Lydia H. Sigourney. Scenes in My Native Land. Boston: James Munroe & Co., 1844.
MONTE-VIDEO.
How fair upon the mountain's brow
To stand and mark the vales below,
Those beauteous vales that calmly sleep,
Secluded, peaceful, silent, deep;
The solemn forests' nodding crest,
The streams with fringing verdure drest,
The rural homes, remote from noise,
By distance dwindled into toys;
Or turning from this varied scene,
So mute, so lovely, so serene,
Scale the steep cliff, whose ample range
Gives to the eye a bolder change,
The cultured fields, which rivers lave,
Where branches bend and harvests wave,
The village roofs, obscurely seen,
The glittering spires that gem the green,
The pale blue line that meets the eye
Where mountains mingle with the sky,
The floating mist, in volumes rolled,
That hovers o'er their bosoms cold,
Woods, wilds and waters, scattered free
In Nature's tireless majesty.
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p. 53 | MONTE-VIDEO. |
Mark, by soft shades, and flowers carest, The mansion-house in beauty drest; Above, to brave the tempest's shock, The lonely tower, that crowns the rock; Beneath, the lake, whose waters dark Divide before the gliding bark, With snowy sail and busy oar, Moving with music to the shore:-- And say, while musing o'er the place Where art to nature lends her grace, The crimes that blast the fleeting span Of erring, suffering, wandering man, Unfeeling pride, and cold disdain, The heart that wills another's pain, Pale envy's glance, the chill of fear, And war and discord come not here. How sweet, around yon silent lake, As friendship guides, your way to take, And cull the plants, whose glowing heads Bend meekly o'er their native beds, And own the Hand that paints the flower, That deals the sunshine and the shower, That bears the sparrow in its fall, Is kind, and good, and just to all; Or see the sun, with rosy beam First gild the tower, the tree, the stream, And moving to his nightly rest, Press through the portal of the west,
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p. 54 | MONTE-VIDEO. |
Close wrapped within his mantle fold Of glowing purpose dipped in gold; Or else to mark the queen of night, Like some lone vestal, pure and bright, Steal slowly from her silent nook, And gild the scenes that he forsook. And then, that deep recess to find, Where the green boughs so close are twined; For there, within that silent spot, As all secluded, all forgot, The fond enthusiast free may soar, The sage be buried in his lore, The poet muse, the idler sleep, The pensive mourner bend and weep, And fear no eye or footstep rude Shall break that holy solitude. Unless some viewless angel-guest, Who guards the spirits of the just, Might seek among the rising sighs, To gather incense for the skies, Or hover o'er that hallowed sod, To raise the mortal thought to God. O gentle scene, whose transient sight So wakes my spirit to delight, Where kindness, love, and joy unite, That though no words the rapture speak, The tear must tremble on the cheek,
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p. 55 | TALCOTT MOUNTAIN. |
The lay of gratitude be given,
The prayer in secret speed to heaven.
Here peace, though exiled and opprest,
By those she came to save distrest,
Might find repose from war's alarms,
And gaze on nature's treasured charms;
Beneath these mountain shades reclined,
Breathe her sad dirge o'er lost mankind,
Or on mild virtue's tranquil breast,
Close her tired eye in gentle rest,
Forget her wounds, her toil, her pain,
And dream of Paradise again.
----
About nine miles from the city of Hartford, Connecticut, on the summit of Talcott Mountain, is the beautiful country residence of Daniel Wadsworth, Esq., known by the name of Monte-Video. Leaving the main road, you turn northward, into one constructed by the proprietor of this extensive domain, and which conducts you, by an easy ascent, bordered on the right by towering precipitous cliffs, and on the left so overshadowed by trees, that were it not for openings, occasionally cut through their branches, revealing glances of imposing scenery, you would scarcely be conscious of the eminence you were attaining.
After a ride of a mile and a half, a gate, encosure, and tenant's house, all in the Gothic style, strike the
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p. 56 | LAKE AND TOWER. |
eye most agreeably, and passing them, the wild features of the scene are lsot in high cultivation, and the embellishments of taste. A winding avenue, occasionally fringed with shades, among which the graceful acacia predominates, leads upward to the mansion-house, in the rear of which you look down six hundred feet into one of the most rich and glorious valleys upon which the sun ever shone.
From the portico in front, you gaze upon a still more surprising object. Stretching at your feet, o the brow of this beautiful mountain, is a lake, more than a mile in circumference, deep, cold, crystalline, and bordered with trees. The white bathing-house on its margin, and the pleasure-boat on its bosom, with bright streamers, and graceful gliding motion, are pleasing points in the landscape. The utmost pinnacle of the mountain, which rises northward of the lake, is surrounded by a hexagonal tower, sixty feet in height, seeming to spring from the dark, grey rock, which in color it resembles. From its summit, to which access is rendered as easy as possible, and which commands an elevation of nearly a thousand feet above the level of Connecticut river, you have a glorious view of hte surrounding country, and into the adjoining States of Massachusetts and new York; the whole surrounded by an empurpled outline of mountains. The Connecticut is seen sweeping onward like a king, through its fair domain, amid the spires of numerous towns and villages, while, by the
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p. 57 | SOUTH ROCK. |
aid of a glass, the sails of the vessels in the port of Hartford, and the movements in the streets, are distinctly visible.
The prospect from the South Rock, in the vicinity of the farm-house, though of less extent, is one of extreme beauty, and presents, as in a vivid, glowing picture, the grouping of the objects more immediately beneath you,--lake, copse, villa, cultivated lawn, and crowning tower.
Professor Silliman, in his eloquent description of this remarkable region, says: "The peculiarities of the beautiful and grand scenery of Monte-Video, make it, with its surrounding objects, quite without a parallel in America, and probably with few in the world.
