O Thou of home the guardian Lar,
And, when our earth hath wandered far
Into the cold, and deep snow covers
The walks of our New England lovers,
Their sweet secluded evening-star!
’T was with thy rays the English Muse
Ripened her mild domestic hues...

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn o'er yonder bridge,

That with its wearisome but needful length

Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon

Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright; —

He comes, the herald of a noisy world,
...

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