thee, who art
The good man's hope, the poor man's only stay;
Who hast a balm for sorrow's keenest dart,
A smile for those, to thee who humbly pray,
Which, like the morning sun, drives every cloud away.

XXVIII.
Thou, Lord of Heaven above and earth below,
Our maker and our guide, our hope, our all!
Be Thou the Farmer's friend. In want and woe
Teach him to look to Thee, on Thee to call;
Nor let his steps in error's pathway fall.
With him preserve his lov'd, his native land;
A cloud be round her, and a fiery wall;
In innocence and honor let her stand;
And centuries yet to come, oh, hold her in thy hand.