The Liberator

POETRY.

From the Boston Journal.

NEW ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLANDERS.

Addressed to a New Yorker, who scoffed at Yankees.

Yea, sir! I am a Yankee girl,—I glory in the name;
You spoke it in contemptuous scorn,—to me
breathes of fame.

I'm proud of my nativity, I love New England hills;
Each babbling brook and valley green with pride my
bosom fills.

I love her woods and rugged rocks, I love her wave
washed shore;
I dearly love at hush of eve to list her breaker's roar.

We've mountains high as any, sir, New York has
ever seen,
Mount Tom, the verdant Holyoke, the White and
vaulting Green;

We have both lakes and rivers, sir, e'en them you
need not spurn;
And though not quite as large as yours, we find
they 'serve our turn.'

Our fisheries o'er the world are famed,—we've mackerel, shad, and cod,
And herrings are so wondrous thick, we sell them by
the rod!

We've quarries—many of them, sir, of marble, granite, slate;
And as for manufactures,—can you beat us in your
State?

And look at all our cities proud,—Boston I'll name
the first, sir,
New York will have to stir herself, or Boston yet
will worst her.

Nature has favored your New York, she could not
well be less;
But Boston's grown by might of man, this truth all
must confess.

Look at her mansions! stately, grand—look at her
wharves and ships!
Look at her sons, and daughters too, those precious
pilgrim's slips!

Look at her 'Common,' airy, large—then look on
Bunker's height,
And see that column towering high, memorial of the
fight!

Now visit her asylums, sir,—insane, and deaf, and
blind,—
Then think of those your State can boast,—can you
our betters find?

Sweet Auburn! mimic Paradise! when fire from
heart has fled,
We loan our dead to people thee, till God shall raise
the dead:

Thy flowers they smile half soothingly, thy birds a
requiem sing,
When we, with low and measured tread, to thee our
loved ones bring.

Old Newport! billow-cradled, see, on Rhody's verdant isle;
'Tis there old Ocean shakes his mane, there sweet
does nature smile;

Look at her harbor! sheltered, safe—look at her
lengthened beach,
Go, stand upon its shining sand, and hear dame Na-
ture preach.

New Haven, with its shady elms, and Hartford with
its charter;
Connecticut! my native State! say, can you find a
smarter?

The Empire State is your New York, I own it
beats all natur,
But still give me the 'Nutmeg State'—where shall
we find a grater

We've railroads, (good ones,) and canals, but here
my courage pitches—
I own you'll beat me on this heat—New York has
bigger ditches.

Look at your literati, sir—we've cradled genius sure;
Come, count your great ones by our side, and see
which has the fewer.

There's Parsons, Sherman, Adams, sir, all wreathed
in bays of glory—
The bar! New England's bar, sir, can boast in Justice Story,

Silliman, Quincy, Dana, Ware, Webster (the old word man)—
Our statesmen! look at honest John! and Adams
Webster (Dan !)

Benjamin Franklin! tell me, sir, you that can boast
big Thunder,'—
Say, will he play with lightning, sir, and never dodge
from under?

Macdonough, Perry, Morris, Hull, Green, Putnam
Stark, and Allen—
With freedom's martyr, Nathan Hale, and valiant
General Warren.

And there's those sons of type we boast, in Greeley
Prentiss, Burritt—
One almost equals Babel, sir—the others—who'll
outwit?

And Fisher Ames! remember, sir—the merchant
Billy Gray,
And Edwards, Edward Everett, and Wayland
Dwight, and Day.

A man there is who is far famed, Jonathan Slick—
Jack Downing,
I guess he is New England's child, he's worthy Yan-
kee crowning—

And there's our Marsh we glory in, and if our marshes yield
Fruit that New England's proud to own, ne'er boast
your richer field.

Divinity can bring some names for goodness famed.
and learning
A Payson, Brainard, Griswold, Ware, a Beecher
and a Channing

Go search o'er Asia's burning sand—the mission
ground—who fills;
A Newell, Judson, Gordon, Hall, a Martyn, and a
Mills.

Ask England of us Yankees, sir; she'll think of
Boston tea
She'll think of Perry, Captain Hull, those victors on
the sea;

Of Hancock, and John Adams, sir, brave sink or
swim!'—yes, he,
Who dared defy her power and might, and scorned to
bend the knee.

There's Weld, of abolition fame, and Garrison, and
Burleigh;
If they'd the rule in these our States, they'd turn us
topsy turvy.

Miller who tried to end the world, and Smith of
Mormon glory,
New England does not boast of them, but they are
named in story.

And think of Rhody Thommy, sir, I mean her
Thommy Dorr!
He's not the biggest man she's got, but then he made
a war.

There's Jackson's Amos Kendall, sir, (now pray don't
call me saucy,)
But when you lacked a Governor, did we not give
you Marcy?

So richly blest we can afford to let some wander
forth!
Your Hamilton! she owes us one,' her polar star is
North.

We always have been generous; I hope you've not
forgot
That when your Union wished a head, that then we
loaned you Nott.

Our famous artiste call to mind, Stewart, Trumbull,
Alston,
Alexander, Hall, and Greenough, and highly gifted
Malbone.

The muse can also boast some names—a Hillhouse,
Willis, Lowell,
A Hallock, Brainard, Longfellow, a Pierpont, Gould.
and Rockwell.

Hale, Sigourney, Park, Peabody, Sprague, Bacon,
Tuckerman,
Neal, Pray, Dana, Whittier, Brooks, Sedgwick,
Waterman,

Patton, Willard, Osgood, Bacon, Holmes, Whitman,
Everett, Green,
Lynch, Follen, Trumbull, (he of old); all good as
York' has seen.

What think you of our birds of song? list to their
voices ringing,
New Hampshire's sons and daughters, sir, say! can
you beat their singing?

Whate'er we touch we aye improve, and render
brighter still—
E'en comedy has added charms, when played by
Yankee Hill.'

There's Emerson the mystic,' sir—Joe Neal of
Charcoal Sketches,
And Morse who chained the lightning, sir—all those
New England fetches.

Then never laugh at Yankees, sir, or scorn New
England rough;
Her face, I own, is not so smooth—she's made of
rocky stuff.

But she has strengthened mental might—has cherished genius' child—
Has trained her children in the right, practice on precept piled.

New England's soul, where is it not? 'tis known in
every clime;
Its might is felt from pole to pole, 'twill live through
deathless time.

The greatest of all travellers, you cannot find their
greater—
They'll turn o'er icebergs round the poles, and run
'neath the equator.

Go roam through Europe's cities proud—Arabia's
desert wild—
At every turn, where'er you go, you'll meet New
England's child.

Go, rest you near the pyramids, where'er you mind
to tramp,
You'll find a Yankee's been before, and there has
pitched his camp.

Clocks, nutmegs, and whatever else you call a Yankee crop—
If you have cash, he's glad to sell—if not, he'll al-
ways 'swap.

New England hearts are always warm—they're constant, faithful, true;
They ne'er forget an old friend, sir, though often
finding new.

Then sound her glory! oh, ye waves, amid your
surging roar!
Pipe up till foam froths all your lips, beating her
rock-ribbed shore.

The Yankee heads are ever clear, bustle, from head
to feet—
They'll e'en get rich where you would starve—come
give it up—you're beat!

Then strike up Yankee Doodle, sir, and while the
air is ringing,
I'll let the steam from off my quill, and join you in
your singing.

Pomfret, Conn. 1847.

NILLA.