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157

POEMS WRITTEN FOR SPECIAL OCCASIONS.

WELCOME TO THE RETURNED VETERANS. 1863.

Welcome home our gallant brothers,
Welcome home ye brave and true;
Rebel hordes had trod these prairies,
But for you and such as you.
But for you our peaceful dwellings
Had been cold and desolate.
But for you the scourge and gibbet,
Fire and sword had been our fate.
Through the long and weary marches;
Through the watches of the night;
Oft times pressed with cold and hunger,
You have kept your honer bright.
158

We are proud this day to meet you,
Proud the banquet board to spread;
Proud with heart and hand to greet you,
Pouring blessings on your head.
Fearless in the hour of conflict,
Bureau's sons a dauntless band,
Ever met the rebel cohorts,
Breast to breast and hand to hand.
Bureau boys at bloody Shiloh,
Pea Ridge, Gibson, Donelson,
Corinth, Vicksburg, Raymond, Jackson,
Fought the rebel foe and won.
Champion Hill and Chattanooga,
Saw them foremost in the fight,
Pouring out their blood like water
For their country, truth and right.
Let us for a moment speak of
The brave spirits gone before;
Call to mind with deepest reverence,
Those our eyes shall see no more.
Noble, brave, heroic Ferris,
Frank in nature as in name;
Page, large hearted, Seaman, Gordon;
Stalwart Swain of iron frame.
159

Gray haired Lloyd and earnest Russell,
These and hundreds true as they,
Such as Mason, Holmes and Weaver,
Bureau honors—mourns to-day.
Think ye these will be forgotton?
Never, while the human heart
Throbs and thrills with great emotions,
Can their memory depart.
What! their deeds be unremembered,
Who have died that we might live?
If so, let our memories perish;
If so, mighty God forgive.
For the distant coming ages
History's pen shall fill her roll,
Write their names in light and glory
On the nation's deathless scroll.
Who will fill these vacant places?
Standing for the noble dead,
Who will take the posts of honor?
Who avenge the blood they shed?
See! the traitor legions waver,
“Now's the day and now's the hour,”
One more charge, resistless Northmen,
Breaks the rebel tyrant's power.
160

When the last slave's gyves are broken,
When this bloody strife is o'er,
When with shouts and songs of triumph,
Victory rings from shore to shore.
When our glorious flag unchallenged,
O'er the land and o'er the sea,
Floats undimmed in starry splendor,
Flag of the Union and the free.
Then again we'll bid you welcome,
Welcome home to peace and rest,
Then the victors' fadeless chaplet,
Shall around your brows be pressed.
161

WELCOME TO THE RETURN SOLDIERS, 1865.

Hail day of Liberty and joy!
We bring no vain oblation;
This people stands erect to-day
Earth's mightiest, freest nation.
From many a stormy battle field,
Renowned in coming story,
Our soldiers bring their harvest sheaves,
Of freedom, peace and glory.
Ho! brothers from the field of strife,
Bronzed by the southern summers;
We welcome you with heart and hand,
From shoulder straps to Bummers.
No truer, braver souls than yours,
Ere heard the muskets rattle,
Or met unblanched the rebel foe
Upon the field of battle.
To you we owe these quiet homes,
So peaceful and so pleasant;
Protection in the years of war,
The grand victorious present.
162

You broke the bondman's tripple chain
That stained our country's honor,
And swept away that cause for taunts
Which despots heaped upon her,
You bore aloft our starry flag
In marches long and weary,
Through pathless morass, swollen stream,
And forests vast and dreary.
You undermined the corner stone
Of treason's dark dominion,
And laid on truth's eternal rock,
Free speech and free opinion.
The southern bloods that talked so large
And scorned the coward Yankee,
Have turned their backs in great disgust,
Saying, “Got enough, I thank ye.”
Free speech and free opinion reign
From Maine to Rio Grande;
Even negroes now may sing John Brown
And Yankee doodle dandy.
O, many hearts as brave as yours,
Upon the field of danger,
Have ceased to beat—their manly forms
Lie buried with the stranger.
163

And thus our cup of joy to-day
Is mixed with tears of sorrow,
For those whose rest no drum-beat breaks,
Whose slumber knows no morrow.
Their memory shall be kept with yours,
And down the circling ages
Shall pass on history's golden page,
With heroes, bards and sages.
Thrice welcome then, ye heroes; all
Honor to dead and living.
We serve our grateful feast to-day
With hearts of deep thanksgiving.
Union and Liberty are ours,
The fruit of your endeavor,
God help us keep the heritage
Forever and forever.
164

LINES READ AT A GOLDEN WEDDING, SEPTEMBER 21, 1863.

Just fifty summers are past,
And fifty winters of snow,
Since you, our friends, first joined your bands
In wedlock for weal or woe.
'Twas a quiet New England town,
On a quiet Autumn day,
The sunshine came like a blessing down,
And the winds were as soft as May.
From the meadows shorn and brown,
No more came the mower's din,
For the Summer fruits and the golden sheaves,
From the hillside were gathered in.
The maples were tinged with crimson hues,
The linden and ash with gold,
As silver tinges the human hair,
When we are growing old.
Then a merry company
Were gathered of old and young,
And the parson gave his blessing in prayer,
And the marriage psalm was sung.
165

And that wedding company
Went out to meet no more—
Some wandered far, and all, save one,
Have passed to the shadowy shore.
And now when fifty years
Have rolled their suns away,
A merry company are met
On the golden wedding day.
'Tis far away from the scene
In that quiet New England town,
But the sunlight falls like a blessing here,
And the same kind heaven looks down.
In those fifty years what blessings
Have crowned each passing day;
The unseen hand of the Merciful One
Has led you all the way.
And sons and daughters were born,
To gladden and cheer your home;
Your sons with manly vigor and strength;
Your daughters, with beauty and bloom.
And then as the years rolled on,
The prattling grand-children appear.
Ah, methinks that a golden wedding day
Without them, were cold and drear.
166