"To advert again, briefly, to a few of its leading peculiarities. It sands upon the very top of one of the highest of the green-stone ridges of Connecticut, at an elevation of more than one thousand two hundred feet above the sea, and of nearly seven hundred above the contiguous valley. The villa is almost upon the brow of the precipice, and a traveller in the Farmington valley sees it, a solitary edifice, and in a place apparently both comfortless and inaccessible, standing upon the giddy summit, ready, he would almost imagine, to be swept away by the first blast from the mountain. The beautiful crystal lake is on the top of the same lofty green-stone ridge, and within a few yards of the house; it pours its superfluous waters in a limpid stream down the mountain's side, and affords
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p. 58 | PROFESSOR SILLIMAN'S DESCRIPTION. |
in winter, the most pellucid ice that can be imagined. Arrived on the top of the mountain, and confining his attention to the scene at his feet, the traveller scarcely realizes that he is elevated above the common surface. The lake, the Gothic villa, farm-house and offices, the gardens, orchards, and serpentine walks, conducting through all the varieties of mountain shade, and to the most interesting points of view, indicate a beautiful and peaceful scene; but, if he lift his eyes, he sees still above him on the north, bold precipices of naked rock, frowning like ancient battlements, and on one of the highest peaks, the tall tower, rising above the trees, and bidding defiance to the storms. If he ascend to its top, he contemplates an extent of country that might constitute a kingdom--populous and beautiful, with villages, turrets, and towns; at one time, he sees the massy magnificence of condensed vapor, which reposes in a vast extent of fog and mist, on the Farmington and Connecticut rivers, and defines, with perfect exactness, all their windings; at another, the clouds roll beneath him in wild grandeur, and should a thunder-storm occur at evening, (an incident which every season presents,) he would view with delight, chastened by awe, the illuminated hills, and corresponding hollows, which everywhere fill the great vale west of Talcott Mountain, and alternately appear and disappear with the flashes of lightning."
Those who have tasted the heart-felt hospitality of Monte-Video, when every summer it was tenanted by
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p. 59 | HOSPITALITY OF MONTE-VIDEO. |
its proprietor, his excellent lady, and their delighted guests, have a sense of enchantment, connected with this lovely spot, which no description can convey, and no casual visitant realize. Blessings are still breathed on that benevolence which though prevented by ill health, and declining years, from a permanent residence in this delightful domain, is still prompted to keep it in perfect order for the benefit of strangers, and gratification of the community.
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p. 60 | HUGUENOT FORT. |
HUGUENOT FORT,
AT OXFORD, MASSACHUSETTS.
I stood upon a breezy height, and marked
The rural landscape's charms: fields thick with corn,
And new-mown grass that bathed the ruthless scythe
With a forgiving fragrance, even in death
Blessing its enemies; and broad-armed trees
Fruitful, or dense with shade, and crystal streams
That cheered their sedgy banks.
But at my feet
Were vestiges, that turned the thoughts away
From all this summer-beauty. Moss-clad stones
That formed their fortress, who in earlier days
Sought refuge here, from their own troubled clime,
And from the madness of a tyrant king,
Were strewed around.
Methinks, yon wreck stands forth
In rugged strength once more, and firmly guards
From the red Indian's shaft, those sons of France,
Who for her genial flower-decked vales, and flush
Of purple vintage, found but welcome cold
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p. 61 | HUGUENOT FORT. |
From thee, my native land! the wintry moan
Of wind-swept forests, and the appalling frown
Of icy floods. Yet didst thou leave them free
To strike the sweet harp of the secret soul,
And this was all their wealth. For this they blest
Thy trackless wilds, and 'neath their lowly roof
At morn and night, or with the murmuring swell
Of stranger waters, blent their hymn of praise.
----
Green Vine! that mantlest in thy fresh embrace
Yon old, grey rock, I hear that thou with them
Didst brave the ocean surge.
Say, drank thy germ
The dews of Languedoc? or slow uncoiled
An infant fibre, mid the fruitful mould
Of smiling Roussillon? or didst thou shrink
From the fierce footsteps of a warlike train,
Brother with brother fighting unto death,
At fair Rochelle?
Hast thou no tale for me?
----
Methought its broad leaves shivered in the gale,
With whispered words.
There was a gentle form,
A fair, young creature, who at twilight hour
Oft brought me water, and would kindly raise
My drooping head. Her eyes were dark and soft,
As the gazelle's, and well I knew her sigh
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p. 62 | HUGUENOT FORT. |
Was tremulous with love. For she had left
One in her own fair land, with whom her heart
From childhood had been twined.
Oft by her side,
What time the youngling moon went up the sky,
Chequering with silvery beam their woven bower;
He strove to win her to the faith he held,
Speaking of heresy with flashing eye,
Yet with such blandishment of tenderness,
As more than argument dissolveth doubt
With a young pupil, in the school of love.
Even then, sharp lightning quivered thro' the gloom
Of persecution's cloud, and soon its storm
Burst on the Huguenots.
Their churches fell,
Their pastors fed the dungeon, or the rack;
And mid each household-group, grim soldiers sat,
In frowning espionage, troubling the sleep
Of infant innocence.
Stern war burst forth,
And civil conflict on the soil of France
Wrought fearful things.
The peasant's blood was ploughed
In, with the wheat he planted, while from cliffs
That overhung the sea, from caves and dens
The hunted worshippers were madly driven,
Out 'neath the smiling sabbath skies, and slain,
The anthem on their tongues.
The coast was thronged
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p. 63 | HUGUENOT FORT. |
With hapless exiles, and that dark-haired maid,
Leading her little sister, in the steps
Of their afflicted parents, hasting left
The meal uneaten, and the table spread
In their sweet cottage, to return no more.
The lover held her to his heart, and prayed
That from her erring people she would turn
To the true fold of Christ, for so he deemed
That ancient Church, for which his breast was clad
In soldier's panoply.
But she, with tears
Like Niobe, a never-ceasing flood,
Drew her soft hand from his, and dared the deep.
And so, as years sped on, with patient brow
She bare the burdens of the wilderness,
His image, and an everlasting prayer
Within her soul.
And when she sank away,
As fades the lily when its day is done,
There was a deep-drawn sigh, and up-raised glance
Of earnest supplication, that the hearts
Severed so long, might join, where bigot zeal
Should find no place.
She hath a quiet bed
Beneath yon turf, and an unwritten name
On earth, which sister angels speak in heaven.
----
Vine of Roussillon! tell me other tales
Of that high-hearted race, who for the sake
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p. 64 | REVOCATION OF EDICT OF NANTZ. |
Of conscience, made those western wilds their home?
