Mary Elizabeth Moore Hewitt (20 Mar 1807 – 17 Sep 1884 | Malden MA – Chicago IL) poet, editor.
The dove was the falcon’s love. The famishing birds of prey are hurrying through the
night, but the dove with her falcon love will have flown ere the morning light! Yet we
sing no household songs to children round our hearths at play, no legends of bygone
days. The axe of the settler, with keen and bloodless edge–Hail to the sturdy artisan who
weilded thee, bold wedge! How beauteous in the morning light, bright glittering in her
pride, Trimountain, our dear Boston, from her ancient height, looks down upon the tide.
Crowned with the hoar of centuries, there, by the eternal sea, high on her misty cape she
sits, like an eagle–fearless, free. Bees are out on filmy wing, as dim Phosphor slowly
fades down the west, and Earth awakes. Fill my heart with gladness, ye verdant places,
that midst the city greet me where I pass. Speak tender words, mine own beloved, to me!