If yours is not wealth or power,—
These fall to the lot of few—
The better rewards of dutiful toil
And goodness belong to you.
Such lovely examples as yours,
At the plow, the shop and the wheel,
And the rearing of children to dutiful lives,
Are the stay of the common weal.
'Tis not the wealthy and proud;
'Tis not whom the world calls great,
But an earnest people who will to be free;
That build and support the State.
Thus our nation in fifty years
Has passed o'er the mountain's hoar,
And reared her swarming cities and towns
By the broad Pacific shore.
Till she grasp the mighty oceans,
That wash the shores of the globe;
And people of every clime and land,
Find shelter beneath her robe.
What a wonderful march of thought
Those fifty years have known,
How the comforts of life have multiplied,
And science and knowledge grown.
167

What engines of mighty power,
What nice invention and skill,
Dull lifeless matter have seemingly forced
To work with a human will.
And how many plans and hopes,
How many devices of men,
Have vanished like morning dreams away,
In the years, since now and then.
What myriads have sprung to life
And what myriads have passed away,
A vast procession hast'ning along,
Like a river on its way.
Ten lustrums ago the cloud
Of war hung over our shore;
But a darker cloud hangs over us now,
Than the land ever saw before.
But light is breaking through,
And the dawn of peace is at hand,
Which shall make this truly the home of the free—
A great and happy land.
For the onward sweep of war,
That bears us along like a wave,
Is breaking the bands of the master's power
And the fetters of the slave.
168

May you live to see that day;
May your aged eyes behold,
Over all this fair and goodly realm,
The flag of the free unrolled.
Then like Simeon old, you may say,
With a rapturons glow of the heart,
“Our eyes have beheld the salvation of God,
Let thy servant in peace depart.”
169

LINES READ AT A GOLDEN WEDDING, FEBRUARY 24, 1862.

'Twas fifty years ago to day,
That you, dear friends, now old and gray,
In blooming man and womanhood,
Before the marriage altar stood.
Life's vista lay before you—bright,
With joy and hope and living light,
Your path all smooth to fancy's eye,
No rugged steeps, no stormy sky.
How few who with you life began,
Have filled the allotted years of man.
And fewer still, of those who paired
Ten lustrums since, have both been spared.
Ten lustrums since—how distant then,
The goal of three score years and ten.
In retrospect how near that day,
How blank the space, how short the way.
As the new moon which first at even,
Shows a faint streak of light in heaven,
And each succeeding night displays
An added breadth of silvery rays,
170

Until the appointed seasons past,
The narrow belt is filled at last,
And a broad shield of tender light
Rises full orbed upon the sight.
Thus to your married life, was laid
Each passing year, the added braid;
Till now before the eye appears,
The fair, full orb of fifty years.
These children clustering round the hearth,
With pattering feet and hearts of mirth:
A numerous progeny, that claim
Their venerated grandsire's name.
Oh may they, when to stature grown,
Each make your virtues all their own.
Fill well the place where you have stood,
And spend their lives in doing good.
In all the ways your feet have trod,
Your stay has been the living God;
A fixed and earnest faith in Him,
Which neither joy, nor grief could dim.
A faith, that He who rules on high,
Hears the young ravens when they cry,
And notes the slender sparrow's fall,
In love and wisdom rules o'er all.
171

Within that space of fifty years,
How much of joy, how many fears,
How much of sorrow now forgot,
How much of love and peace your lot.
Beneath your eye, how vast has grown
This blessed land we call our own.
What feasts has knowledge round us spread,
Made common as our daily bread.
What comforts has invention poured,
What plenty crowns the scanty board;
And peace seemed ours through coming time,
Till war came on the path of crime.
Much of the happiness we view,
We owe dear friends to such as you,
To pure example, toilsome care,
Which youthful minds for life prepare.
Blest in your basket and your store,
Blest in the love of children more,
In calm repose, life's labors done,
Patient you wait its setting sun.
172

LINES READ AT A GOLDEN WEDDING, JUNE 6, 1872.

Near three score times the earth has run
Her annual circuit round the sun,
Since, in a distant seaport town,
A city now of great renown,
A sturdy youth and blushing maid,
Their hands on Hymen's altar laid,
Fair visions then in prospect lay
Along that blooming maiden's way,
And glorious hopes without alloy,
Lit the bright pathway of the boy.
For be it known these nuptial scenes
Took place when both were in their teens.
In those remote and simple days,
The wedding tour was not in fashion;
Nor glittering gold, nor diamonds' blaze,
To tempt to envy, pride, or passion.
But bride and bridegroom settled down,
To quiet cares and honest labors,
Whether at country farm or town,
And dwelt in peace beside their neighbors.
And reared up children, eight or ten,
173

Fair buxom girls and sturdy men,
To fill the ranks as day by day
Fathers and mothers passed away.
Time hastens on, it will not stay,
Those auburn locks are turned to gray,
And verging now upon four score,
Life's cares and duties almost o'er,
You look away to that bright sphere
Which draws each passing day more near,
Through all these eight and fifty years,
Their labors, conquests, joys and fears,
This pair, whatever might betide,
Have walked in wedlock, side by side;
Example worthy of all praise
In these degenerate, freelove days.
Ah, who can tell what homely fare,
What days of toil, what nights of care,
What hopes now buried and forgot,
Through the long years have been your lot.
Your weary journey to the west,
Climbing the mountains rugged breast;
Through miry woods, o'er dusty plains,
'Mid chilling winds and driving rains,
The slow paced oxen guiding still,
With steady persevering will,
Until you found a home and rest
Upon the prairie's flowery breast.
174

