Changes of Home

Well may we sing her beauties,
This pleasant land of ours,
Her sunny smiles, her golden fruits,
And all her world of flowers;
The young birds of her forest-groves,
The blue folds of her sky,
And all those airs of gentleness,
That never seem to fly;
They wind about our forms at noon,
They woo us in the shade,
When panting, from the summer's heats,
The woodman seeks the glade;
They win us with a song of love,
They cheer us with a dream,
That gilds our passing thoughts of life,
As sunlight does the stream;
And well would they persuade us now,
In moments all too dear,
That, sinful though our hearts may be,
We have our Eden here.
Ah, well has lavish nature,
From out her boundless store,
Spread wealth and loveliness around,
On river, rock, and shore:
No sweeter stream than Ashley glides—
And, what of southern France? —
She boasts no brighter fields than ours,
Within her matron glance;
Our skies look down in tenderness
From out their realms of blue,
The fairest of Italian climes
May claim no softer hue;
And let them sing of fruits of Spain,
And let them boast the flowers,
The Moors' own culture they may claim,
No dearer sweet than ours —
Perchance the dark-hair'd maiden
Is a glory in your eye,
But the blue-eyed Carolinian rules,
When all the rest are nigh.
And none may say, it is not true,
The burden of my lay,
'T is written, in the sight of all,
In flower and fruit and ray;
Look on the scene around us now,
And say if sung amiss,
The song that pictures to your eye
A spot so fair as this:
Gay springs the merry mocking-bird
Around the cottage pale, —
And, scarcely taught by hunter's aim,
The rabbit down the vale;
Each boon of kindly nature,
Her buds, her blooms, her flowers,
And, more than all, the maidens fair
That fill this land of ours,
Are still in rich perfection,
As our fathers found them first,
But our sons are gentle now no more,
And all the land is cursed.
Wild thoughts are in our bosoms
And a savage discontent;
We love no more the life we led,
The music, nor the scent;
The merry dance delights us not,
As in that better time,
When, glad, in happy bands we met,
With spirits like our clime.
And all the social loveliness,
And all the smile is gone,
That link'd the spirits of our youth,
And made our people one.
They smile no more together,
As in that earlier day,
Our maidens sigh in loneliness,
Who once were always gay;
And though our skies are bright,
And our sun looks down as then —
Ah. me! the thought is sad I feel,
We shall never smile again.