Aquidneck a poem, pronounced on the hundredth anniversary Of the Incorporation of the Redwood Library Company, Newport, R. I. August XXIV. MDCCCXLVII. with other commemorative pieces |
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THE LOST CHURCH.
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THE LOST CHURCH.
These verses were written while men were in the act of dragging down a venerable meeting-house (previously beheaded of its steeple top, by the guillotine of these levelling times) from the oak-crowned hill, where it had so long stood sentinel over one of the most picturesque of New England villages, Bucksport, on the Penobscot. The title of the piece, and probably, in some degree, the tone, were caught from Schiller's “Verlorene Kirche.”
These verses were written while men were in the act of dragging down a venerable meeting-house (previously beheaded of its steeple top, by the guillotine of these levelling times) from the oak-crowned hill, where it had so long stood sentinel over one of the most picturesque of New England villages, Bucksport, on the Penobscot. The title of the piece, and probably, in some degree, the tone, were caught from Schiller's “Verlorene Kirche.”
Had ye a voice, ye venerable trees,
What thrilling tales ye'd tell! Yet, even now,
Oft as, at eve, the sad autumnal breeze
Mysteriously stirs each trembling bough,—
What thrilling tales ye'd tell! Yet, even now,
Oft as, at eve, the sad autumnal breeze
Mysteriously stirs each trembling bough,—
And oft as spring renews your leafy green,
And oft as kindling summer round you glows,
And oft as winter clothes the naked scene,
And crowns this hill-top with his weight of snows,—
And oft as kindling summer round you glows,
And oft as winter clothes the naked scene,
And crowns this hill-top with his weight of snows,—
And at each hour of day,—when silent noon
Broods o'er the town, the river, and the hill,—
And when, at noon of night, the harvest-moon
Silvers your dark-green branches, soft and still,—
Broods o'er the town, the river, and the hill,—
And when, at noon of night, the harvest-moon
Silvers your dark-green branches, soft and still,—
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And when the morning sun, behind your height,
Wakes in their rustling nests the feathered choir,—
And when the dying day's last lingering light
Touches the topmost twigs with golden fire,—
Wakes in their rustling nests the feathered choir,—
And when the dying day's last lingering light
Touches the topmost twigs with golden fire,—
Strange sounds and spirit-like are heard, that chime
With all the winds which through your branches sigh;
Voices that murmur of the olden time,
The ghosts of generations long passed by.
With all the winds which through your branches sigh;
Voices that murmur of the olden time,
The ghosts of generations long passed by.
As, pensively, with reverent step and slow,
I climb this hallowed hill, a stranger here,
The thought of all the dead that sleep below
Brings to my eye the tributary tear.
I climb this hallowed hill, a stranger here,
The thought of all the dead that sleep below
Brings to my eye the tributary tear.
Up this green steep, beneath this deep green shade,
Each Sabbath morn and noon, for many a year,
Came son and sire, matron and village-maid,
And bowed in prayer, and sang God's praises here.
Each Sabbath morn and noon, for many a year,
Came son and sire, matron and village-maid,
And bowed in prayer, and sang God's praises here.
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Here stood for childhood's brow the sacred fount;
Here manhood on its God its troubles cast;
Here age climbed up, as to a Pisgah-mount,—
Here paused, as to its last, long home it passed.
Here manhood on its God its troubles cast;
Here age climbed up, as to a Pisgah-mount,—
Here paused, as to its last, long home it passed.
In life's august procession all passed on
To fill yon silent chambers of the dead;
And now the holy house itself is gone,
Whose aisles once echoed to their frequent tread.
To fill yon silent chambers of the dead;
And now the holy house itself is gone,
Whose aisles once echoed to their frequent tread.
Yet oft, beneath these green old oaks, e'en now,
Forms of the buried past, unseen, sweep by;
And oft the pilgrim, on this hill's lone brow,
Feels a great cloud of witnesses draw nigh.
Forms of the buried past, unseen, sweep by;
And oft the pilgrim, on this hill's lone brow,
Feels a great cloud of witnesses draw nigh.
And though the old walls no more this summit crown,
Still float strange tones of an unearthly bell,—
Each Sabbath morn, and noon, and eve float down
O'er town, and stream, and hill, and distant dell.
Still float strange tones of an unearthly bell,—
Each Sabbath morn, and noon, and eve float down
O'er town, and stream, and hill, and distant dell.
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And though from out this green oak-shade no more
The tall old spire shall rise to meet the sky,
Long from the spot shall Memory heavenward soar,
While Faith, with lifted finger, points on high.
The tall old spire shall rise to meet the sky,
Long from the spot shall Memory heavenward soar,
While Faith, with lifted finger, points on high.
Bucksport, Me. Sept. 1846.
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