How to their door the prowling savage stole,
Staining their hearth-stone with the blood of babes,
And as the Arab strikes his fragile tent
Making the desert lonely, how they left
Their infant Zion with a mournful heart
To seek a safer home?
Fain would I sit
Beside this ruined fort and muse of them,
Mingling their features with my humble verse,
Whom many of the noblest of our land
Claim as their honored sires.
On all who bear
Their name, or lineage, may their mantle rest,
That firmness for the truth, that calm content
With simple pleasures, that unswerving trust
In toil, adversity and death, which cast
Such healthful leaven mid the elements
That peopled this New World.
----
When Louis Fourteenth, by the revocation of the Edict of Nantz, scattered the rich treasure of the hearts of more than half a million of subjects to foreign climes, this Western World profited by his mad prodigality. Among the wheat with which its newly broken surface was sown, none was more purely sifted than that which France thus cast away. Industry, integrity, moderated desires, piety without austerity,
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p. 65 | SETTLEMENT AT OXFORD. |
and the sweetest domestic charities, were among the prominent characteristics of the exiled people.
Among the various settlements made by the Huguenots, at different periods upon our shores, that at Oxford, in Massachusetts, has the priority in point of time. In 1686, thirty families with their clergyman, landed at Fort Hill, in Boston. There they found kind reception and entertainment, until ready to proceed to their destined abode. This was at Oxford, in Worcester county, where an area of 12,000 acres was secured by them, from the township of eight miles square which had been laid out by Governor Dudley. The appearance of the country, though uncleared, was pleasant to those who counted as their chief wealth, "freedom to worship God." They gave the name of French River to a stream, which, after diffusing fertility around their new home, becomes a tributary of the Quinabaug, in Connecticut, and finally merged in the Thames, passes on to Long Island Sound.
Being surrounded by the territory of the Nipmug Indians, their first care was to build a fort, as a refuge from savage aggression. Gardens were laid out in its vicinity, and stocked with the seeds of vegetables and fruits, brought from their own native soil. Mills were also erected, and ten or twelve years of persevering industry, secured many comforts to the colonists, who were much respected in the neighboring settlements, and acquired the right of representation in the provincial legislature.
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p. 66 | INDIAN MASSACRE. |
But the tribe of Indians by whom they were encompassed, had, from the beginning, met with a morose and intractable spirit, their proffered kindness. A sudden, and wholly unexpected incursion, with the massacre of one fo the emigrants and his children, caused the breaking up of the little peaceful settlement, and the return of its inmates to Boston. Friendships formed there on their first arrival, and the hospitality that has ever distinguished that beautiful city, turned the hearts of the Huguenots towards it as a refuge, in this, their second exile. Their reception, and the continuance of their names among the most honored of its inhabitants, proved that the spot was neither ill-chosen, nor uncongenial. Here, their excellent pastor, Pierre Daille, died in 1715. His epitaph, and that of his wife, are still legible in the "Granary Burying Ground." He was succeeded by Mr. Andrew Le Mercier, author of a History of Geneva. Their place of worship was in School Street, and known by the name of the French Protestant Church.
About the year 1713, Oxford was resettled by a stronger body of colonists, able to command more military aid; and thither, in process of time, a few of the Huguenot families resorted, and made their abode in those lovely and retired vales.
A visit to this fair scenery many years since, was rendered doubly interesting, by the conversation of an ancient lady of Huguenot extraction. Though she had numbered more than fourscore winters, her memory
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p. 67 | MRS. BUTLER'S REMINISCENCES. |
was peculiarly retentive, while her clear, black eye, dark complexion, and serenly expressive countenance, displayed some of the striking characteristics of her ancestral clime, mingled with that beauty of the soul which is confined to no nation, and which age cannot destroy. This was the same Mrs. Butler, formerly Mary Sigourney, whose reminiscences, the late Rev. Dr. Holmes, the learned and persevering annalist, has quoted in his "Memoir of the French Protestants."
With her family and some other relatives, she had removed from Boston to Oxford, after the revolutionary war, and supposed that her brother, Mr. Andrew Sigourney, then occupied very nearly, if not the same precise locality, which had been purchased by their ancestor, nearly 150 years before. During the voyage to this foreign clime, her grandmother was deprived by death of an affectionate mother, while an infant only six months old. From this grandmother, who lived to be more than eighty, and from a sister six years older, who attained the unusual age of ninety-six, Mrs. Butler had derived many legends, which she treasured with fidelity, and related with simple eloquence. Truly, the voice of buried ages, spake through her venerated lips. The building of the fort; the naturalization of French vines and fruit-trees in a stranger soil; the consecrated spot where their dead were buried, now without the remaining vestige of a stone; the hopes of the rising settlement; the massacre that dispersed it; the hearth- stone, em-
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p. 68 | TRADITIONS. |
purpled with the blood of the beautiful babes of Jeanson; the frantic wife and mother snatched from the scene of slaughter by her brother, and borne through the waters of French River, to the garrison at Woodstock; all these traces seemed as vivid in her midn, as if her eyes had witnessed them. The traditions connected with the massacre, were doubtless more strongly deepened in her memory, from the circumstance that the champion who rescued his desolated sister from the merciless barbarians, was her own ancestor, Mr. Andrew Sigourney, and the original settler of Oxford.
Other narrations she had also preserved, of the troubles that preceded the flight of the exiles from France, and of the obstacles to be surmounted, ere that flight could be accomplished. THe interruptions from the soldiery to which they were subject, after having been shut out from their own churches, induced them to meet for divine worship in the most remote places, and to use books of psalms and devotion, printed in so minute a form, that they might be concealed in their bosoms, or in the folds of their head-dresses. One of these antique volumes, is still in the possession of the descendants of Gabriel Bernon, a most excellent and influential man, who made his permanent residence at Providence, though he was originally in the settlement at Oxford.
Mrs. Butler mentioned the haste and discomfort in which the flight of their own family was made. Her
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p. 69 | FLIGHT FROM FRANCE. |
grandfather told them imperatively, that they must go, and without delay. The whole family gathered together, and with such preparation as might be made in a few moments, took their departure from the home of their birth, "leaving the pot boiling over the fire!" This last simple item reminds of one, with which the poet Southey deepens the description of the flight of a household, and a village, at the approach of the foe.
