 | Duganne's Poetical Works |  |
347
MASSACHUSETTS.
The morn of Freedom's natal day once more
In sunlight breaketh. From the rocky shore
On which the dark Atlantic's waves break high,
To where the pine-trees, losing in the sky
Their feathery vastness, mark far Oregon;
Where'er the glorious morning-beams have shone,—
The pæans of rejoicing hosts arise,
In one glad anthem, to the cloudless skies.
All—all—are free!—on every hill-top wave
The flags of Freedom! in each mountain cave
Her chorus echoes!
List! methought a cry
Of woe rose thrillingly—methought a sigh,
Deep and heart-laden, trembled on the air!
Alas! not Freedom greets us everywhere!
Within the very garden of the brave,
Upon the blood-bought soil, there kneels—a slave!
His chains are clanking on the Southern gale,
And, mingling with the song of Freedom, comes his wail.
In sunlight breaketh. From the rocky shore
On which the dark Atlantic's waves break high,
To where the pine-trees, losing in the sky
Their feathery vastness, mark far Oregon;
Where'er the glorious morning-beams have shone,—
The pæans of rejoicing hosts arise,
In one glad anthem, to the cloudless skies.
All—all—are free!—on every hill-top wave
The flags of Freedom! in each mountain cave
Her chorus echoes!
348
Of woe rose thrillingly—methought a sigh,
Deep and heart-laden, trembled on the air!
Alas! not Freedom greets us everywhere!
Within the very garden of the brave,
Upon the blood-bought soil, there kneels—a slave!
His chains are clanking on the Southern gale,
And, mingling with the song of Freedom, comes his wail.
O God! permit it not! on thee we call!
Wilt thou not free us from the numbing thrall
That binds the noble feelings which should spring
Spontaneous? “Let not the unclean thing
Abide in Israel!”
Turn we from the theme;—
There is a spot where Freedom's morning-beam
Burst every cloud. My heart will turn to thee—
Thee, Massachusetts!—home of Liberty!
Wilt thou not free us from the numbing thrall
That binds the noble feelings which should spring
Spontaneous? “Let not the unclean thing
Abide in Israel!”
Turn we from the theme;—
There is a spot where Freedom's morning-beam
Burst every cloud. My heart will turn to thee—
Thee, Massachusetts!—home of Liberty!
Land of my birth! the Star which erewhile led
The pilgrims to thy shores—the Star that shed
Its beams o'er sundered chains and shattered crowns—
That guided thee and thine beneath the frowns
Of sceptred imbeciles—that burst the night
Of Slavery, and lit the beacon-light
Of Freedom,—still shines on, still sheds its beams—
Not in the fitful cannon's lurid gleams,
Not in the wild war-fire, nor on the gold
Of flashing banners;—turn we, and behold
Its rays pervading, brightening, softening all—
Here in the Temple, there in Learning's hall.
The pilgrims to thy shores—the Star that shed
Its beams o'er sundered chains and shattered crowns—
That guided thee and thine beneath the frowns
Of sceptred imbeciles—that burst the night
Of Slavery, and lit the beacon-light
Of Freedom,—still shines on, still sheds its beams—
Not in the fitful cannon's lurid gleams,
349
Of flashing banners;—turn we, and behold
Its rays pervading, brightening, softening all—
Here in the Temple, there in Learning's hall.
Time rushes back! the mighty works of art
Fade, like a dream, away; like clouds, depart
The “pomp, the pride, the pageants” of the day;
The busy life-sounds die in waves away,
Each minute circling wider. All alone,
(My soul unconscious of the tumult grown,)
In silence and in awe, I seem to stand
Upon the moaning ocean's storm-beat strand.
Stillness is all around me, save the sound
Of surging pine-trees, or the dull rebound
Of baffled waves upon the rocky shore,—
Perchance the distant and continuous roar
Of gathering tempests.
On the foamy wave,—
Now sinking in the gulf that seems her grave,
Now rising on the billows chill and dark,
Lo! tremblingly careens a sea-worn bark;
The breakers dash around her; on her lee
The cliffs uprear their forms; the rushing sea
Each moment threathens wreck; and sable night,
And stormy skies, and all the shapes that fright
The soul of man, are round her;—yet she rides
In safety—proudly stems the whirling tides;—
Till, moored at last within the sheltering bay,
Her weary crew behold the welcome day.
