THE FORESTERS. 41 



Log-built ; but Peace and Industry's retreat. 



Here down green glades the glittering streams descend ; 



Here loaded peach trees o'er fences bend ; 



Deep flowery pastures clothe the steeps around, 



Where herds repose, and playful courses bound, 



The groaning cider-press is busy heard, 



The fowls loud cackling swarm about the yard, 



The snowy geese harangue their numerous brood, 



The flapping flail re-echoes through the wood, 



And all around that meets the eye or ear, 



Proclaims the power that spreads its influence here, 



Hail, Rural Industry ! man's sturdiest friend, 



To thee each virtue must with reverence bend, 



To thee what heart denies spontaneous praise, 



From gloomy woods such glorious scenes to raise ! 



Great giver of God's gifts to man below ! 



Through whose rough hand all human blessings flow, 



Here as in ancient and illustrious Rome, 



May chiefs and heroes cheer thy humble home ; 



The wise, the brave, from public broils retreat, 



To walk with heaven and thee through arbors sweet, 



To share thy toils ; thy little plans inspire, 



And joke at night around thy glowing fire. 



Still, near thy hut, upon thy flowery green, 



May Temperance, Hope, and Cheerfulness be seen, 



Health, Plenty, Innocence, thy temples crown, 



And Peace, each night embosom thee in down, 



And still, where'er thy humble roofs arise, 



In northern climes, or under burning skies, 



May guardian Liberty thy fields enclose, 



Befriend thy friends and baffle all thy foes. 