"The chestnut loaf lay broken on the shelf."
Another Huguenot, Henry Fransisco, who lived to the age of more than one hundred, relates a somewhat similar trait of his own departure from his native land. He was a boy of five years old, and his father led him by the hand from their pleasant door. It was winter, and the snow fell, with a bleak, cold wind. THey descended the hill in silence. With the intuition of childhood, he knew there was trouble, without being able to comprehend the full cause. At length, fixing his eyes on his father, he begged in a tremulous voice, to be permitted "just to go back, and get his little sled," his favorite, and most valued possession.
A letter from the young wife of Gabriel Manigault, one of the many refugees who settled in the Carolinas, is singularly graphic. "During eight months we had suffered from the quartering of the soldiers among us, with many other inconveniences. We therefore resolved on quitting France by night. We left the soldiers in their beds, and abandoned our house with its
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p. 70 | REMAINS OF THE FORT. |
furniture. We contrived to hide ourselves in Dauphiny, for ten days, search being continually made for us, by our hostess, though much questioned, was faithful and did not betray us."
These simple delineations, more forcibly than the dignified style of the historian, seem to bring to our ears the haughty voice of Ludovico Magno, in his instrument revoking the edict of Henry IV.; "We do most strictly repeat our prohibition, unto all our subjects of the pretended reformed religion, that neither they, nor their wives, nor children, do depart our kingdom, countries, or lands of our dominion, nor transport their goods and effects, on pain, for men so offending, of their being sent to the gallies, and of confiscation of bodies and goods, for the women."
The information derived from this ancient lady, who in all the virtues of domestic life, was a worthy descendant of the Huguenots, added new interest to their relics, still visible, among the rural scenery of Oxford. On the summit of a high hill, commanding an extensive prospect, are the ruins of the Fort. It was regularly constructed with bastions, though most of the stones have been removed for the purposes of agriculture. Within its enclosure are the vestiges of a well. There the grape-vine still lifts its purple clusters, the currant its crimson berries, the rose its rich blossoms, the asparagus its bulbous head and feathery banner.
To these simple tokens which Nature has preserved,
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p. 71 | HUGUENOT ANCESTRY. |
it might be fitting and well, were some more enduring memorial added of that pious, patient, and high-hearted race, from whom some of the most illustrious names in different sections of our country, trace their descent with pleasure with pride.
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p. 72 | THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. |
THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD, TO THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. Glorious Patriarch of the West! Often have mine ears been blest With some tale from traveller wight, Of thy majesty and might, Rearing high, on column proud, Massy verdure toward the cloud, While thy giant branches throw Coolness o'er the vales below. Humbler rank, indeed, is mine, Yet I boast a kindred line, And though Nature spared to set On my head thy coronet, Still, from history's scroll I claim Somewhat of an honored name; So, I venture, kingly tree, Thus to bow myself to thee. Once there came, in days of yore, A minion from the mother shore,
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p. 73 | THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. |
With men at arms, and flashing eye Of pre-determined tyranny, High words he spake, and stretched his hand Young Freedom's charter to demand. But lo! it vanished from his sight, And sudden darkness fell like night, While baffled still, in wrath and pain, He, groping, sought the prize in vain; For a brave hand, in trust to me, Had given that germ of liberty, And like our relative of old, Who clasped his arms serenely bold Around the endangered prince, who fled The scaffold where his father bled, I hid it, safe from storm and blast, Until the days of dread were past, And then my faithful breast restored The treasure to its rightful lord. For this, do pilgrims seek my side, And artists sketch my varying pride, And far away o'er ocean's brine, An acorn or a leaf of mine I hear are stored as relics rich In antiquarian's classic niche. Now if I were but in my prime, Some hundred lustrums less of time Upon my brow, perchance such charm Of flattery might have wrought me harm,
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p. 74 | THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. |
Made the young pulse too wildly beat, Or woke the warmth of self-conceit. But age, slow curdling through y veins, All touch of arrogance restrains. For pride, alas! and boastful trust Are not for trees, which root in dust, Nor men, who ere their noontide ray, Oft like our wind-swept leaves decay. Yet not unscathed, have centuries sped Their course around my hoary head, My gouty limbs for ease I strain, And twist my gnarled roots in vain, And still beneath the wintry sky These stricken branches quake and sigh, Which erst in manly vigor sent Stout challenge to each element. But lingering memories haunt my brain, And hover round the past, in vain, Of chiefs and tribes who here had sway, Then vanished like the mist away. Near river's marge, by verdure cheered, Their humble, bowery homes they reared, At night, their council-fires were red, At dawn, the greenwood chase they sped;-- But now, the deer, that bounded high, Amid his forest canopy, The stag, that nobly stood at bay, The thicket where at noon he lay,
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p. 75 | THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. |
And they, whose flying arrow stirred And staid the fleetest of the herd, All, like the bubbles on the stream, Have mingled with oblivion's dream. A different race usurped my glade, Whose cheek the Saxon blood betrayed, And he, the master of this dome, Within whose gates I found my home, With stately step and bearing cold, The poor red-featured throng controlled, And their mad orgies hushed to fear Through pealing trump whose echoes clear At midnight full of terror came, With the Great Spirit's awful name. Too soon those sires, sedate and grave, Recede on Time's unresting wave, And hospitality sincere, And virtues simple and severe, And deep respect for ancient sway Methinks, with them, have past away. That honesty, which scorned of old The traffic of unrighteous gold, Drank from the well its crystal pure, And left the silver cup secure, Seems now submerged, with struggles vain, In wild desire of sudden gain, Or lost in wealth's unallowed pride, By patient toil unsanctified.