Still dear with memories of the past,
That will not fade while life shall last;
Your lonely home at yonder grove,
Where dwelt contentment's peace and love.
Peace, save when savage beasts or men
Skulked through the thickets, now and then.
Contentment, if your larder's store
Gave competence—you asked no more.
The angry flames that swept from sight
Your cabin on a winter night,
Found you, at morning cold and gray,
From friends and shelter far away.
But yet your courage faltered not,
Nor blenched before your painful lot;
For a new cabin snug and good,
Soon rose beside the ancient wood.
Calamities overcome, make dear
The spot, at which they disappear,
And they who conquer nature, feel
Within their souls, a joyous glow,
That quickens to an earnest zeal,
The weak and timid ne'er can know.
O honored friends, we came to-day,
You neighbors, our respects to pay,
To testify the reverence due
From us and ours to such as you.
True you are not of noble birth,
175

Ranked with the proud ones of the earth.
Nor do official honors crown
The name of Boyd with great renown.
Yet many a year have Princeton's poor
Found bread and clothing at your door—
Cheering the friendless girl or boy
And making widows sing for joy.
Not often those of lives most true
Who spend their days in useful toil,
Who wield the hammer, till the soil,
Receive the meed of honor due.
Yet these are they who ever stand
The firm, strong pillars of the land.
The sturdy yeoman and his mate,
Uphold and nurse and save the state.
176

LINES READ AT THE OLD SETTLERS' MEETING.—1864.

It is six and forty summers—
How swift the years go by!—
Since the pleasant lands of Bureau
First lay beneath mine eye.
It was in the early autumn,
And these broad plains of ours
Were clad in the prairie grasses,
And glowed with the autumn flowers:
The Golden Rod and the Aster,
And a countless crowd beside,
Were clothed in a brighter glory
Than kings in all their pride.
A sea of gold and purple,
The star-like blossoms stood
And danced in the morning zephyr,
That rustled the lonely wood.
177

Still memory holds that picture
Undimmed by Time's rude breath,
And I fancy I'll bear it with me
Beyond the river of death.
Oh! what are royal trappings,
Brocade and satin and lace,
To the all-surpassing beauty
Of nature's blooming face?
It is six and forty summers—
My thoughts go back o'er the years,
And a crowd of recollections
Before my mind appears.
And I think, with a pang of sorrow,
Of the loved and the good, since then,
Who have come and passed like shadows
From the homes and haunts of men.
There are graves in the edge of the forest,
There are graves in the prairie mound,
Where our dead have been tenderly buried
And sleep in the virgin ground.
There lie the fathers and mothers—
Bold pioneers—who came,
Like Cæsar, and saw and conquered,
But not with battle and flame.
178

And many who sat by our hearth-stones,
Have builded their homes afar,
Beneath the broad sun's setting,
And the gleam of the evening star,
And far away by the mountains
And streams of a distant sky,
Our brave, who have died for their country,
In the land of the stranger lie.
And still there is weary watching
In many a lonely home,
Waiting and watching for loved ones,
Who never more will come.
It seems but a transient season
Since all was new and strange,
And I gaze on the scene around me
And wonder at the change.
Though scant at first our homely fare,
A little industry and care
Soon brought abundance, and to spare,
And the whole land was filled amain,
With herds and steeds and golden grain.
Our cabins, though uncouth and rude,
Built of the forest trees unhewed,
Were homes of comfort, snug and warm,
That fenced away the driving storm;
179

Where, huddled in winter time,
Our children, now in manhood's prime:
And many a joyous, winter night
Was passed around the blazing light
Of the big fire. And tales were told
Of Indians, bears and panthers bold,
Till on each urchin's frowsy head
The bristling hair stood up with dread.
Those days will come no more again,
Their simple tastes and manners plain,
Give place to those, if more refined,
Less social, hospitable, kind.
Oh! deem ye not the rich and great,
Who dwell in fashion's pomp and state,
Have more of happiness on earth
Than the great mass of humbler birth;
To each are compensations given,
That make conditions nearly even.
Cast back your thoughts, each sire and dame,
Who with our early settlers came,
And say, if more of joy ye know,
Than six and forty years ago,
When this fair region, unsubdued,
Before us lay a solitude
And we were struggling, nature's powers
To bend to purposes of ours?
Not to obey a stern command,
180

Does man put forth a toiling hand;
He seeks the pleasure of the mind
In striving nature's force to bind,
And stores of happiness obtains,
While conquering her wild domains.
When first I saw, with wondering eyes,
This broad and blooming paradise,
The murmur of domestic life,
Its busy hum and noisy strife,
Its trading marts, its fashions gay,
Were twice two hundred miles away.
Then were these fields by plow unbroke;
No spire of church, no village smoke
Climbed the blue chambers of the air,
And told the white man's home was there.
No busy tick of household clock,
No morning call of crowing cock,
Nor low of kine, nor bleat of flock;
No neigh of steeds, where green and gay
The unfenced plains stretched far away.
Then, here and there beside the wood,
The squatter's rude, rough cabin stood;
While all around, fair nature smiled,
Untamed and beautiful and wild
No chariot whirled along the way,
No schoolboys shouting at their play,
Nor anvil's ring, or hammer's stroke
181

