Many mourn because they have no money to purchase a noble work
of art, or pay a visit to the Vatican or the Louvre. But here in
their own beloved America God has an open gallery, filled with
pictures fairer than the grandest dream of any landscape artist,
which wear no trace of age and no fire can destroy. Here no
curtains need be drawn, as over the masterpieces of Raphael and
Rubens to preserve their tints for future generations. They grow
more mellow and tender as countless years roll by. All of these
you may have, to hang on the walls of memory where no Napoleon
can come to take them to a Louvre.
THE LURE OF THE MOHAWK TRAIL
Along the Mohawk trail, standing gold and white
Where the crystal rivers flash and gleam;
The fragrant birch trees greet the sight,
And gently droop to kiss the steam.
And the lure of the pine on the Mohawk trail,
Is tuned to the spirits' restful mood,
It murmurs and calls on the passing gale,
For all to enjoy its solitude.
Still, the birch and pine all silver and gray,
Call from the Berkshires and seem to say:
"Leave your lowland worries behind
The petty cares that hinder and blind;
Come hither and find a quieter spot
Where troubles and cares and sorrow are not.
Come out where the heavens just drip with gold
And the Divine Artist's paintings ne'er grow old.
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