The legendary consisting of original pieces, principally illustrative of American history, scenery, and manners |
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BENNETT'S BRIDGE. |
 | BENNETT'S BRIDGE. The legendary |  |
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BENNETT'S BRIDGE.
BY JOSEPH H. NICHOLS.
This is a wild and picturesque pass of the Housatonic, about
twenty miles from its mouth, near the pleasant village of Newtown,
Connecticut. The river at this spot, after emerging from a
deep gap overhung by bold bluffs, separates, for some distance, into
three distinct streams, the banks of which are connected by three
lofty bridges in succession. The view in every direction is grand
and imposing. The fourth stanza alludes to the crossing of the French
army, under Count Rochambeau, at this place, in the war of the
Revolution, and which encamped for several days in this vicinity.
The very walnut trees beneath which the soldiers and the maids of
the village danced, are now standing, green and fruitful as ever.
Thou beautiful, romantic Dell!
Thy banks of hemlock highlands swell,
Like huge sea billows, o'er the isles
Round which the branching river smiles.
Look up! how sombre and how vast
The shadows those dark mountains cast,
Making noon twilight; or, look down
The giddy depths, so steep and brown,
Where claret waters foam and play
A tinkling tune, then dance away.
Oft, with my oak leaf basket green,
On summer holidays serene,
Along your hill-sides have I strayed,
And, on the ground, all scarlet made,
Thy banks of hemlock highlands swell,
Like huge sea billows, o'er the isles
Round which the branching river smiles.
Look up! how sombre and how vast
The shadows those dark mountains cast,
Making noon twilight; or, look down
The giddy depths, so steep and brown,
Where claret waters foam and play
A tinkling tune, then dance away.
Oft, with my oak leaf basket green,
On summer holidays serene,
Along your hill-sides have I strayed,
And, on the ground, all scarlet made,
143
Picked, in full stems, as low I kneeled,
Strawberries, rubies of the field,
Coming late home; or, in the flood,
Cooled the warm current of my blood;
While swam the house-dog after me,
With long red tongue lapt out in glee.
'T is glorious, here, at breaking day,
To watch the orient clouds of gray
Blush crimson, as the yellow sun
Walks up to take his purple throne,
And melts to snowy mists the dew
That kissed, all night, each blossom's hue,
Till, like a tumbling ocean spread,
They hide low vale and tall cliff's head,
And many a tree's fantastic form
Looks like some tossed ship in a storm.
How still the scene! yet, here war's hum
Once echoed wildly from the drum,
When waved the lily flower's gay bloom
O'er glittering troops with sword and plume,
Who, on the clover meadows round,
Their white tents pitched, while music's sound,
From horn and cymbal, played some strain
That oft had charmed the banks of Seine,
And village girls came down to dance,
At evening, with the youths of France.
Fair was the hour, secluded Dell!
When last I taught my listening shell,
Sweet notes of thee. The bright moon shone,
As, on the shore, I mused alone,
And frosted rocks, and streams, and tree,
With rays that beamed, like eyes, on me.
Strawberries, rubies of the field,
Coming late home; or, in the flood,
Cooled the warm current of my blood;
While swam the house-dog after me,
With long red tongue lapt out in glee.
'T is glorious, here, at breaking day,
To watch the orient clouds of gray
Blush crimson, as the yellow sun
Walks up to take his purple throne,
And melts to snowy mists the dew
That kissed, all night, each blossom's hue,
Till, like a tumbling ocean spread,
They hide low vale and tall cliff's head,
And many a tree's fantastic form
Looks like some tossed ship in a storm.
How still the scene! yet, here war's hum
Once echoed wildly from the drum,
When waved the lily flower's gay bloom
O'er glittering troops with sword and plume,
Who, on the clover meadows round,
Their white tents pitched, while music's sound,
From horn and cymbal, played some strain
That oft had charmed the banks of Seine,
And village girls came down to dance,
At evening, with the youths of France.
Fair was the hour, secluded Dell!
When last I taught my listening shell,
Sweet notes of thee. The bright moon shone,
As, on the shore, I mused alone,
And frosted rocks, and streams, and tree,
With rays that beamed, like eyes, on me.
144
A silver robe the mountains hung,
A silver song the waters sung,
And many a pine was heard to quiver,
Along my own blue-flowing river.
A silver song the waters sung,
And many a pine was heard to quiver,
Along my own blue-flowing river.
| BENNETT'S BRIDGE. The legendary | |