The laboring boat thro' stormy billows cleaves,
Where, on the beetling Rock, the surge upheaves;
And, springing lightly on the yielding sod,
They consecrate the soil—to Freedom and to God.
Fade, like a dream, away; like clouds, depart
The “pomp, the pride, the pageants” of the day;
The busy life-sounds die in waves away,
Each minute circling wider. All alone,
(My soul unconscious of the tumult grown,)
In silence and in awe, I seem to stand
Upon the moaning ocean's storm-beat strand.
Stillness is all around me, save the sound
Of surging pine-trees, or the dull rebound
Of baffled waves upon the rocky shore,—
Perchance the distant and continuous roar
Of gathering tempests.
On the foamy wave,—
Now sinking in the gulf that seems her grave,
Now rising on the billows chill and dark,
Lo! tremblingly careens a sea-worn bark;
The breakers dash around her; on her lee
The cliffs uprear their forms; the rushing sea
Each moment threathens wreck; and sable night,
And stormy skies, and all the shapes that fright
The soul of man, are round her;—yet she rides
In safety—proudly stems the whirling tides;—
350
Her weary crew behold the welcome day.
The laboring boat thro' stormy billows cleaves,
Where, on the beetling Rock, the surge upheaves;
And, springing lightly on the yielding sod,
They consecrate the soil—to Freedom and to God.
High hearts were there—the aged and the young;
Around the gray-haired sire the infant clung;
The lofty form of manhood, and the fair
And shrinking maiden—all were clustered there!
In lofty faith—in hopefulness and love,
They stood—that noble band—until, above
The breakers' roar and tempest's din, the song
Of Freedom's gladness burst, and rolled along
The arching skies,—while hill, and vale, and plain,
And every forest-aisle, gave back an answering strain.
Around the gray-haired sire the infant clung;
The lofty form of manhood, and the fair
And shrinking maiden—all were clustered there!
In lofty faith—in hopefulness and love,
They stood—that noble band—until, above
The breakers' roar and tempest's din, the song
Of Freedom's gladness burst, and rolled along
The arching skies,—while hill, and vale, and plain,
And every forest-aisle, gave back an answering strain.
Time speeds away! Beneath the rushing tide
Of far-advancing empire, falls the pride
Of those primeval woods that, echoing, rang,
When loud and clear th' exulting pilgrims sang;
And, with their sylvan homes, have vanished, too,
The untamed race that 'neath their shadows grew.
No more the red man treads his hunting-grounds,
No more, amid the hills, his war-whoop sounds;
Gone, like the woods, that were of him a part,
Each blow that fell'd them struck the red man's heart.
Of far-advancing empire, falls the pride
Of those primeval woods that, echoing, rang,
When loud and clear th' exulting pilgrims sang;
And, with their sylvan homes, have vanished, too,
The untamed race that 'neath their shadows grew.
No more the red man treads his hunting-grounds,
No more, amid the hills, his war-whoop sounds;
Gone, like the woods, that were of him a part,
Each blow that fell'd them struck the red man's heart.
351
Time pauses once again! the pilgrims sleep;
The hills they loved their peaceful ashes keep;
A mighty change has come across the face
Of Nature: vainly, now, we seek to trace
The towering forests; where the war-fire blazed,
The village church in simple pride is raised;
And where the waters slept in peace profound,
The noisy mill-wheel whirls its ceaseless round;
But on the breeze a muttering is heard;
With heavy sounds the quiet air is stirred;
Wild battle's tocsin breaks upon the ear;
And rolling drums, and sounds of strife and fear,
And shouts, and clashing arms, proclaim that war is here!
The hills they loved their peaceful ashes keep;
A mighty change has come across the face
Of Nature: vainly, now, we seek to trace
The towering forests; where the war-fire blazed,
The village church in simple pride is raised;
And where the waters slept in peace profound,
The noisy mill-wheel whirls its ceaseless round;
But on the breeze a muttering is heard;
With heavy sounds the quiet air is stirred;
Wild battle's tocsin breaks upon the ear;
And rolling drums, and sounds of strife and fear,
And shouts, and clashing arms, proclaim that war is here!
