Where foams the fall -- a tameless storm -- Through Nature's wild and rich arcade, Which forest-trees entwining form, There trips the Mountain-maid! She binds not her luxuriant hair With dazzling gem or costly plume, But gayly wreathes a rose-bud there, To match her maiden-bloom. She clasps no golden zone of pride Her fair and simple robe around; By flowing riband, lightly tied, Its graceful folds are bound. And thus attired, -- a sportive thing, Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild, -- Proud Fashion! match me, in your ring, New England's Mountain-child! She scorns to sell her rich, warm heart, For paltry gold, or haughty rank; But gives her love, untaught by art, Confiding, free, and frank! And once bestow'd, no fortune-change That high and generous faith can alter; Through grief and pain -- too pure to range -- She will not fly or falter. Her foot will bound as light and free In lowly hut as palace-hall; Her sunny smile as warm will be, -- For Love to her is all! Hast seen where in our woodland-gloom The rich magnolia proudly smiled? -- So brightly doth she bud and bloom, New England's Mountain-child! |