The silence and the quiet broke.
Then, by the streams and forests here
The Red Man chased the timid deer;
And where our village gardens bloom
The wolf and badger made their home.
Where, upon Princeton's main street stand
The busy shops on solid land,
These eyes have seen the wild swan float.
These ears have heard his trumpet note,
As in the autumn morning gray,
He grandly rose and sailed away.
The birds that haunt our woodland sprays
Have changed since those remoter days,
And softer, sweeter, are their lays;
The thrush, that each returning spring,
Now comes to build his nest and sing,
But twenty years, if yet so long,
Has filled our orchards with his song;
And the pugnacious chattering wren,
First made his home with us since then.
Look now abroad! how changed the scene,
From those wild prairies, broad and green,
Where the red flames each passing year,
Swept the thick herbage, brown and sere,
Bread for the nations, from the land
Is yielded to the tiller's hand.
Broad wheat fields wave, and stately maize
182

Rustles in autumn's golden days,
And herds in richest pastures fed,
Walk the soft earth with heavy tread;
And Norris' beef is sent afar,
By steamer, ship and railroad car,
And smokes on London's bounteous boards,
To fatten English dukes and lords;
And Bureau flour by Scotland's braes,
Makes cakes for Christmas holidays!
183

LINES READ BEFORE THE PRINCETON, (BUREAU COUNTY,) WASHINGTONIAN SOCIETY.

When first on Eden's verdant sod
The parents of our lineage trod;
When all around was strange and new,
That met the pleased and wondering view,
Say, what should crown their simple board
But garden fruits, a smiling hoard?
What beverage could the patriarch bring,
But water bubbling from the spring?
Their wants so simple and so few,
Were all to nature's dictates true;
And years sped joyously along,
Made glad with labor, health and song.
No alchymist, as yet, had found,
In his dark cave beneath the ground,
The liquid fire, that friend of strife.
Which eats the silken threads of life.
Man felt no rheums nor chronic pain,
No burning fever scorched his brain;
184

But centuries of years rolled on
Before the sands of life were gone.
But when upon the mountain side
The waters of the flood were dried,
When from the ark our sites went forth,
And spread abroad upon the earth
And planted the clinging vine
And pressed its purple fruit for wine,
How soon the years of man had run
From nine long centuries down to one;
How thick were sown along his path,
Sorrow and crime, disease and death.
Ye who look forward to the hour
When death shall smite with certain power;
When your free spirits shall arise
To the bright chambers of the skies,
What will the waiting angels bring
That hasten to your welcoming?
Think ye that wine or rum are there?
No! water limpid as the air.
Water of life and that alone,
Which gushes from the eternal throne.
The same by him of Patmos seen,
Sparkling in heaven's all glorious sheen;
That radiant, bright and blessed river,
Whose crystal wave flows on forever.
Then let us all our steps retrace,
185

Regenerate our wasted race;
Temperance shall lengthen out the span
Allotted here on earth to man.
Bring in the coming years to view,
The reverent age the patriarchs knew;
Give to the glad Millenium birth,
And make a paradise on earth.
December, 1840.
186

IN MEMORIAM.

O lay him in his place of rest,
His earnest, stormy life is o'er
Let the green sods of spring be prest
'Round the loved form we see no more.
How throbbed his warm and generous heart?
What mighty passions thrill'd his frame!
How beamed his eye with sudden start
At sound of Freedom's holy name!
To her he gave his earnest life,
And toiled through seeming hopeless years,
Long years of scorn and hate and strife,
'Till now her glorious day appears.
Strong words of truth that cannot die,
He spoke in stern and high debate;
With manly front and dauntless eye
Met the wild charge of rebel hate.
With mightier power than Aaron's rod
He tore the sophist's nets apart,
And poured the living truth of God
Fresh on the Nation's quivering heart.
187

What countless crowds throughout the land,
Hung on each glowing, burning word!
He swayed them with a prophet's wand,
As woods in morning winds are stirred.
As Moses from the mountain steep,
He saw the enfranchis'd land before;
He leaves the boon for us to keep,
His work was done—his toil is o'er.
On fields he sowed with toil and pain,
Uncounted laborers entering in,
Reap the full sheaves of ripened grain,
With harvest song and joyous din.
In these free prairies of the West
We lay his manly form away:
'Tis meet that here Earth's loving breast
Receive again the conqueror's clay.
188

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. M.

When one so sweet, so fair, is called to go,
So full of goodness, truth and joy and love.
How hard the parting, even if we know
The soul has found a better home above.
O broken hearted husband, sister, sire,
A rich inheritance is yours to claim,
Amid your yearning and intense desire—
The memory of her unspotted name.
The memory of her love, that clung so fast,
And deeper grew 'till life's last flickering ray,
Unswerving and unfaltering to the last,
And looking heavenward as she passed away.
Amid her village school, love took the helm,
No churl so rude but willing homage paid;
She ruled unquestioned in her little realm,
For love was law and all that law obeyed.
Brave for the truth, unflinching for the right,
Yet timid, gentle, modest, meek, she stood,
Her glowing bosom filled with peace and light,
And aspirations, ever pure and good.
189

O deem not she has gone—forever gone;
But ever feel her gentle presence nigh,
In the soft light of every breaking dawn,
In noon's sweet sunshine and the night wind's sigh.
190

FAREWELL HYMN,

Sung by the Graduating Class of Princeton High School, June 2, 1871.

Since first we met four years have passed.
Four years! what words their worth can tell?
And all too soon has come at last
The hour to speak the word “Farewell.”
Farewell to this delightful spot,
Where order, peace and friendship meet,
To those who smoothed our path of thought,
And tireless, watched our wayward feet.
Farewell, dear schoolmates left behind,
Climbing the steep, yet pleasant height;
To fill, with useful lore, the mind
And lift the soul to larger light.
May God's good angels shield each head;
Long, joyous years, be ours and theirs,
Truth over all her radiance shed,
And honor wait on hoary hairs.
191

INSTALLATION HYMN.

