"I trustThat some, who sigh, while wandering in thought,Pilgrims of Romance o'er the olden world,That our broad land, - our sea-like lakes and mountainsPiled to the clouds, our rivers overhungBy forests which have known no other changeFor ages than the budding and the fallOf leaves, our valleys lovelier than thoseWhich the old poets sang of, - should but figureOn the apociyphal chart of speculationAs pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, with the privileges,Rights, and appurtenances, which make upA Yankee Paradise, unsung, unknown,To beautiful tradition,... will look kindlyUpon this effort to call up the ghostOf the dim Past."