 | My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays |  |
LINES
TO THE MANSION OF MY ANCESTORS,
This Mansion, as enlarged and embellished by its honoured proprietor, the late Charles Apthorp, Esq. was then, that is, about the middle of the Eighteenth Century, said to be the scene of every elegance, and the abode of every virtue. Now, its beautiful hall of entrance, arches, sculpture, and base-relief; the grand stair-case, and its highly finished saloon, have been removed, or partitioned off, to accommodate the bank and its dependencies.
ON SEEING IT OCCUPIED AS A BANKING ESTABLISHMENT.
This Mansion, as enlarged and embellished by its honoured proprietor, the late Charles Apthorp, Esq. was then, that is, about the middle of the Eighteenth Century, said to be the scene of every elegance, and the abode of every virtue. Now, its beautiful hall of entrance, arches, sculpture, and base-relief; the grand stair-case, and its highly finished saloon, have been removed, or partitioned off, to accommodate the bank and its dependencies.
Thee have the spoiler's hands defaced.
Mansion of yore! thy stately dome,
Seem'd of a polish'd world the home.
The NOBLE
Lord Amherst, and Sir Peter Warren, commanders of the then army and navy, were not only received at the generous ball and banquet, but also to the continued hospitality of the Mansion, during their temporary residence in Boston; the honoured proprietor being pay-master to, and contractor for the royal army and navy.
And at the generous banquet fed;
While the Crusader's shield was seen,
To tell of deeds that once had been.
Proclaims the reign of soul is o'er!
The feast, the dance, the song of glee,
No longer of thy NAME nor thee.
Apthorp! most dear, most honoured name,
A parent's boast, his children's claim,
Thy halls to taste and talents known,
Where all the brilliant bounties shone:
Thy sons approved in arts or arms,
Thy daughters of transcendant charms
Are gone—and Plutus builds a throne,
Enriched by fortune's gifts alone.
Even where the curtaining velvet rose,
Round the calm midnight of repose;
Where my proud father's
In this Mansion, the father of the author, with seventeen other children, were born; sixteen of them at the particular request of the noble guests, were permitted to pass through the well peopled and well furnished apartments. Those children, all, and without exception, healthy and handsome, have perished, and for the most part, before the meridian of their days.
First saw the beauteous morning rise,
Proud, with a Cambrian's boast to claim
The warrior's and the artist's fame;
Proud, in his matchless form to trace
But prouder in his gifted mind,
The genius of that race to find.
Not one of their numerous descendants remains, who was in existence before the death of the venerated parent, and to tradition alone are we indebted for this memorial of true excellence and generous hospitality.
The beautiful mother, also of Welsh origin, was grand-daughter to Sir James Lloyd, a name which even to the present day, has preserved its pristine honours, unsullied, and undiminished.
Finally, the author presumes to hope that her Lines to the Mansion, will not be attributed to pride, or any self-sufficiency whatever, but rather to feelings of true filial piety, and grateful commemoration.
Are gone—and wealth is worshipped there
The children's children live to see
Nor memory of thy name nor thee,
No mansion by the grandsire trod,
Nor hill, nor vale, nor grassy sod,
Stay with the race—their only claim
The riches of his treasured name:
Not one of all survives to tell
How fond his glance of blessing fell:
Fame only lives in cold decay;
For time has borne the bloom away.
| My Mind and its Thoughts, in Sketches, Fragments, and Essays | |