Father of light and love,
To Thee our hymn we raise:
Send down thy Sqirit now and move
Our hearts to grateful praise.
All souls are in Thy hand,
All creatures great and small,
In Thy upholding power they stand,
Thou mak'st and lovest all.
Him whom we crown to-night,
As teacher, helper, friend,
Fill Thou his soul with strength and light,
On him Thy blessing send.
Give him deep faith in Thee,
A spirit brave and meek,
A prophet's ken Thy truth to see,
Courage that truth to speak.
As seasons come and go,
May peace attend his flock,
Led where the living waters flow
From Thee, the eternal rock.
192

And here in thine own way,
All seek the truth they need;
Free to depart or free to stay,
Unchained by sect or creed.
193

ON THE DEATH OF ICHABOD CODDING.

When death, with a relentless hand,
Smites the strong pillars of the land,
To what safe refuge can we flee,
Lord of Nations, but to Thee?
As falls the stately forest oak,
So fall earth's heroes by the stroke;
The wise, the good in sad array
And silent grandeur, pass away.
This day we mourn with many tears—
Cut down amid his prime of years,—
A life long toiler in Thy cause,
For freedom, truth and righteous laws.
Kind, gentle, child-like in thy sight,
Strong, brave, unflinching for the right;
'Mid scorn and cowardice, he stood
And gave his life to deeds of good.
With faltering faith, O God! we ask,
Who shall resume the unfinished task;
Who stand Thy Champion, in the stead
Of the heroic, mighty dead?
194

Yet, know we, far beyond our ken,
Live the great deeds of noble men,
And glowing truths from prophet seers,
Light the long pathway of the years.
195

HYMN SUNG AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HIGH SCHOOL BUILDING

O'er these broad plains so rich and fair,
But late the untutored savage trod;
No trace of cultured life was seen
To crown the smooth unfurrowed sod.
Then came the restless Saxon tide,
Resistless, broad and deep and strong;
That on its bright, free, crested wave,
New life and learning bore along.
Then rose the village, Church and School,
And rural homes came thick and fast;
And stately hall and lofty dome,
Are reared for learning's use at last.
The light divine of Palestine,
The lore of Egypt, Greece and Rome,
The mighty thoughts of modern minds,
Shall cluster here and find a home.
And here shall rich and poor alike,
Be nurtured for the world's great strife,
And hence go forth, with earnest hearts,
To lead the Nation's upward life.
196

No more shall minds of native power
Be lost amid a herd of slaves,
No future Milton's lips be mute,
No Cromwells fill unhonored graves.
197

HYMN,

SUNG AT THE CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH, AT PRINCETON, AT THE LAST SERVICE HELD IN THEIR OLD HOUSE OF WORSHIP, 1845.

Almighty God! for many a year
Have we, Thy children, gathered here;
And now, within this humble house,
Have come to pay our parting vows.
Ah! Wondrous years! within the range
Of human sight, what mighty change!
And backward as we turn our eyes,
What sacred memories arise!
E'er yet these fields by plow were broke,
Or rose in air the village smoke,
Thy servants trenched the virgin sod
And reared this house to Thee, our God.
Here each succeeding Sabbath morn,
'Mid jeers of hate and taunts of scorn,
Few, weak, yet strong in truth, we came
To nurse and spread its kindling flame.
198

Here has the thoughtless soul been roused,
The sorrowing heart to peace composed;
Here has the cup of joy o'erflowed,
With blessings by Thy hand bestowed.
Here hath the fleeing bondman found
A shield from Hell's pursuing hound:
And hence have Freedom's truths gone forth
To shake and light and bless the Earth.
With saddened hearts, as duty calls,
We leave these venerated walls,
Nor deem, whate'er may be our lot,
This hallowed place can be forgot.
199

DEDICATION HYMN.

This hour, with joy and hope so bright,
A fane where human thought is free,
O Lord of liberty and light,
We come to consecrate to Thee.
Accept the labor of our hands,
Thou loving Father of our race,
And long as this fair temple stands,
O make it still Thy dwelling place.
Here may all doubting souls find rest,
The erring learn to love thy ways,
And children such as Jesus blest,
Crowd these wide courts with grateful praise.
And as the years of time pass on,
And generations rise and fall,
The pure sweet life of Mary's Son,
Find answer in the lives of all.
200

HYMN, WRITTEN FOR THE CUMMINGTON CENTENNIAL.

Father of all, whose boundless sway
Rules Earth and all the rolling spheres;
Grant us Thy gentlest smile to-day,
This day that crowns a hundred years.
From many dwellings, near and far,
From where the Atlantic billows foam,
And plains beneath the evening star,
We come, to greet our native home.
Fit place is this, O Lord most high!
Where these eternal hills ascend,
Fit hour, beneath this mountain sky,
Around Thy mercy seat to bend.
Let love and concord rule the day,
And reverence for those brave old sires
Who hewed the mighty woods away,
And kindled here their altar fires.
Here may their virtues still abide,
With kindlier, gentler mien than then,
And as the passing ages glide,
Make glad the hearts and homes of men.
201

POEM FOR DECEMBER 22D.