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p. 76 | THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. |
Change steals o'er all; the bark canoe No longer cleaves the streamlet blue, Nor even the flying wheel retains Its ancient prowess o'er the plains; The horse, with nerves of iron frame, Whose breath is smoke, whose food is flame, Surmounts the earth with fearful sweep, And strangely rules the cleaving deep, While they, who once, at sober pace, Reflecting rode, from place to place, Now, with rash speed and brains that swim, In reckless plans, resemble him. But yet, I would not cloud my strain, Nor think the world is in its wane, For 't is the fault of age, they say, Its own decadence to betray, By ceaseless blame of things that are, So, of this frailty I 'll beware, And keep my blessings full in sight, While in this land of peace and light, Where liberty and plenty dwell, And knowledge seeks the lowliest cell, No woodman's steel my heart invades, Nor heathen footsteps track my shades. Yet too expansive grows the lay, Forgive its egotism, I pray, And should'st thou in thy goodness deign, A line responsive to my strain,
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p. 77 | THE CHARTER-OAK, AT HARTFORD. |
Fain would I of their welfare hear,
That group of noble souls, and dear,
Who from their eastern birth-place prest,
To choose a mansion in the west.
Reluctant from our home and heart,
We saw those stalwart forms depart,
And if amid thy vallies green,
Thou aught of them has heard or seen,
And will impart that lore to me,
Right welcome shall thy missive be.
And now, may Spring, that decks the plains,
With kindling fervor touch thy veins,
And Summer smile with healthful skies,
And Autumn pour her thousand dies,
And many a year stern Winter spare
Thee in thy glory, fresh and fair,
Thy gratitude to heaven to show
By deeds of love to those below,
A mighty shade from noontide heat,
When pilgrims halt, or strangers greet,
Through woven leaves, a pleasant sound,
When murmuring breezes sigh around,
And many a nest for minstrel fair
That sing God's praise in upper air:
So may'st thou blessing live, and blest,
Monarch and Patriarch of the West.
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p. 78 | DISAPPEARANCE OF THE CHARTER. |
The venerable Tree, at Hartford, Connecticut, known by the name of the "Charter-Oak," has, for more than a century and a half, enjoyed the honor of having protected the endangered instrument of liberty and of law. When the despotic principles of James 2d revealed themselves in the mother country and extended to her colonies, Sir Edmund Andross, the governor of Massachusetts, determined to comprehend within his own jurisdiction the whole of New England and New York. One step towards this ambitious design, was to gain possession of the Charter of Connecticut, which had been granted by Charles 2d soon after the Restoration. To enforce his arbitrary policy, he made his appearance in Hartford, with his suite and sixty men at arms, on the 31st of October, 1687. The Assembly of the State were then in session, and evinced extreme reluctance to comply with his demands. Governor Treat spoke earnestly and eloquently of the perils which the Colony had sustained during its infancy, of the hardships which he had himself endured, and that it would be to them, and to him, like the yielding up of life, to surrender the privileges so dearly bought, and so fondly valued. The discussion was prolonged until evening, when the Charter was unwillingly produced. But the lights being suddenly extinguished, it was conveyed away by Captain Wadsworth, and secretly lodged in the cavity of that ancient Oak, which now bears its name.
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p. 79 | SIR EDMUND ANDROSS. |
Though Sir Edmund Andross was foiled in possessing himself of this instrument, he still proceeded to assume the government of Connecticut. He began, with protestations of regard for the welfare of the people, but his arbitrary sway so soon disclosed itself, that a historian of that period, remarked, that "Nero concealed his tyrannical disposition more years than Sir Edmund did months." The charges of public officers, during his administration, were exorbitant; the widow and fatherless, however distant or destitute, were compelled to make a journey to Boston, for all business connected with the testamentary settlement of estates; the titles of the colonists, to the lands which they had purchased, were annulled; and he declared all deeds derived from the Indians, "no better than the scratch of a bear's paw." At length, the spirit of the "Old Bay State" roused itself, determining no longer to submit to such oppression: and on the 18th of April, 1689, the Bostonians, aided by the inhabitants of their vicinity, made themselves masters of the Castle, and threw Sir Edmund and his council into prison, from whence they were remanded to England for trial.
When the abdication of James, and the establishment of William and Mary on the throne, removed the cloud from Great Britain and her dependences, the oracular Oak opened its bosom, and restored the intrusted Charter to the rejoicing people. This venerated tree stands on the domain, originally belonging
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p. 80 | HON. SAMUEL WYLLYS. |
to the Hon. Samuel Wyllys, one of the earliest magistrates and most distinguished founders of the State of Connecticut. His mansion, which was noted for its elegance, during the simplicity of colonial times, was the wonder of the roaming red man; and its surrounding grounds were laid out somewhat in imitation of the fair estate he had left in his own native Warwickshire. In its garden, anciently laid out by him, are still found apple trees bearing fruit, which he imported from Normandy 150 years since. By his virtues and dignified deportment, he acquired great influence over the Indians, whose wigwams were thickly planted in the great meadows toward the south-east, and along the margin of Connecticut river. When their midnight carousals arose to such a point that a quarrel might be apprehended, he often stilled their uproar, and sent them affrighted to their homes by a few words uttered from his open window through a speaking- trumpet, in the name of their Great Spirit. Such was the security and confidence in the honesty of the people, in which that honorable and wealthy family dwelt, that till within sixty years, a large silver cup was left unharmed by a well, for the accommodation of all, who in passing through the premises, might wish to taste its waters.
The handsome modern structure of I. W. Stuart, Esq., now occupies the site of the ancient Wyllys mansion, and the venerable Charter- Oak, which is highly appreciated by its present owners, and much
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p. 81 | RELICS FROM THE CHARTER-OAK. |
visited by strangers, preserves, though strongly marked by time, a vigorous old age. Some of its pressed leaves, or small articles made from a supernumerary branch, in the form of boxes, letter-folders, &c., are found to be acceptable gifts both to the antiquarian, and the patriot.
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p. 82 | THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. |
THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO,
TO THE CHARTEROAK AT HARTFORD.
Friend of the rising Sun! thy words were fair,
And should ere this have claimed my answering care,
But age is tardy, and the truth to tell,
I boast no clerkly skill, like those who dwell
Where every little district hath its school,
The pen, that subtle wand of thought to rule.
Yet still I give thee thanks, for long thy name
Hath been familiar, and its annaled fame,
Thine open bosom at thy Country's need,
Thy prompt allegiance to her hero's deed,
Thy staunch secretiveness, thy fair renown,
The waving honors of thy verdant crown;
And should a despot's step again invade
Her peaceful counsels, or her quiet shade,
May other veterans at her summons leap,
And other sacred Oaks her archives keep.
