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by Lee O. Harris

I love New England's sea-girt strand,
Where, his Atlantic voyage o'er,
The day steps lightly to the land,
And journeys westward from the shore;

For all her sunlit hills are fair,
And silver-tongued are all her streams,
And joys that blest my spirit there
Still mingle with my sweetest dreams.

And oft, when vagrant Fancy flings
Her baubles down, as day declines,
I hear in Memory's rustling wings
The singing of the mountain pines.

But fairer scenes and softer skies
Await the later day's caress,
Where Indiana, smiling, lies,
The blossom of the wilderness.

Her forests spread their arms to greet
A rosy flood of summer air,
And plains fall languid at her feet,
O'erburdened with the wealth they bear.

Her singing streams in gladness run
Through vocal wood and flowery lea,
And carry southward to the sun
The pearls he borrowed from the sea.

Triumphant march her woodmen beat
Where Progress moves, all-conquering,
While homesteads rise about her feet,
Like roses in the path of spring.

And, fair as ocean billows, glide
The waves across her harvest plain,
And sweeter than the murmuring tide,
The rustling of the golden grain.

O dearer is our lovely vale,
With hamlets from the forest won,
Than all the pine-clad hills, where trail
The sea-wet tresses of the sun.

Fair Indiana, may the hand
Of Progress touch thee but to bless;
And Peace with plenty crown the land
That blossomed from the wilderness!

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