REWRITTEN AS READ AT FOREFATHER'S CELEBRATION, DEC. 22, 1879

Years bright and dark have sped away,
Since by New England's rocky shore
The Mayflower moored in Plymouth Bay
Amid the wintry tempest's roar.
Few, worn and weak, that Pilgrim band;
An unknown coast before them rose—
A vast, unmeasured forest land,
Begirt with ice and clad with snows.
Yet, dauntles, fearless, forth they trod
From that lone ship beside the sea,
Firm in the faith and truth of God,
To plant an Empire for the free.
Ah, who can tell what toil and strife,
What griefs beset the Pilgrim's path;
How brave he bore the ills of life
And triumphed in the hour of death?
Strange, weird and wild the scenes around,
With trackless forests dark and deep,
Where silence, solemn and profound
An endless Sabbath seemed to keep.
202

There in the evening's holy calm
And eke in morning's frosty air,
The Pilgrim trilled his sacred psalm,
And bowed his head in earnest prayer.
He looked to God for every good—
For sun and rain and fruitful field;
And guardian angels round him stood,
His sword and his protecting shield.
Each passing year at autumn's close,
For temporal mercies largely given,
His voice in deep thanksgiving rose
And praises to the Lord of heaven.
His were the errors of the time—
Intolerance and a mien severe;
His, too, a heroism sublime,
That cast out all unmanly fear.
The blood poured out on Bunker's height,
At Brooklyn, Eutaw, Yorktown plains,
In deadly charge and stubborn fight,
Came from the stern old pilgrims veins.
He laid foundations; see, a State
In power and freedom rise to view.
He little thought how strong and great:
“He builded better than he knew.”
203

The vine then planted by the sea
Has spread o'er mountain, wood and glade,
Sheltering a Nation, strong and free,
Whose children rest beneath its shade.
O'er a vast waste but late untrod—
Save by wild beasts and savage men—
Her swarming sons have spread abroad
On flowery plain and woody glen.
Homes nestle on the mountain side,
Proud cities rise by mighty streams,
And wheat and maize fields spreading wide
Bask in the suns effulgent beams.
There in fresh pastures roams the steed;
Unnumbered flocks by mountain rills;—
And sleek herds crop the grassy mead,
Or range upon a thousand hills.
From one rude hamlet by the wood
How wide, how far have spread our lines,
Till o'er the vast Pacific's flood
Our glorious star of empire shines.
Yet brighter, higher still that star,
With every passing year ascends.
Full soon its light shall shine afar
To gladden earth's remotest ends.
204

Aye, soon the realms where darkness lies
And fell oppression reigns supreme,
Shall mark its dawn upon their skies,
And hail with joy its quickening beam.
Here on life's ever-swelling tide
A restless stream, deep, broad and strong,
Learning and freedom side by side,
With faith in God are borne along.
Bless then the hand whose gentle might
Smoothed for our sires old ocean's breast.
Bless we this day whose morning light
Revealed the promised land of rest.
205

POEM READ AT THE CUMMINGTON CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, JUNE, 26th, 1879.

Dear native town, from far and near,
To-day thy children gather here
Once more, beneath thy glorious skies,
To look into each others eyes,
With thoughts and memories backward cast,
To hear the story of the past—
Those times when first our fathers trod
With fearless steps, this mountain sod—
The tribute of our love to pay,
And celebrate thy natal day.
This hour let joy be unconfined,
All hands in generous friendship joined,
And the sweet memories of the day
Be cherished as time glides away.
A century since, unbroken wood
O'er all these hills and valleys stood,
Save here and there a sunny spot,
Where the first settler's hands had made
An opening in the boundless shade,
And reared his solitary cot.
206

Soon changed the scene; soon opened wide
Green pastures on the mountain side;
Where the fierce panther, wolf and bear,
Through countless years had kept their lair,
Sleek herds of kine and flocks of sheep
Cropped the fresh herbage of the steep,
And tasseled maize and wheat and rye
Grew rank beneath the kindly sky.
Where once slow creeping glaciers passed
Resistless o'er a frozen waste.
Deep-rooted in the virgin mould,
The dower of centuries untold,
Broad orchards clothed in radiant bloom,
Filled the wide air with rich perfume.
And when the genial autumn came,
And maple boughs were red like flame,
And all the giants of the wood,
In robes of princely beauty stood,
Earth's plenteous fruits were gathered in,
With grateful hearts and joyous din.
Ah, what intrepid souls were they
Who cleared those trackless woods away!
What tireless sinews, bone and brawn,
That smote the trees from early dawn
'Till daylight's latest rays were gone!
No whining, eight-hour men were they,
Who feared the chill of early day;
207

They kept the pinch of want away
With industry and watchful care,
'Till these had brought them generous fare,
Else had those mighty forest trees
Still stood to buffet storm and breeze.
Ah, those were jolly roystering days,
When strong men piled the logs on high,
And billowy smoke and towering blaze
Shone grandly on the evening sky.
And jibes went round and merry jest,
As the swart laborers took their rest
At lunch hour, in some shady nook
Hard by a fountain or a brook;
And where within an eddying pool,
Brown Bet was laid to keep her cool,
And when, around the cabin door,
They gathered at the twilight hour,
What wondrous tales those woodmen told,
Of fights with bears and panthers bold,
All in a strain of reckless glee,
Well garnished with hyperbole;
Each one the hero of his story,
Self-crowned with daring deeds and glory.
On holidays the boys and men
Had games and sports athletic then;
Our wrestlers did not fear to meet
208

Of neighboring towns their picked athlete,
And, by superior strength and knack,
Oft laid the champion on his back.
Our youth were agile, lithe and tall,
Could catch with skill the flying ball,
And clear the circle round, as fleet
Almost, as wild deer's nimble feet.
Then, when the seventh day's setting sun
Told that the long week's toil was done,
Hushed in deep stillness was the hour,
As if some overruling power
Had sent through all the waiting land,
A stern and absolute command,
That worldly toil and noise should cease,
And man and beast find rest and peace.
And when the first day's morning rose
The solemn silence and repose
Still brooded on till daylight's close.
The law of stern opinion then
Held in firm grasp the ways of men;
It kept in check the restless boys
Who Sundays longed for play and noise,
And keenly felt the close restraint,
But dared not oft to make complaint.
A lad once, bolder than the rest,
Thus to his mate his thought confessed:
“You know Fast day; well that is one day
209

