  The river swelleth more and more, Like some sweet influence stealing o’er The passive town; and for a while Each tussock makes a tiny isle, Where, on some friendly Ararat, Resteth the weary water-rat. No ripple shows Musketaquid, Her very current e’en is hid, As deepest souls do calmest rest, When thoughts are swelling in the breast, Doth make a rippling and a rout, Sleeps from Nahshawtuck to the Cliff, Unruffled by a single skiff. But by a thousand distant hills The louder roar a thousand rills, And many a spring which now is dumb, And many a stream with smothered hum, Doth swifter well and faster glide, Though buried deep beneath the tide. Our village shows a rural Venice, Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is; As lovely as the Bay of Naples Yon placid cove amid the maples; And in my neighbour’s field of corn I recognise the Golden Horn. When only red men came to hear; Methinks ’twas in this school of art Venice and Naples learned their part, But still their mistress, to my mind, Her young disciples leaves behind. |
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