The Republican journal. [volume] (Belfast, Me.) 1829-current, 1904-02-11
NEW ENGLAND.
From the Independent.

This poem by John G. Whittier was
originally published in the New Eng
land Review, October Is, 1880, while its
author was editing that paper. Two
other poems by Whittier appear in the
same number, both with his signature,
while this was anonymous. The prob
able reason for this is the self-assertior
of the last StanZa. and perhaps the
rather Warlike tone of the first. When
he published "Moll Pitcher" two years
later, this poem formed part of it, with
the omission of the concluding lines
A row of asterisks took their place
AS he never allowed "Moll Pitcher" tC
be included in any collection of his
works, these lines will not be familiar
to most of our readers. The last stanZs
was copied in his biography.-S T.
Pickard.
Land of the forest and the rock
OF dark blue lake and mighty river
OF mountains reared alOft to mock
The storms career-the lghtning's shock
My own green land forever!
Land of the beautiful and brave
The freenan's home-the martyrs grave
The nursery of giant men,
Whose deeds have linked with every glen,
And every hill and every stream,
The romance of some warrior dream!-
Oh, never may a son OF thine,
Where'er his wandering steps incline,
Forget the sky that bent above
His childhood like a dream of love
The stream beneath the green hill flowing
The broad-armed trees above it growing
The clear breeze through the foliage blow
Or, hear unmoved, the taunt of scorn
Breathed DER the brave New England
born
Or mark the strangers jaguar hand
Disturb the ashes of thy dead
The buried glory of a land
Whose soil with noble blood is red,
And sanctitied to every part,
Nor feel resentment, like d brand,
Unsheathing from his fiery heart,
Ol-greener hills may catch the sun
Beneath the glorious heaven of France;
And streams, rejoicing as they run
Like life beneath the day beams glance,
May wander where the orange bough
With golden fruit is bending low
And there may bend brighter sky
Ger green and classic Italy
And pilared fame and ancient grave
Scar record of another time,
And over shaft and architrave
The green luxuriant ivy climb
And far towards the rising sun
The palm may shake its leaves on high,
Where flowers are opening, one by one,
Like stars upon the twilight sky,
And breeZes soft as signs of love
Above the rich mimosa stray,
And through the Brahmin's sacred grove
A thousand bright-hued pinions play =
Yet, unto thee, New England, still
Thy wandering sons shall stretch theil
arms,
And thy rude chart of rock and hill
Seem dearer than the land of palms.
Thy messy oak and mountain pine
More welcome than the banyan's shade,
And every free, blue stream of thine
Seem richer than the golden bed
OF Oriental waves, which glow
And sparkle with the wealth below
Land of my fathers If my name,
Now humble, and unwed to fame,
Hereafter burn upon the lip,
AS one of those which may not die,
Linked in eternal fellowship
With visions pure and strong and high
If the wild dreams which quicken now
The throbbing pulse of heart and brow,
Hereafter take real form,
Like spectres changed to beings warm;
And over temples worn and gray
The star-like crown of glory shine
Thine be the bard's undying lay,
The murmur of his praise be thine