Far into times remote, my memory strays,
And with the mist of buried ages plays,
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p. 82 | THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. |
When but the unshorn forest marked the glade, And tribes of men, who like its leaves decayed, The roving hunters' toil their food supplied, The war their pastime, and the chase their pride. Stern, lofty chiefs the various clans controlled, With stony eye and brows unmoved and cold, They raised their arm, the war-dance wheeled its round, The unshrinking captive to the stake was bound, Fierce torture strode, barbaric revels reigned, And orgies dire the ear of midnight pained. Like the wild billows on some troubled bay, Rose the brief tribes and raged and sank away. Though few the traits their barren history gave, And fate ordained them for oblivion's grave, Yet still, so deep, mid all the floods of time, Are notched the waymarks of our earliest prime, That by their side, life's later traces prime, That by their side, life's later traces seem The idle pageants of a passing dream. Yes, even as yesterday, to me in thought, Appears the change, a pale-browed race have wrought. They came, new blossoms sprang, new fountains flowed, O'er the blue stream the white-winged vessels rode, To sudden birth, the frequent village strove Like full-armed Pallas from the brain of Jove,
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p. 84 | THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. |
Fair herds and flocks o'er velvet meadows stray, Where erst the wolf and panther prowled for prey, While broad canals unite with giant chain The wondering inland to the mighty main, Lo! the poor red man, feeling in his heart The long-drawn drama of his power depart, Stood for a moment, in his fallen pride, Like statued bronze, by rock or river side, Bent o'er his fathers' graves, with sigh supprest, While speechless anguish heaved his ample breast, Gazed till deep midnight veiled his favorite shore, Then westward journeyed, to return no more. Friend at the East! though many a year hath sped Light-winged and scathless o'er my towering head, Yet now, methinks, dread Winter longer reigns, And Spring, more tardy, wakes the frost-bound plains; While through my veins a feebler current flows, To make resistance to my stormy foes; But this is Age, we both must own its sway, And thou and I, like frailer man, decay. Of them thou ask'st, who from thy native scene, Where thy fair river flows in pride serene, Since the last brief half-century's fleeting shade, Became the owners of my sylvan glade. Brothers of noble name and manly prime, An honor to their blest New England clime,
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p. 85 | THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO. |
Who dauntless bore the hardships, toil and strife, That mark the opening of colonial life. God blessed their way,--the harvest reared its head, And snowy flocks o'er hills and valleys spread; God blessed their way,--and in their mansion throve Pure hospitality, and virtuous love. The elder parted first, the man of might, The strong in battle, for his country's right, Who, on her northern shore, with veteran zeal, Endured the sharpness of the British steel; Yet mild in peaceful age, his hoary head Sank, full of honors, to its lowly bed. But now, alas! the recent mourners bend, Where sleeps in dust, the master and the friend, Who propped my roots against the encroaching tide, And led admiring strangers to my side. Sweet plants of love he gathered round his breast, And drank their fragrance, till he went to rest; His princely wealth sustained the arts refined, And poured rich bounties o'er the realm of mind, For this an unborn race, with grateful prayers, Shall bless his memory, and record his cares. But hark! autumnal winds careering low, Announce the coming of the wintry foe, I bow myself, my adverse lot to take, With such poor aid, as age and sorrow make; Damp through my boughs the mournful breezes swell, And sigh amid my leaves, Master and friend, farewell!
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p. 86 | THE BROTHERS. |
The brothers, Messrs. William and James Wadsworth, left their native Connecticut in early manhood, for Western New York. The region of Geneseo, where they decided to fix their residence, was entirely uncultivated, and their personal labors, with the contrast to the state of society and habits of life to which they had been accustomed, were great. But by firm endurance and prudent foresight, they overcame every obstacle, and laid the foundation of extensive wealth and influence, which they used for the good of others. The elder accepted a command in the service of his country, during her last war with Great Britain, and was wounded in battle. He died at an advanced age, highly respected and honored.
The death of Mr. James Wadsworth, is a recent sorrow. It took place at his beautiful mansion in the month of June, 1844. Refinement of feeling, intellectual tastes, and a noble hospitality, were among the features of his character; and hoary years brought no mental declension, and drew no shade over the ardent affections by which he was distinguished, and in whose reciprocity was his undeclining solace. The grief of those most dear to him, is shared by many hearts, to whom his liberality in the cause of education, had rendered him a benefactor. The establishment of schools, the diffusion of books, and the best modes of culture for the unfolding mind, occupied much of his thought and effort during the later years of life. And surely, no form of munificence
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p. 87 | "BIG TREE." |
should entitle to a more grateful and lasting remembrance, than that which promotes the right education of youth; especially in a republic, where most emphatically "knowledge is power," and ignorance and vice subversive of safety.
The Great Western Tree, so celebrated for its antiquity and magnificence, is on the estate of the late Hon. James Wadsworth. It is a white oak, of massy foliage, with a trunk seventy feet in height, ere the protrusion of the branches, and thirty in circumference, so that seven persons are scarcely able to clasp it, with arms extended to their utmost length. It stands on the banks of the Geneseo, whose gently flowing waters wind their way through broad valleys, studded with fine trees, rising singly or in groups, and forming the very perfection of park scenery. In the old Maps of New York, the surrounding region bears the appellation of "Big Tree," and an Indian chieftain of the same name, formerly ruled over a tribe inhabiting that vicinity. In winter he resided on the uplands, and in summer came with his people, to cultivate some lands adjoining the "Big Tree." Beneath its dense canopy the chiefs of neighboring tribes often assembled to hold council, to see their young men contend in athletic games, to advise them to good conduct, and invoke on their nation, the blessing of the Great Spirit.
This majestic Oak is supposed to have attained the age of at least 1000 and possibly 1500 years. Of its
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p. 88 | INDIAN CHIEF. |
date there is neither history nor tradition, but one of a similar species, and of less than a third part of its diameter, having been cut down, revealed three hundred annual circles.
The neighboring aborigines were accustomed of old to regard it with veneration, as a sort of in intelligent or tutelary being.
