1 8 FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 



IV. 



Over the river, on the hill, 

 Lieth a village, white and still ; 

 All around it the forest trees 

 Whisper and shiver in the breeze ; 

 Over it sailing shadows go 

 Of soaring hawk and screaming crow, 

 And mountain grasses low and sweet 

 Grow in the middle of every street. 



Over the river, under the hill, 

 Another village lieth still. 

 There I see in the cloudy night 

 Twinkling stars of household light, 

 Fires that gleam from the smithy s door, 

 Mists that curl on the river s shore; 

 And in the roads no grasses grow, 

 For the wheels that hasten to and fro. 



THUS sang Rose Terry in her cottage 

 overlooking the river, and with that vision 

 always before her, I do not wonder that the 

 song came to her. On the steep hillside the 

 streets of white marble climb toward heaven 

 from the busy manufacturing village, and 

 their quietness in the broad glare of day 