What deeds were done yon hill might soothly tell,
Where he, the first, the morning-martyr, fell;
What deeds were done there needs no gifted power
To bring to memory in this sacred hour;—
The pilgrims' children bend no servile knee!—
They freely tread the soil their fathers left them free.
Where he, the first, the morning-martyr, fell;
What deeds were done there needs no gifted power
To bring to memory in this sacred hour;—
The pilgrims' children bend no servile knee!—
They freely tread the soil their fathers left them free.
Old Massachusetts! dear-loved name! how oft
The rude backwoodsman's honest heart grows soft
As childhood's, when across his yearning soul
The visions of his happy boyhood roll.
Again he treads thy hills; again the sound
Of old, familiar voices breathes around
Like music in a dream; again he hears
The babbling brooklet murmur in his ears,
As if it called him back; the nodding trees,
That rock so lightly in the summer breeze,
Seem beck'ning him beneath their happy shade;—
He sees them all—hill, valley, forest, glade!
He hears each much-loved sound; the whippoorwill's
Sad, melancholy music deeper thrills;
The lark's sweet voice swells near him, and the hum
Of insects, and the many sounds that come,
So softly mingled, from the woody dell,—
The song of falling streams,—the tinkling bell
Of home-returning flocks;—he hears them all,—
Deep in his soul the much-loved accents fall;—
And when the traveller at his humble door
Appears, to claim his shelter and his store,
His heart again its happy boyhood lives,—
And, while, with kindly welcoming, he gives
The ready hand, he cries, with heart elate,
“God bless ye, stranger! how 's the Old Bay State?”
The rude backwoodsman's honest heart grows soft
As childhood's, when across his yearning soul
The visions of his happy boyhood roll.
Again he treads thy hills; again the sound
Of old, familiar voices breathes around
352
The babbling brooklet murmur in his ears,
As if it called him back; the nodding trees,
That rock so lightly in the summer breeze,
Seem beck'ning him beneath their happy shade;—
He sees them all—hill, valley, forest, glade!
He hears each much-loved sound; the whippoorwill's
Sad, melancholy music deeper thrills;
The lark's sweet voice swells near him, and the hum
Of insects, and the many sounds that come,
So softly mingled, from the woody dell,—
The song of falling streams,—the tinkling bell
Of home-returning flocks;—he hears them all,—
Deep in his soul the much-loved accents fall;—
And when the traveller at his humble door
Appears, to claim his shelter and his store,
His heart again its happy boyhood lives,—
And, while, with kindly welcoming, he gives
The ready hand, he cries, with heart elate,
“God bless ye, stranger! how 's the Old Bay State?”
The “Old Bay State!”—The ocean wanderer,
Whose callous heart naught else might haply stir,
Will fondly turn to thee, when Memory, true
To Nature, brings, like life itself, to view,
Each long-forgotten object, in the truth,
The beauty, and the freshness of its youth,—
Ere the warm breathings of his life, long past,
Were frozen to thickest haze, by sorrow's wintry blast!
Whose callous heart naught else might haply stir,
Will fondly turn to thee, when Memory, true
To Nature, brings, like life itself, to view,
Each long-forgotten object, in the truth,
The beauty, and the freshness of its youth,—
353
Were frozen to thickest haze, by sorrow's wintry blast!
He sees them—each loved form:—the old dark wood;
The rustic bowers, so beautiful, though rude;
The stream where oft he launched his tiny boat,
Upon its sparkling wave in pride to float,
And fancied that to rove the distant main
Were joy—(alas! he'll ne'er dream thus again;)
The waterfall, where oft, in childish glee,
He watched the waters leaping wild and free;
The old farm-house; the temple, where the prayers
Of simple hearts, untainted with the cares,
The strifes, and woes of life, went up,—all these,
With childhood's very eyes, his spirit sees;
And, from the cold realities of life,
His soul reviews the hours when childhood's dreams were rife!
The rustic bowers, so beautiful, though rude;
The stream where oft he launched his tiny boat,
Upon its sparkling wave in pride to float,
And fancied that to rove the distant main
Were joy—(alas! he'll ne'er dream thus again;)
The waterfall, where oft, in childish glee,
He watched the waters leaping wild and free;
The old farm-house; the temple, where the prayers
Of simple hearts, untainted with the cares,
The strifes, and woes of life, went up,—all these,
With childhood's very eyes, his spirit sees;
And, from the cold realities of life,
His soul reviews the hours when childhood's dreams were rife!