That is almost as bad as Sunday.”
For Sundays then to children here
Were days of weariness and fear.
Yet those old sires were of the stock
That landed upon Plymouth Rock;
Who deep and broad foundations laid,
And planted here the tree, whose shade
Shelters a people great and free—
That glorious tree of liberty,
Whose branches stretch from sea to sea.
Those were not days of lace and silk,
Of silver spoons and dainties rare,
But homespun clothes, brown bread and milk
In pewter dish and wooden ware;
And pork and beans for Sunday fare;
Bean porridge hot, bean porridge cold,
E'en sometimes more than nine days old,
Waited the tiller of the soil
Returning from his daily toil.
Rude were the dwellings of that day,—
Log cabins daubed with moistened clay,
The scanty roof with many a chink,
Through which the stars were seen to blink,
And whence, in winter storms, the snow
Was sifted on the floor below;
The broad, deep fire-place, rough and rude,
210

Was piled with logs of maple wood,
When the keen frosts of winter came;
Slow climbed at first the smoke wreath's blue,
Then, bursting into tongues of flame
Went roaring up the chimney flue,
And, through the long drear, winter night,
Cheered the dull hours with warmth and light.
Round their proud mothers fair to see,
Like sapplings 'neath a sheltering tree,
Stood ruddy children, nine or ten,
Soon to be maidens dames and men;
Examples worthy of all praise,
But rarely followed in these days.
And shall this race of Saxon blood,
That hardship, cold and storm withstood,
And tamed the wilderness, now melt
Away before the advancing Celt?
These fields, subdued by hands so free,
Pay tribute to the Roman See?
Kind heaven forbid that this should be.
No post a hundred years ago
Over these roadless mountains went;
Only as men passed to and fro,
The messages and news were sent.
How limited and meagre then,
All knowledge of the world of men!
211

Few books were read in those old days:
The Bible, Watt's sacred lays,
Baxter's Saint's Rest and Earnest Call,
And Bunyan's works were nearly all;
Save when young maidens found by chance
And read by stealth some old romance.
Shakspeare has said, men without books
Find them in trees and stones and brooks;
Thus in the solemn solitude
Of the o'ershadowing, ancient wood,
Our fathers drew from nature round
Lessons of virtue, truths profound,
Reasoned on theologic themes,
Of God's eternal plans and schemes,
Dared Heaven's deep purposes to scan,
And fix the destiny of man.
Undoubting faith in Holy Writ,
Strong common sense and mother wit,
Wild tales beside the winter hearth,
Keen repartee and genial mirth,
And rough broad humor, stood in stead
Of floods of books that now are read.
The parties of that early day
The tide of years has swept away;
Their sharp shrewd leaders here no more
212

Muster their followers as of yore;
And Tunker now, and Whickaneer,

The Tunkers as they were called by the early settlers, were from Plymouth county. The Whickaneers came from the county of Worcester.


To modern ears sound strange and queer;
And squat and jam

If a Tunker bruised his finger he said he had “squat” it. The Whickaneer describing a similar accident used the word “jam.” “Squat” and “jam” were for a time party watchwords, and those on both sides used to rally each other on the use of those words. In the course of a few years the families inter-married to such an extent that it became difficult to keepup party lines, and tradition says it was finally agreed to drop both words and compromise on “bruise.” Thus was brought about an “era of good feeling.”

no more are known,
As party watchwords in the town;
These were from Plymouth's barren strand,
And those from Worcester's stony land;
The native place from which he came
Gave to each man his party name.
The Snells and Packards for town honors,
Strove with Wards, Bradishes and Warners.
The Tunker said, if Whickaneer
Shall get control another year,
Calamities not soon forgot,
Will be our melancholy lot.
And the fierce Whickaneer was sure,
That there could be no other cure
For the sore ills that plagued the hour,
But to turn Tunkers out of power.
Those valiant parties that with might,
Each strove for what it claimed was right,
Have passed away, and none can tell
What various fortunes them befell.
History, now gleaning o'er the field,
Can gather but a scanty yield
Of facts, and even tradition here
213

Finds less to tell each passing year.
Then, as in parties of to-day,
Passion and prejudice held sway;
A bitter struggle then for power,
Just as it is the present hour.
Thus parties rise, and fade and fall,—
A tea-pot tempest, howe'er small,
Is an epitome of all.
Amid these scenes of senseless strife,
Our sires did not forget that life
Has higher duties far than those
A townsman to his party owes.
They planted here the public school,
For true it is that where'er flows
The Yankee blood the school house goes.
They reared their sons by strictest rule
To reverence age, to fear the Lord,
And keep the precepts of His Word.
To saintly lives their daughters bred;
To sew, to cook and spin the thread,
And taught all duties that pertain
To household thrift and honest gain,
At length, when prosperous times had come
Came the sad years, when gin and rum,
And brandy crowned the festal board,
And cellars were with cider stored,
On public days was heard the clink
214

Of glasses where men mixed the drink;
Mugs and half mugs were quickly swallowed,
And other mugs and half mugs followed,
And soon the jostling, glib-tongued crowd
Grew garrulous, profane and loud.
For sober eyes how sad a sight!
Ere daylight faded into night,
When kind good men, except for rum,
At day's decline went reeling home.
Then Deacons took their morning nip,
The Justice thought no harm to tip,
And preachers, at associations,
Besmirched “the cloth” with deep potations.
Even children sipped the enticing cup.
Youth drank the sweetened poison up;
And lives, begun with rum and gin,
Oft closed in misery and sin.
The dreadful evil grew apace,
And threatened ruin to the race;
At last there came upon the stage
Men to reform the tainted age;
Brave and true men, who gave the alarm,
And broke the tempter's fatal charm;
Stayed with strong hand rum's withering flame,
And drove the Fiend to dens of shame;
Till now the light of brighter skies
On purer, happier dwellings lies.
215

