 | Poems by John Howard Bryant |  |
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.
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.
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;
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.
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
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
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
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
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,
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.
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
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
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
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!
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.
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
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.
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
Muster their followers as of yore;
And Tunker now, and Whickaneer,
To modern ears sound strange and queer;
And squat and jam
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
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
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.
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,—
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,
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?
The tide of years has swept away;
Their sharp shrewd leaders here no more
212
And Tunker now, and Whickaneer,
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.”
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
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
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
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
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
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.
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.
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
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.
| Poems by John Howard Bryant | |