FROM A NEW ENGLAND HILLSIDE. 155 



But let her beware of the lotos : 



evermore 



Most weary seem d the sea, weary the oar, 

 Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 

 Then some one said, &quot; We will return no 



more ; &quot; 



And all at once they sang, &quot; Our island home 

 Is far beyond the wave ; we will no longer 



roam/ 



There is sweet music here that softer falls 

 Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 

 Or night dews on still waters between walls 

 Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 

 Music than gentlier on the spirit lies, 

 Than tir d eyelids upon tir d eyes: 

 Music that brings sweet sleep down from the 

 blissful skies. 



And in that newer world across the 

 prairies, which used to be the far West, 

 and has grown to be almost a part of the 

 East, whither the sun travels to shake off 

 upon the broad fields the drip of the sea, 

 may the welcome be a kindly one also, but 

 not so kindly as to cause Underledge to 

 fade away in the misty distance. There 

 be many paths among these green hills 

 yet untrod, many mysteries yet to be re 

 vealed. 



JUNE 17, 1894. 