We love thee, Massachusetts! for thou art
Our mother, and of our own selves a part;
We love the stern, unbent, unbending race
Who proudly own thy hills their dwelling-place;
Rough sons of toil are they—their lips untaught
To check the passage of their honest thought;
Untaught are they to bend the stubborn brow—
'Tis to the monarch Mind alone they bow!
God is above them,—Heaven's smile is lent,
To teach their spirits Heaven's joy—content!
Their rural labors fill the quiet day,
And when the summer's sun has passed away,
The cheerful group, around their simple meal,
Thank God for all, and what they utter, feel.
The toil-knit limbs, that, sinewy and lithe,
Held the firm plough or swayed the pond'rous scythe,
Scattered the seed upon the furrowy plain,
Or bound in glowing sheaves the golden grain,—
Still, with the zeal that new exertion courts,
Enlist, unwearied, in the evening's sports;
The merry jest goes round; the ball is struck;
The quoit is hurled, or thrown the ringing duck;
Perchance his rustic flute the swain will trill,
Or voice, that shows more minstrelsy than skill;
The clarinet is pitched an octave higher—
The violin is tuned, for Sunday's choir;—
And thus glides smoothly on the summer's eve,
No gloom to cloud their brows—no care their hearts to grieve.
Our mother, and of our own selves a part;
We love the stern, unbent, unbending race
Who proudly own thy hills their dwelling-place;
Rough sons of toil are they—their lips untaught
To check the passage of their honest thought;
Untaught are they to bend the stubborn brow—
'Tis to the monarch Mind alone they bow!
354
To teach their spirits Heaven's joy—content!
Their rural labors fill the quiet day,
And when the summer's sun has passed away,
The cheerful group, around their simple meal,
Thank God for all, and what they utter, feel.
The toil-knit limbs, that, sinewy and lithe,
Held the firm plough or swayed the pond'rous scythe,
Scattered the seed upon the furrowy plain,
Or bound in glowing sheaves the golden grain,—
Still, with the zeal that new exertion courts,
Enlist, unwearied, in the evening's sports;
The merry jest goes round; the ball is struck;
The quoit is hurled, or thrown the ringing duck;
Perchance his rustic flute the swain will trill,
Or voice, that shows more minstrelsy than skill;
The clarinet is pitched an octave higher—
The violin is tuned, for Sunday's choir;—
And thus glides smoothly on the summer's eve,
No gloom to cloud their brows—no care their hearts to grieve.
Thus, too, when wintry storms across the sky
Rush swiftly, pass their hours as gaily by:
The few light labors o'er, the village-school
Receives the sturdy youth beneath its rule;
The startling task is conned, and conned again,
Till some bright thought evolves the answer plain:
Then, freed at last, the full-grown urchins form
In mimic battle 'mid the driving storm;
The well-pressed missile, hurled with practised force,
Meets many a laughing visage in its course;
And reddened cheeks and snow-clad backs proclaim
The ups and downs in this small field of fame.
Rush swiftly, pass their hours as gaily by:
The few light labors o'er, the village-school
Receives the sturdy youth beneath its rule;
The startling task is conned, and conned again,
Till some bright thought evolves the answer plain:
355
In mimic battle 'mid the driving storm;
The well-pressed missile, hurled with practised force,
Meets many a laughing visage in its course;
And reddened cheeks and snow-clad backs proclaim
The ups and downs in this small field of fame.
Now, where the cheerful fire reflects the glow
Of faces clouded by no trace of woe,—
Bound by no rules of cold and polished life,
Each heart with Nature's truthfulness is rife.
Quick as the fancy falls the blameless word,
(For by no carping critic's ear 'tis heard;)
Unknown, unrecked of, fashion's heartless mirth,
Theirs is the gladness of the homestead hearth.
The well-stuffed arm-chair, in the warmest side,
Is placed for “Grandsire” 'mid the circle wide;
The “oft-told tale” some urchin begs to hear,
And wonders why the old man drops a tear!—
Climbs on his knee, and waits, with anxious look,
To hear the story sad of “Bloody Brook;”
Trembles in childish awe at Bunker's tale,
Or at the name of Bennington grows pale;
Weeps at the sufferings of that valiant band
Who fought and famished for their native land;
And (while with breathless awe his heart is thrill'd)
Smiles through his tears, to hear—his “grandsire” was not killed!
