The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield In two volumes |
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THE LAY OF THE COLONIST. |
 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
318
THE LAY OF THE COLONIST.
On the rude threshold of his woodland cot,
When the sun turned the western sky to gold,
Wrapt in dark musings on his wayward lot,
And joys long past that o'er his spirit rolled,
Stern in his faith, though sorrow marked his mein,
The exile stood—the genius of the scene!
When the sun turned the western sky to gold,
Wrapt in dark musings on his wayward lot,
And joys long past that o'er his spirit rolled,
Stern in his faith, though sorrow marked his mein,
The exile stood—the genius of the scene!
Unbounded, solitary, dark and deep,
The mountain forests lowered around and threw
Their solemn shadows o'er the craggy steep,
Where human foot had never brushed the dew;
And through the tangled maze of wildwoods run
Streams, whose swift waves ne'er glittered in the sun.
The mountain forests lowered around and threw
Their solemn shadows o'er the craggy steep,
Where human foot had never brushed the dew;
And through the tangled maze of wildwoods run
Streams, whose swift waves ne'er glittered in the sun.
O'er the vast sea of this green solitude
No wreathing smoke from distant cottage rose;
No wellknown voice came singing through the wood—
No form beloved tracked o'er the winter snows,
Or sunny summer hillside, glad to seek
And find a friend to cheer him once a-week.
No wreathing smoke from distant cottage rose;
No wellknown voice came singing through the wood—
No form beloved tracked o'er the winter snows,
Or sunny summer hillside, glad to seek
And find a friend to cheer him once a-week.
Unbroken there was life's lone sleep, save when
The moose or panther yelled along his way,
Or the wolf prowled and ravined through the glen,
Or, high in air, the eagle screamed for prey;
The Indian's arrow had a noiseless flight,
More dark and deadly than a monarch's might.
The moose or panther yelled along his way,
Or the wolf prowled and ravined through the glen,
Or, high in air, the eagle screamed for prey;
The Indian's arrow had a noiseless flight,
More dark and deadly than a monarch's might.
Oft lonely barrows on the woody plain
Alone revealed that mortal things had been;
That here red warriors, in their slaughter slain,
Reposed in glory on the conquering scene
Of their high valour; and their fated fame
Hath left them not on earth a record—or a name.
Alone revealed that mortal things had been;
That here red warriors, in their slaughter slain,
Reposed in glory on the conquering scene
Of their high valour; and their fated fame
Hath left them not on earth a record—or a name.
319
But soon the whirring arrow, stained with blood,
Gave fearful warning vengeance slept not here—
That he, who threaded thus the mazy wood,
And slew faroff the wild and timorous deer,
Had darts within his quiver stored to bear
Death to the white man through the silent air.
Gave fearful warning vengeance slept not here—
That he, who threaded thus the mazy wood,
And slew faroff the wild and timorous deer,
Had darts within his quiver stored to bear
Death to the white man through the silent air.
Mid the dense gloom of nature's forest-woof
The exile stood, who erst in pomp abode;
Rude was the cottage, with its leaf-thatched roof,
Where dwelt the Puritan—alone with God;—
There terror oft through nights of cold unrest
Counted the pulse of many a trembling breast.
The exile stood, who erst in pomp abode;
Rude was the cottage, with its leaf-thatched roof,
Where dwelt the Puritan—alone with God;—
There terror oft through nights of cold unrest
Counted the pulse of many a trembling breast.
In the vast wilderness, afar removed
From scenes more blest than happy hearts can tell,
Torn from the bosoms of the friends he loved
Too fervently to bid a last farewell;
Here, at the hour when hearts breathe far away
Their music—thus the Exile poured his lay:—
From scenes more blest than happy hearts can tell,
Torn from the bosoms of the friends he loved
Too fervently to bid a last farewell;
Here, at the hour when hearts breathe far away
Their music—thus the Exile poured his lay:—
“Mysterious are thy ways, Almighty One!
And dark the shades that veil thy throne of light,
But still to thee we bow—thy will be done—
For human pride leaves erring man in night;
To thee we make our still and solemn prayer—
Be thou our Sun and every scene is fair!
And dark the shades that veil thy throne of light,
But still to thee we bow—thy will be done—
For human pride leaves erring man in night;
To thee we make our still and solemn prayer—
Be thou our Sun and every scene is fair!
“When from oppression, crowned and mitred, Lord!
We fled—a faint band—o'er the Atlantic main,
Thou wert our refuge—thou, our shield and sword—
Our light in gloom—our comforter in pain;
Thy smile beamed brighter on our woodland shed
Than all earth's glory on a regal head.