Among the tribes who formerly inhabited the valley of the Geneseo, was a small one, which had made such progress in civilization, as to be able to speak a little English, to read imperfectly, and to sing psalms very well. They often conducted their simple worship under the spreading branches of the "Big Tree." In the summer of 1790, Mr. William Wadsworth (afterwards the General), received the appointment of Captain, and paraded his company of fifty or sixty men, collected from a space now equal to two or three counties, in front of the log-house then tenanted by himself and his brother. The chief of the before-mentioned tribe, who was a man of mild and friendly disposition, attended to witness the spectacle. His countenance was observed to be strongly marked with sadness. Mr. James Wadsworth inquired what was the cause of his depression. Pointing to the company of soldiers, and then turning to the remnant of his own people, he said mournfully, "You are the rising sun; but we are the setting sun;" and covering his head with his mantle, wept bitterly.
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p. 89 | SUNRISE AT NEW LONDON. |
SUNRISE AT NEW LONDON.
The welkin glows! what floods of purple light,
Announce the coming of the King of Day--
The streaming rays that every moment grow
More tremulously bright, in haste uplift
The diamond-pointed spear, and swiftly run
Before his chariot. Lo! with dazzling pomp
The gates of morning burst, and forth he comes
In light ineffable, and strength supreme,
Best image of the God that rules the world.
Hill-top, and sacred spire, and monument,
Receive him first, with princely reverence,
And blushing, point him to the vales below.
The sea doth greet him, flecked with gliding sails,
That catch his radiance on their breast of snow,
While joyously the little islands touch
Their waving coronets, in loyalty.
Up go the aspiring rays, and reddening fall
On dome, and spreading tree, and cheerful haunt
Of peace and plenty. Here our fathers dwelt,
Simply in ancient times, the scattered huts
Of the dark Indian, mingling with their own.
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p. 90 | SUNRISE AT NEW LONDON. |
Methinks even now, amid yon garden-shades,
Or on the margin of his lilied lake,
Sage Winthrop walks, our old colonial sire,
Musing how best to advance his country's weal.
On his broad forehead sits the conscious thought
Of power unmixed with pride, and that pure warmth
Of patriotism, which nerved him to endure
Toil and privation, for the infant State
That well his wisdom ruled.
See, rosy beams
Kindle around the pleasant home, where dwelt
The saintly Huntington, in danger tried,
The firm in battle, and the fond of peace.
High in the friendship of Mount Vernon's chief,
He walked in meekness, on to life's decline,
Seeking that honor which from God doth come,
And hath its crown above the starry skies.
But ah! the slant rays tint a lowly grave,
Where rests the tuneful bard, by nature loved.
Brainard! the echoes of thy spirit-lyre
Do warn us hither, and we fain would sit
Beside thy pillow, and commune with thee.
O, gentle friend! the autumnal dews are chill
Upon thy grassy bed, and the frail flowers,
Whose saddened hearts are ominous of ill,
Cling closely there, as if they knew that thou,
Like them, didst feel an early frost and die.
Yet art thou of that band that cannot die.
Thou hast a dwelling with us, and thy words
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p. 91 | SUNRISE AT NEW LONDON. |
Are sweetly on our lips, at close of day,
At lamp-light, by the hearth-stone. Unforgot
Shalt thou remain, for the sweet germs of song
Do flourish, when the gauds of wealth and pomp
Sink in oblivion.
Lo! the risen sun
Stays not his course, but o'er the horizon sends
The Maker's message. On he goes, to wake
The self-same joys and sorrows, that have trod
Beside him, from Creation. In his track
Spring up the chronicles of days that were,
And legends, that the hoary-headed keep
In memory's treasure-house, when pitiless war
And Arnold's treason, woke the fires that made
A people homeless. See, on yonder spot,
Where the white column marks the buried brave,
Came the poor widow, and the orphan band,
Searching mid piles of carnage, for the forms
More dear than life.
But sure, yon kingly orb,
Mid all the zones through which his chariot rolls,
Beholds no realm more favored than our own,
Here, in this broad green West. So may he find
Hands knit in brotherhood, and hearts inspired
With love to Him, from whom all blessings flow.
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p. 92 | FORT TRUMBULL. |
New London, in Connecticut, is pleasantly situated a short distance from the junction of the Thames with Long Island Sound. Nature has conferred upon it important advantages of position and defence. She scooped a noble basin just within the mouth of the Thames, on the west side of which she spread an uneven rocky projection in the form of a crescent. On this spot the city is built. The hills of Groton, and the low sands of Waterford, extend on either hand like outstretched arms around the harbor. Fisher's Island stands back as an additional embankment on the east. Other small islands of the Sound recede into dark specks upon its bosom, and the narrow line of Long Island, lying like the edge of a slender cloud upon the limits of the horizon, vary the prospect with the elements of beauty and grandeur.
Fort Trumbull occupies an eligible situation for the protection of the harbor and town. The old fortress has been entirely demolished, and a costly structure, planned with ability, and so far as it has yet advanced, executed in a solid and symmetrical style, is now rising upon its ruins. Opposite, on the east side of the river, is Fort Griswold, the site of one of the most barbarous massacres which occurred during the revolutionary war. This also has been repaired, and an additional battery erected for an outpost, but the main fortification remains the same.
A monumental column of granite, erected to commemorate the fatal action of Groton Fort on the sixth
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p. 93 | GROTON MONUMENT. |
of September, 1781, forms a conspicuous ornament of this height. It is built of hewn stone, taken from a quarry not far distant. It is 125 feet high, and the hill on which it stands 129 feet above the level of the ocean. The ascent is by 168 stone steps, rising spirally on the inside. But the prospect amply repays all the toil of the ascent. The landscape, though not so rich and luxuriant as many others, is perhaps as varied and interesting as any in New England. On the south, you have the Sound with its winding shores, its gliding sails and lovely islands, and on the north, the river Thames, retiring behind the hills towards Norwich. Those hills themselves, once the residence of the Mohegan tribe of Indians, suggest numerous associations connected with that fast-decaying tribe; and their highest summit is crowned with a small white picturesque church, erected some few years since for their benefit. On the west, and apparently beneath your feet, lies New London with its streets and dwellings conspicuously displayed, its spires and masts, its rising forts, and its spacious and well-defined harbor.