Of faces clouded by no trace of woe,—
Bound by no rules of cold and polished life,
Each heart with Nature's truthfulness is rife.
Quick as the fancy falls the blameless word,
(For by no carping critic's ear 'tis heard;)
Unknown, unrecked of, fashion's heartless mirth,
Theirs is the gladness of the homestead hearth.
The well-stuffed arm-chair, in the warmest side,
Is placed for “Grandsire” 'mid the circle wide;
The “oft-told tale” some urchin begs to hear,
And wonders why the old man drops a tear!—
Climbs on his knee, and waits, with anxious look,
To hear the story sad of “Bloody Brook;”
Trembles in childish awe at Bunker's tale,
Or at the name of Bennington grows pale;
Weeps at the sufferings of that valiant band
Who fought and famished for their native land;
And (while with breathless awe his heart is thrill'd)
Smiles through his tears, to hear—his “grandsire” was not killed!
356
Nor these alone their fireside sweets enjoy—
The garrulous old man, the listening boy;—
There, at the table scrupulously neat,
The careful farmer pores his weekly sheet;
The mother plies her knitting cheeringly,
And prattles with the prattler at her knee;
The blushing damsel, with coquettish grace,
The plough-boy's nimble fingers strives to trace,
As o'er his slate the pattering pencil glides,—
And now subtracts with him, and now divides;
Till some dark problem (never guessed till now)
Springs, like Jove's daughter, from a well-rubbed brow.
The garrulous old man, the listening boy;—
There, at the table scrupulously neat,
The careful farmer pores his weekly sheet;
The mother plies her knitting cheeringly,
And prattles with the prattler at her knee;
The blushing damsel, with coquettish grace,
The plough-boy's nimble fingers strives to trace,
As o'er his slate the pattering pencil glides,—
And now subtracts with him, and now divides;
Till some dark problem (never guessed till now)
Springs, like Jove's daughter, from a well-rubbed brow.
Perchance some neighbor, in the game deep-lored,
Drops in, to challenge forth the checquer-board;
The varied men are ranged in order due—
A button here, or barley-corn, in lieu
Of that long-lost, or this but lately gone,
Till, all prepared, the dubious game goes on.
Drops in, to challenge forth the checquer-board;
The varied men are ranged in order due—
A button here, or barley-corn, in lieu
Of that long-lost, or this but lately gone,
Till, all prepared, the dubious game goes on.
Thus glide the hours—unless, perhaps, a guest—
Some traveler, from the wide and wondrous West,
Or storm-tossed rover on the mighty main—
Return'd to view his much-loved home again,—
A welcome seeks and finds beside the fire,
And deals his lore to every heart's desire.
The youngsters, with dilated eyes, draw near
New stories of the mystic deep to hear:
Of bloody shark—of mountain whale—perchance
Of phantom ship, or merman's merry dance;
Of ice-bergs, water-spouts, and marvels strange
Those only meet who on the ocean range;—
All these are told—with more than actor's skill—
Till even the “grandsire” vows—“it beats old Bunker Hill.”
Some traveler, from the wide and wondrous West,
Or storm-tossed rover on the mighty main—
Return'd to view his much-loved home again,—
A welcome seeks and finds beside the fire,
And deals his lore to every heart's desire.
357
New stories of the mystic deep to hear:
Of bloody shark—of mountain whale—perchance
Of phantom ship, or merman's merry dance;
Of ice-bergs, water-spouts, and marvels strange
Those only meet who on the ocean range;—
All these are told—with more than actor's skill—
Till even the “grandsire” vows—“it beats old Bunker Hill.”
These, dear-loved Massachusetts! these are thine—
The joys that cluster round fair Freedom's shrine;
The sunny joys, that light the care-worn breast—
The quiet joys that yield the heart its rest:
These are thy birth-right and thy children's dower—
Thy glory and thy strength, thy beauty and thy power!
The joys that cluster round fair Freedom's shrine;
The sunny joys, that light the care-worn breast—
The quiet joys that yield the heart its rest:
These are thy birth-right and thy children's dower—
Thy glory and thy strength, thy beauty and thy power!
Mother of Freedom! from whose glowing breast
Sprang the first nurture of the boundless West!