We fled—a faint band—o'er the Atlantic main,
Thou wert our refuge—thou, our shield and sword—
Our light in gloom—our comforter in pain;
Thy smile beamed brighter on our woodland shed
Than all earth's glory on a regal head.
“And oft, amid the darkness and the fears
Of them thy goodness gave to share my lot,
Thou hast in mercy listened to the tears
Of love and innocence in this rude cot,
And filled pale lips with bread, and the raised arm
Of murder palsied ere its wrath could harm.
Of them thy goodness gave to share my lot,
Thou hast in mercy listened to the tears
Of love and innocence in this rude cot,
And filled pale lips with bread, and the raised arm
Of murder palsied ere its wrath could harm.
320
“When through the unbarred window on our bed
The famishing bear hath looked—or to our hearth
The tiger sprung to tear the babe—or red
The hatchet gleamed along the glade; on earth,
Ev'n as in Eden, thou hast walked in power,
And saved us in the dark and trying hour.
The famishing bear hath looked—or to our hearth
The tiger sprung to tear the babe—or red
The hatchet gleamed along the glade; on earth,
Ev'n as in Eden, thou hast walked in power,
And saved us in the dark and trying hour.
“When, gathered round the winter fire, whose flames
The cold gale, howling through the cottage, fanned,
We talked o'er distant loved and honoured names,
And sighed to think upon our native land,
Thy still, small voice was heard—‘The same God here
Beholds thee as thy friends beloved and dear.’
The cold gale, howling through the cottage, fanned,
We talked o'er distant loved and honoured names,
And sighed to think upon our native land,
Thy still, small voice was heard—‘The same God here
Beholds thee as thy friends beloved and dear.’
“Thus hast Thou been our comfort—Thou, for whom
We left the land—loved land! that gave us birth,
And sought these shores of savageness and gloom,
Cold, faint and sick—the exiles of the earth!
We heard thy summons, Lord! and here we are,
Beneath New England's coldest northern star.
We left the land—loved land! that gave us birth,
And sought these shores of savageness and gloom,
Cold, faint and sick—the exiles of the earth!
We heard thy summons, Lord! and here we are,
Beneath New England's coldest northern star.
“Softly beneath thine all-protecting smile
Hath been our sleep in perils dire—and on
The stormy waters and the rugged soil
Thy blessing hath descended, and thy sun
Hath unto us such gladdening harvests given
As erst came down on Zin from pitying heaven.
Hath been our sleep in perils dire—and on
The stormy waters and the rugged soil
Thy blessing hath descended, and thy sun
Hath unto us such gladdening harvests given
As erst came down on Zin from pitying heaven.
“Narrow and dark through this entangled shade
Our winding paths o'er cliffs and moors must be;
But bright with verdure is our lovely glade,
And from its temple soar our prayers to Thee;
And here, though danger point the poisoned dart,
We wear a charm, true faith, within the heart.
Our winding paths o'er cliffs and moors must be;
But bright with verdure is our lovely glade,
And from its temple soar our prayers to Thee;
And here, though danger point the poisoned dart,
We wear a charm, true faith, within the heart.
“The radiant sun, thy glorious work, O Lord!
Fades from the West and lights the moon on high;
As they, who trust in thy most holy word,
Catch light and glory from the blessed sky;
And even here amid the forest's gloom
We breathe the blessing of the life to come!”
Fades from the West and lights the moon on high;
As they, who trust in thy most holy word,
Catch light and glory from the blessed sky;
And even here amid the forest's gloom
We breathe the blessing of the life to come!”
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The exile turned and entered to his home,
Blest with the view his pious soul had caught
Of heaven's mysterious ways—and o'er him come,
As through his mind roll living streams of thought,
Such gleams of joy as ever must arise
From his pure heart who worships at the skies.
Blest with the view his pious soul had caught
Of heaven's mysterious ways—and o'er him come,
As through his mind roll living streams of thought,
Such gleams of joy as ever must arise
From his pure heart who worships at the skies.
Irreverent sons of Plymouth's pilgrim band!
Approach not them ye will not to revere!
The wandering fathers of this mighty land
Contemplate thou with reverence and fear;
Heir of the Faithful! let thy bosom take
The faith that dared the exile and the stake!
Approach not them ye will not to revere!
The wandering fathers of this mighty land
Contemplate thou with reverence and fear;
Heir of the Faithful! let thy bosom take
The faith that dared the exile and the stake!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |