New England's Mountain-Child

By Frances Sargent Locke Osgood

Where foams the fall -- a tameless storm --
Through Nature's wild and rich arcade,
Which forest-trees entwining form,
There trips the Mountain-maid!

She binds not her luxuriant hair
With dazzling gem or costly plume,
But gayly wreathes a rose-bud there,
To match her maiden-bloom.

She clasps no golden zone of pride
Her fair and simple robe around;
By flowing riband, lightly tied,
Its graceful folds are bound.

And thus attired, -- a sportive thing,
Pure, loving, guileless, bright, and wild, --
Proud Fashion! match me in your ring,
New England's Mountain-child!

She scorns to sell her rich, warm heart,
For paltry gold, or haughty rank, --
But gives her love, untaught by art,
Confiding, free, and frank!

And once bestow'd, -- no fortune-change
That high and generous faith can alter;
Through grief and pain -- too pure to range --
She will not fly or falter.

Her foot will bound as light and free
In lowly hut as palace-hall;
Her sunny smile as warm will be, --
For Love to her is all!

Hast seen where in our woodland-gloom
The rich Magnolia proudly smiled! --
So brightly doth she bud and bloom,
New England's Mountain-child!