Still, at the thunders of thy battle-hill,
Iberia's slaves with new emotions thrill;
Still do the echoings of thy war-cry float
Where rings the trumpet of the Suliote;
Still, where the Ægean laves the sacred shore,
Thy name commingles with its ceaseless roar;
Still, where Bozzaris mocked at tyrant's thrones,
Thy Webster's voice o'erleaps the bar of zones—
That mighty voice which panoplied the weak,
When, like a clarion, rang his pleadings for the Greek!
Sprang the first nurture of the boundless West!
Still, at the thunders of thy battle-hill,
Iberia's slaves with new emotions thrill;
Still do the echoings of thy war-cry float
Where rings the trumpet of the Suliote;
Still, where the Ægean laves the sacred shore,
Thy name commingles with its ceaseless roar;
Still, where Bozzaris mocked at tyrant's thrones,
Thy Webster's voice o'erleaps the bar of zones—
358
When, like a clarion, rang his pleadings for the Greek!
Siberia knows thee—where the unconquered Pole
Lives in the freedom of his chainless soul;
Where the bleak winds, in mockery of his woe,
Permit not even the exile's tears to flow,—
Siberia's wilds have echoed to the name
Of that fair State, where Freedom's altar-flame
Blazed to the sky, the beacon-light of fame.
And, mingled with the thought of Poland's fate—
Mingled with his unquenched, undying hate
Of Russia's tyrant, and of Russia's crime,—
Swells the high hope that lights all future time:—
The hope that they who, first of all the world,
Gave to the Pole his glorious flag, unfurled,
May hail that banner, beaming from afar,
Above a rescued land—above a conquered Czar.
Lives in the freedom of his chainless soul;
Where the bleak winds, in mockery of his woe,
Permit not even the exile's tears to flow,—
Siberia's wilds have echoed to the name
Of that fair State, where Freedom's altar-flame
Blazed to the sky, the beacon-light of fame.
And, mingled with the thought of Poland's fate—
Mingled with his unquenched, undying hate
Of Russia's tyrant, and of Russia's crime,—
Swells the high hope that lights all future time:—
The hope that they who, first of all the world,
Gave to the Pole his glorious flag, unfurled,
May hail that banner, beaming from afar,
Above a rescued land—above a conquered Czar.
Avaria knows thee, and her despot-king
Plucks at the lessons from thy breast that spring:
The glorious seed that ripened in thy soil
Yields generous harvest to the stranger's toil;
The deathless knowledge-tree thou gavest root,
Even in a tyrant's land has borne immortal fruit.
Plucks at the lessons from thy breast that spring:
The glorious seed that ripened in thy soil
Yields generous harvest to the stranger's toil;
The deathless knowledge-tree thou gavest root,
Even in a tyrant's land has borne immortal fruit.
359
Old Massachusetts! fare thee ever well!
Thou hast in thy old hills a mighty spell,
To draw thy distant children; and their hearts—
Or be they mingling in the crowded marts
Of Europe's cities, or on Afric's plains
Of burning sand, or 'mid the crumbling fanes
Of pagan Asia,—still will yearn for thee—
Home of their childhood! home of Liberty!
And shall the glorious Fourth's effulgent light
Behold them on the Alpine mountain height,
Or ploughing 'mid the waves of polar seas,—
Still will their anthems mount upon the breeze;
Their hearts will hail fair Freedom, and the spot
Where Freedom's soul abides—where slaves are not;—
Where stands the battle Hill—the time-worn Hall;
Where Freedom woke to life, and burst was Slavery's thrall!
Thou hast in thy old hills a mighty spell,
To draw thy distant children; and their hearts—
Or be they mingling in the crowded marts
Of Europe's cities, or on Afric's plains
Of burning sand, or 'mid the crumbling fanes
Of pagan Asia,—still will yearn for thee—
Home of their childhood! home of Liberty!
And shall the glorious Fourth's effulgent light
Behold them on the Alpine mountain height,
Or ploughing 'mid the waves of polar seas,—
Still will their anthems mount upon the breeze;
Their hearts will hail fair Freedom, and the spot
Where Freedom's soul abides—where slaves are not;—
Where stands the battle Hill—the time-worn Hall;
Where Freedom woke to life, and burst was Slavery's thrall!
| Duganne's Poetical Works | |