 | Lays and ballads |  |
98
THE NEW VILLAGE.
Dear to our hearts are homes and household fires,
Where youthful pleasures hailed each happy morn;
Where sang our mothers, and where sat our sires,
Whose blessed looks our memories adorn.
Sacred the threshold by their footsteps worn,
From whence at last went forth the funeral train—
Leaving our hearts by bitter anguish torn;
Sacred the ground where their dear dust has lain;
Sacred the church, the town, and the surrounding plain.
Where youthful pleasures hailed each happy morn;
Where sang our mothers, and where sat our sires,
Whose blessed looks our memories adorn.
Sacred the threshold by their footsteps worn,
From whence at last went forth the funeral train—
Leaving our hearts by bitter anguish torn;
Sacred the ground where their dear dust has lain;
Sacred the church, the town, and the surrounding plain.
Not less the Indian loves his native spot,
Nor walks he less in memory's blessed beam;
His parents, playmates, and the clay-built cot,
Melt o'er his senses like a morning dream.
See the small village sloping to the stream
Beneath the arch of the ancestral wood;
Along the shade the dusky children teem,
Waking in mimic chase the solitude,
Free as their Eden-sire, as innocently nude.
Nor walks he less in memory's blessed beam;
His parents, playmates, and the clay-built cot,
Melt o'er his senses like a morning dream.
99
Beneath the arch of the ancestral wood;
Along the shade the dusky children teem,
Waking in mimic chase the solitude,
Free as their Eden-sire, as innocently nude.
Here dusky maidens roam through nature's bowers,
Mating with fawns along the pathless ways,
Blithesome as birds, as sinless as the flowers,
Wild as the brook, and wandering where it strays,
Pouring to heaven their sweet, unconscious praise;
The foliage bends to greet them as they pass,
And buds unfold to court their tender gaze;
The daisies kiss their foot-falls in the grass,
And little streams stand still to paint them in their glass.
Mating with fawns along the pathless ways,
Blithesome as birds, as sinless as the flowers,
Wild as the brook, and wandering where it strays,
Pouring to heaven their sweet, unconscious praise;
The foliage bends to greet them as they pass,
And buds unfold to court their tender gaze;
The daisies kiss their foot-falls in the grass,
And little streams stand still to paint them in their glass.
Up with the day and glowing as the morn,
Along the brook the laughing children wade;
The happy matron grinds the golden corn—
The sturdy hunters, for the chase arrayed,
Swift as their arrows flash from sun to shade:
Some spear the fish, and some collect the nut,
Till twilight sheds her shadows o'er the glade;
And when the day by peaceful night is shut,
Sleep, like an angel, reigns in every quiet hut.
Along the brook the laughing children wade;
The happy matron grinds the golden corn—
The sturdy hunters, for the chase arrayed,
Swift as their arrows flash from sun to shade:
Some spear the fish, and some collect the nut,
Till twilight sheds her shadows o'er the glade;
And when the day by peaceful night is shut,
Sleep, like an angel, reigns in every quiet hut.
100
But now the Indian dons his painted dress,
And burning glances flash their wordless ire,
Murdering peace through all the wilderness;
And youthful Brave and gray and wrinkled Sire
Weave the wild war-dance at the midnight fire,
Where war-clubs, waved by naked arms and strong,
And knives and axes, speak the wild desire,
And maids and matrons mingle in the throng,
Swelling the sullen tide of dull, monotonous song.
And burning glances flash their wordless ire,
Murdering peace through all the wilderness;
And youthful Brave and gray and wrinkled Sire
Weave the wild war-dance at the midnight fire,
Where war-clubs, waved by naked arms and strong,
And knives and axes, speak the wild desire,
And maids and matrons mingle in the throng,
Swelling the sullen tide of dull, monotonous song.
Such now their nights; but at the approach of day
Low sinks the fire, and dies the warlike sound,
While through the woods the warriors glide away,
And on the victim spring with sudden bound,
Hurling the hated settler to the ground.
Not long the Indian's skill or strength defies
The tide which westward bears its way profound;
Conquered at last, the flying tribe descries
Its ancient wigwams burn, and light its native skies.
Low sinks the fire, and dies the warlike sound,
While through the woods the warriors glide away,
And on the victim spring with sudden bound,
Hurling the hated settler to the ground.