On the south front of the monument, a marble entablature is fitted into the walls, containing the names of the eighty-one persons who perished in the fort. Only a few of these fell at the taking of the fort. By far the greater part were slain after the surrender with the sword and bayonet, when they had thrown down their arms and were supplicating mercy. The British landed in two divisions. That which assailed the fort,
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p. 94 | GOVERNOR WINTHROP. |
was commanded by Lt. Col. Eyre, and Majors Montgomery and Bloomfield. The western division was commanded by Arnold the traitor, who planned the expedition, and was its leader and guide. He landed below Fort Trumbull, marched directly to New London, and the town and shipping were soon enveloped in flames. Arnold was born in Norwich, only fourteen miles from the place which he so wantonly destroyed. The beautiful place of his birth is ashamed of his memory.
New London was one of the earliest settled towns in the State. Its founder, John Winthrop, Esq., son to the first governor of Massachusetts, was distinguished as a scholar, patriot, and gentleman. He was born in 1605, in Groton, England, but emigrated to this country as soon as he had completed his education. He interested himself warmly in the young colony of Connecticut, and in 1648, was one of the band of forty citizens, who came with their families and commenced a settlement at New London. For many successive years he was chosen governor of the colony, and will always be numbered among its brightest ornaments. The mansion-house which he built at New London, is still one of the most elegant residences in the place. Its present proprietor, Charles A. Lewis, Esq., while he has sedulously preserved the original plan of the building, has added to its beauty and convenience, and greatly improved and embellished the grounds. The situation is fine, command-
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p. 95 | GENERAL HUNTINGTON. |
ing a view of the town and harbor, and having a beautiful, gem-like lakelet in the rear, with a romantic mill-stream by its side.
Among her distinguished men, New London reckons also, another Governor Winthrop, Fitz-John Winthrop, Esq., the son of the founder, who acquired an honorable reputation both as a military commander and by the success with which he managed a diplomatic agency in London. Likewise, another of our old colonial governors, Gurdon Saltonstall, Esq. lived and died in New London, and previous to his advancement to the highest office in the colony, was the beloved and highly revered minister of the town.
Nor should the name of Gen. Jedidiah Huntington be omitted. He was long a resident of New London, though a native of Norwich, and thither, in compliance with his own request, his remains were removed and deposited in the tomb of his ancestors. He commanded a regiment as early as the year 1775, served at one time as aid to Gen. Washington, whose esteem and confidence he always retained, and before the conclusion of the war, attained the rank of a general officer. He settled in New London immediately after the war, and from that time until his death, held the office of collector of the revenue of the port. He chose for the site of his dwelling, a beautiful eminence, then in the rear of the town, though now the buildings have spread beyond it, and built a solid and convenient house, in a style which has been called the
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p. 96 | THE POET BRAINARD. |
cottage cornée. It is now the property of Rev. Mr. Hurlburt. The taste and elegance of the building, the fine water prospect which it commands, its beautiful trees and grassy slopes, render it a delightful residence.
Among the buildings that escaped the conflagration of the traitor Arnold, is the house of Judge Brainard, the father of [J]. G. C. Brainard, the gifted poet of New London. Long will his memory be cherished among the favorite melodies of his native land. He was born and passed the greater part of his life in this place, and to his associations with its pursuits, and the influence of its scenery on his mind, we may trace some of the most original imagery of his poems. Here in the arms of fraternal affection at the early age of thirty-two, he meekly resigned life, with all its tissue of joys and sorrows. His disposition was tinged with melancholy, the world had never seemed to him radiant with sunshine, but his last days were bright with immortal hopes. He died at peace with his Maker, in the faith of the gospel, and to use his own words, "forgiving all, and praying for the salvation of all."
I roamed where Thames, old Ocean's breast doth cheer, Pouring from crystal urn the waters sheen, What time dim twilight's silent step was near, And gathering dews impearled the margin green; Yet, though mild autumn with a smile serene
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p. 97 | MONODY TO BRAINARD. |
Had gently fostered summer's lingering bloom, Methought strange sadness lingered o'er the scene, While the lone river, murmuring on in gloom, Deplored its sweetest bard, laid early in the tomb. His soul for friendship formed, sublime, sincere, Of each ungenerous deed his high disdain, Perchance the cold world scanned with eye severe; Perchance his harp, her guerdon failed to gain; But Nature guards his fame, for not in vain He sang her shady dells and mountains hoar, King Phillip's billowy bay repeats his name, To its gray tower, and with eternal roar Niagara bears it on, to the far-echoing shore. Each sylvan haunt he loved, the simplest flower That burned Heaven's incense in its bosom fair, The crested billow, with its fitful power, The chirping nest that claimed a mother's care, All woke his worship, as some altar rare Or sainted shrine doth win the pilgrim's knee; An he hath gone to rest, where earth and air Lavish their sweetest charms, while loud and free Sounds forth the wind-swept harp, of his own native sea. His country's brave defenders, few and gray, By penury stricken, with despairing sighs, He nobly sang, and breathed a warning lay
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p. 98 | MONODY TO BRAINARD. |
Lest from their graves a withering corse should rise: But now, where pure and bright, the peaceful skies And watching stars look down, on Groton's height, Their monument attracts the traveller's eyes, Whose souls unshrinking took their martyr-flight, When Arnold's traitor-sword flashed out in fiendish might. Youth with glad hand her frolic germs had sown, And garlands clustered round his manly head, Those garlands withered, and he stood alone While on his cheek the gnawing hectic fed, And chilling death-dews o'er his temple spread: But on his soul a quenchless star arose, Whose hallowed beams their brightest lustre shed When the dimmed eye to its last pillow goes,-- He followed where it led, and found a saint's repose. And now farewell! The rippling stream shall hear No more the echo of thy sportive oar; Nor the loved group, thy father's halls that cheer, Joy in the magic of thy presence more; Long shall their tears thy broken lyre deplore; Yet doth thine image, warm and deathless, dwell With those who love the minstrel's tuneful lore, And still thy music, like a treasured spell, Thrill deep within their souls. Lamented bard, farewell!