On yonder bare and rocky steep,
Where the wild winds of Winter sweep,
Unchecked by sheltering wood or hill,
The church was built, and gathered there
All people of the town for prayer,
With reverent hearts and cheerful will.
There from its old wind-shaken tower,
“The bell rang out with gladsome power;”
Its echoes, on the morning gale,
Floated far over hill and dale,
And told to every rural home,
The day and hour of prayer had come.
There Parson Briggs, the kind and good,
Long fed his flock with spiritual food,
Stern was his creed and orthordox,
As that of Calvin or John Knox;
Yet he, in thought and word and deed,
Was vastly better than his creed.
He kept all heresies at bay
'Till fifty years had passed away:
When ripe in age, his hoary head
Was gently laid among the dead.
He lived a pure and peaceful life,
Plain, frugal, hating wrong and strife;
A man of meek and reverent air,
Beloved and honored everywhere.
Those who stood round him in that day,—
216

Fathers and mothers,—where are they?
Gone with time's refluent waves, that sweep
Earth's children to a common sleep.
Their graves are with you; if forgot
By men, by nature they are not.
To them each passing year shall bring
The verdure and bloom of spring;
And o'er them shall the wild birds sing;
The wintry winds with solemn roar,
O'er their low beds a requiem pour;
And Heaven's kind eye shall guard them still
Where'er they sleep on plain or hill.
O may we all with careful heed,
Copy in life each noble deed
Of those brave men and virtuous dames
Who lived and died with honored names,
And left a heritage so fair
For those who follow them to share.
Cast back your thoughts a hundred years:
How vast, how wide the change appears;
How much has knowledge gained since then,
To cheer and charm the homes of men;
What mighty strides has science made,
How wide has commerce winged our trade,
Compelled remotest seas and lands
To yield their tribute to our hands,
And laid their treasures at our feet,
217

In costly wares and dainties sweet.
If all the comforts of to-day
At one fell blow were swept away,
Save those our early settlers knew,
How blank this world would seem to you!
Should we not feel that human life
Was hardly worth the toil and strife?
Dear native town! ah, how can we
Forget to love and cherish thee!
The rural home, where first we met
A mother's smile, can we forget?
Where we first toddled o'er the floor,
Where first we played beside the door;
Where first, with rapturous steps, we trod
In springtime o'er the flowery sod;
Where first we wandered through the wood,
Beneath the vast dim arches stood,
And felt the inspiring solitude;
And whence went forth our youthful feet
The rougher scenes of life to meet.
These slopes where earliest comes the dawn,
These vales among the hills withdrawn,
Those grand old summits where the eye
Takes in the embracing earth and sky,
These rural dwellings, virtue's seat,
Where love and peace and friendship meet.
218

By these, by every stream and hill,
Our fondest mem'ries linger still.
Long may the scenes we now behold
Be cherished here by young and old;
And noble sons and daughters fair,
The waste of every age repair;
That when another century's dawn
Shall break upon Old Cummington,
Due honors may be paid to those
Who celebrate the last one's close.
219

LINES WRITTEN FOR DECORATION DAY, MAY 30TH, 1879.

Calm sleep our brave through all the land,—
The brave, who for their country died,—
By mountain-steep and river strand,
And by the restless ocean's side
Calm sleep our brave. To-day we come,
Not with the cannon's fearful roar,
Not with the martial roll of drum,
To call to battle fields once more;
But 'neath this soft, blue sky of May,—
In these serene and peaceful hours,
We come upon these graves to lay
Fresh garlands twined with vernal flowers.
Not that the form that sleeps in death,
Heeds the light footstep pressing near,
But that this tide of living breath,
May thrill with holier impulse here.
220

O, ye dead heroes! let us not
Neglect at each returning spring,
To meet upon this sacred spot
And here our grateful offerings bring.
Nor here alone, but far and near,
Where'er our soldiers sleep in clay,
May pilgrims come each passing year,
And there the meed of honor pay.
O never let their memory die!
Who saved to freedom, power and fame,
This land, when darkness veiled our sky
And o'er us rolled war's wasting flame.
Nor let these tender rites be lost;
By them shall coming times be taught,
Through what deep pain, what countless cost,
The Nation's power to live was bought.
Warned by the awful bloody past,
Eschewing bitterness and strife,
May our dear country stand at last,
Renewed in all its inner life.
Then through a long and prosperous reign,
Shall God's good angels round us stand,
And peace and friendship with their train,
Bless a united, happy land.
221

AT THE TOMB OF LINCOLN.

Of all earth's great and good, the peer
Was he whose form lies mouldering here;
His love of mercy, truth and right,
Clothed him with a celestial light.
The people loved him: to no one,
Not even to matchless Washington,
Their warm and earnest love outwent,
With such a strong and deep intent.
For he was of them: from the door
Of the low cabin of the poor,
He climed to greatness, yet did not
Forget nor scorn the humbler lot.
And when his life blood came to flow,
Shed by the coward murderer's blow,
A pang of anguish, like a dart,
Went through the land from heart to heart.
222

This pile, that now so grandly stands,
Was reared by countless loving hands,
From age to age to carry down
The burden of a great renown.
Yet when this tomb has fallen to dust,
Its bronze dissolved by frost and rust,
Thy name, O, Lincoln, still shall be
Revered and loved from sea to sea.
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