A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 the two hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town |
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 | A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 |  |
We tread on hallowed soil. Where now we stand,
Two hundred years ago, a feeble band
Safe from the tyrant's chains, the ocean's foam,
Came to these shores to find another home:
A home—not such as that they left behind—
A home—not such as we their children find.
Like the old patriarch of the Orient
They roamed, unknowing whither 'twas they went.
No smiling fields with walls and elm trees lined,
No harvests waving in the summer wind,
No smiling cottages—no tall white spires
Sprang to the gaze of those old Pilgrim sires.
Wild and unbroken in their long repose
Forests and rocks in endless prospect rose:
All grim and silent slept each granite hill,
Where now the clanking chisel and the drill
Loosen and shape to symmetry the block,
Hewn from the heart of the deep-bedded rock.
Around them dashed the waves;—the moaning breeze
Swept the untrodden depths of the forest trees;
Then rang the woodman's axe with steady stroke,
Till crashing fell the tall centennial oak:
Or leaping out with yell and arrow-twang,
The ambushed savage sudden on them sprang,
Till frightened by the startling musket's crack,
He vanished to his wildernesses back:—
Few sounds, few sights but these,—where now the bell
Rings out its Sabbath chime o'er hill and dell,
And Art hath nestled upon Nature's breast,
Like the young infant in its evening rest.
Two hundred years ago, a feeble band
Safe from the tyrant's chains, the ocean's foam,
Came to these shores to find another home:
A home—not such as that they left behind—
A home—not such as we their children find.
Like the old patriarch of the Orient
They roamed, unknowing whither 'twas they went.
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No harvests waving in the summer wind,
No smiling cottages—no tall white spires
Sprang to the gaze of those old Pilgrim sires.
Wild and unbroken in their long repose
Forests and rocks in endless prospect rose:
All grim and silent slept each granite hill,
Where now the clanking chisel and the drill
Loosen and shape to symmetry the block,
Hewn from the heart of the deep-bedded rock.
Around them dashed the waves;—the moaning breeze
Swept the untrodden depths of the forest trees;
Then rang the woodman's axe with steady stroke,
Till crashing fell the tall centennial oak:
Or leaping out with yell and arrow-twang,
The ambushed savage sudden on them sprang,
Till frightened by the startling musket's crack,
He vanished to his wildernesses back:—
Few sounds, few sights but these,—where now the bell
Rings out its Sabbath chime o'er hill and dell,
And Art hath nestled upon Nature's breast,
Like the young infant in its evening rest.
| A poem delivered in the first congregational church in the town of Quincy, May 25, 1840 | |