Not long the Indian's skill or strength defies
The tide which westward bears its way profound;
Conquered at last, the flying tribe descries
Its ancient wigwams burn, and light its native skies.
The pioneers their gleaming axes swing,
The sapling falls, and dies the forest's sire—
The foliage fades—but sudden flames upspring,
And all the grove is leafed again with fire;
While gleams the pine tree like a gilded spire,
The homeless birds sail, circling wild, and high;
At night the wolves gaze out their fierce desire;
For weeks the smoke spreads, blotting all the sky,
While, twice its size, the sun rolls dull and redly by.
The sapling falls, and dies the forest's sire—
The foliage fades—but sudden flames upspring,
And all the grove is leafed again with fire;
101
The homeless birds sail, circling wild, and high;
At night the wolves gaze out their fierce desire;
For weeks the smoke spreads, blotting all the sky,
While, twice its size, the sun rolls dull and redly by.
Before the cabin on the river's side,
When in the unknown west the day is done,
The labourers talk away the eventide,
Rehearse the plan so gloriously begun,
What house to rear, and where the street shall run
The morning comes, and with its earliest gleam
Loud ring the anvils, glowing like the sun;
There fall the axe and adze that shape the beam,
And here the noisy raftsmen labour in the stream.
When in the unknown west the day is done,
The labourers talk away the eventide,
Rehearse the plan so gloriously begun,
What house to rear, and where the street shall run
The morning comes, and with its earliest gleam
Loud ring the anvils, glowing like the sun;
There fall the axe and adze that shape the beam,
And here the noisy raftsmen labour in the stream.
Behold the village! There the tavern grows,
A little inn with large, inviting sign;
There the new store its mingled medley shows;
And over all, yet simple in design,
The general care, ascends the house Divine;
The unfinished steeple, like a skeleton,
Shows the blue sky between its ribs of pine;
Its gilded summit courts the early sun,
And holds it latest when the toilsome day is done.
A little inn with large, inviting sign;
There the new store its mingled medley shows;
And over all, yet simple in design,
The general care, ascends the house Divine;
The unfinished steeple, like a skeleton,
Shows the blue sky between its ribs of pine;
Its gilded summit courts the early sun,
And holds it latest when the toilsome day is done.
102
Now from the belfry rings a cheerful sound,
The air hangs trembling between joy and fear,
And echoes answer from the hills around,
Frightening the wild duck from the sedgy mere,
While trembles by the stream the listening deer,
Bending to drink the creature stands deterred;
The squirrel drops his nut and turns to hear;
All nature listens like a startled bird,
To hear the marriage bell, the first those forests heard.
The air hangs trembling between joy and fear,
And echoes answer from the hills around,
Frightening the wild duck from the sedgy mere,
While trembles by the stream the listening deer,
Bending to drink the creature stands deterred;
The squirrel drops his nut and turns to hear;
All nature listens like a startled bird,
To hear the marriage bell, the first those forests heard.
But hark! again the melancholy toll,
Spreading the shadow of the pall around,
While nature answers to its dreadful dole;
Beside the church there lies the sacred ground,
And in its midst is made the first new mound;
The fairest flower of all that western space
Sleeps in the grave, by sweetest blossoms crowned—
The pure in heart; the beautiful in face—
A fitting dust was hers to consecrate the place!
Spreading the shadow of the pall around,
While nature answers to its dreadful dole;
Beside the church there lies the sacred ground,
And in its midst is made the first new mound;
The fairest flower of all that western space
Sleeps in the grave, by sweetest blossoms crowned—
The pure in heart; the beautiful in face—
A fitting dust was hers to consecrate the place!
Thus it begins; but who shall know the end?
What prophet's thought shall down the future go,
To tell how oft again that bell shall send
Through all the vale the notes of joy or wo;
What graves shall sink; what countless mounds shall grow—
What rich, aspiring temples there shall stand
For Time to darken and to overthrow;
How there at last shall lurk some savage band,
While woods and wolves unchecked shall claim their native land?
What prophet's thought shall down the future go,
To tell how oft again that bell shall send
Through all the vale the notes of joy or wo;
103
What rich, aspiring temples there shall stand
For Time to darken and to overthrow;
How there at last shall lurk some savage band,
While woods and wolves unchecked shall claim their native land?
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