By Adam Hood Burwell



Land of my birth! one lingering, last adieu,
    One fond expression of unfeigned regard,
One kind farewell —for which I deem thy due,
    Accept from me, native, wayward bard, —

One fond farewell, warm from my deepest heart,


    To thee and thine! —’tis all I can bestow,
Land of my birth! To me, whate’er thou art,
    Or what thou has been, well, full well, I know.

Nursed by thy wilds and solitudes, my youth
    Grew like the plants that flourish on thy soil.


My heart was plain simplicity and truth;
    My hands refused no task of rural toil.

The muse there from amongst my father’s sons
    Was pleased to take me, and my heart inspire: —
Yes me, the humblest of her chosen ones, —


    And light my fancy with her dazzling fire.

She taught me to behold in thy pure sky
    Its thousand glories with exalted soul;
And when its thunders raised their voice on high,
    To hear His voice who shakes the utmost pole.


She taught me to behold in field and flower,
    In wood and wild, the charms of nature glow;
In wind and storm —the emblems of his power —,
    Now less when soft the whispering breezes blow. [Page 72]

She led me forth to tread thy forests wide,


    Where thy tall pines spread forth their sylvan charms,
Exalt their spiry tops in lordly pride,
    And hang eternal verdure on their arms.

She bade me listen to the plumed choir,
    Whose gay pavilian veils the clear blue sky:—

Their notes of joy awakened kindred fire
    Deep in my bosom, and I knew not why.

In measure wild their hymns of love they sung;
    They sung of spring’s delights and summer’s pride;
No note of sorrow moved their warbling tongue—

    Sorrow and care the thoughts of man divide.

She led me, Erie, to thy purple wave;
    Heaven’s distant verge the world of waters prest;
The foaming billows all their grandeur gave;
    And throes till then unfelt, disturbed my breast.


She bade me mark the seasons as they rolled,—
    When spring’s first bloom with beauty bright expands;
When yellow harvest lifts his head of gold,
    And bounteous autumn spreads his liberal hands.

Nor less when winter hurls his gloomy storms,

    And shakes the snow-drift from his hoary head;
For fancy’s fire his icy mantle warms,
    And calls up life and beauty from the dead.


ERIEUS [Page 73]


* This poem appeared in The Gore Gazette (Ancaster, U.C), I, No.2, p.6, (Tuesday, 6th March, 1827). [back]