Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life Connecticut River reeds blown by the "Peasant Bard" |
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ADDRESS TO CONNECTICUT RIVER. |
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 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
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ADDRESS TO CONNECTICUT RIVER.
When first the Indian, on his wild survey,
Broke from the covert of his forest way,
And on thy shore a breathing statue stood
To gaze upon thy silver-gleaming flood;
If ever Indian struck poetic fire,
Or faintest warble from Apollo's lyre,
If ever red-man breathed a grateful prayer
To the Great Spirit, it was then and there!
Broke from the covert of his forest way,
And on thy shore a breathing statue stood
To gaze upon thy silver-gleaming flood;
If ever Indian struck poetic fire,
Or faintest warble from Apollo's lyre,
If ever red-man breathed a grateful prayer
To the Great Spirit, it was then and there!
On our cold border of Canadian hills,
Midst lonely lakelets and unnoted rills,
Thou hast thy birth, sweet River of the Vale,
Of fountains purest, and that never fail.
My fancy paints thee on thy march begun,
The infant river's first essay to run:
A sturdy brooklet, gathering the springs,
And giving “promise of much greater things.”
So some bright genius, from a lonely birth,
Goes with his God-gifts to rejoice the earth.
Midst lonely lakelets and unnoted rills,
Thou hast thy birth, sweet River of the Vale,
Of fountains purest, and that never fail.
My fancy paints thee on thy march begun,
The infant river's first essay to run:
A sturdy brooklet, gathering the springs,
And giving “promise of much greater things.”
So some bright genius, from a lonely birth,
Goes with his God-gifts to rejoice the earth.
On glides the stream, and with increasing length,
Receives in trust its volume and its strength:
Here, by wild mountain shagg'd with piney hair,
A brook comes tumbling down its rocky stair,
Leaps to thy bosom with a shout of joy,
Like some delighted, journey-promised boy;
There, more like maiden, sweet, composed, and still,
Steals from the plain the tributary rill.
Anon, fresh from its native mountains roll'd,
Wild Ammonoosuc, with its waters cold,
Adds to thy wealth; and farther still along,
Sweet Ashuelot hails thee with a song.
Pocomptuc, hermit of the western hills,
Gives to thy flood his own collected rills;
Fretted with toil, and seeking rest in thee,
Sinks to thy breast the laboring Chicopee;
And Westfield, murmuring for its Indian name,
Still bright and sparkling as at first it came
From Berkshire's caverned hills and rifts of snow,
Adds to thy pureness, as it swells thy flow.
Receives in trust its volume and its strength:
Here, by wild mountain shagg'd with piney hair,
A brook comes tumbling down its rocky stair,
Leaps to thy bosom with a shout of joy,
Like some delighted, journey-promised boy;
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Steals from the plain the tributary rill.
Anon, fresh from its native mountains roll'd,
Wild Ammonoosuc, with its waters cold,
Adds to thy wealth; and farther still along,
Sweet Ashuelot hails thee with a song.
Pocomptuc, hermit of the western hills,
Gives to thy flood his own collected rills;
Fretted with toil, and seeking rest in thee,
Sinks to thy breast the laboring Chicopee;
And Westfield, murmuring for its Indian name,
Still bright and sparkling as at first it came
From Berkshire's caverned hills and rifts of snow,
Adds to thy pureness, as it swells thy flow.
Oh, life-blood of the valley, and of me!
Thus pulsing on, thy current seeks the sea;
And when thy shores give place to Ocean's tide
That opes before thee, rolling far and wide,
Like one whose life in blessing has been passed,
Thou glidest calmly to thy rest at last.
Thus pulsing on, thy current seeks the sea;
And when thy shores give place to Ocean's tide
That opes before thee, rolling far and wide,
Like one whose life in blessing has been passed,
Thou glidest calmly to thy rest at last.
So rich and varied, with enchantment rare,
Along thy banks thy bordering beauties are;
Should painter copy faithfully and true
The scenic glories that belong to you,
Scarce nature copied would his picture seem,
But some bright, beautiful, ideal dream.
Variety is thine; as if to move
The multifarious taste of man to love:
Here, by green shores thy waters seem to sleep;
There, flashing, dashing, in a torrent leap,
Flecking with foam the trembling, cliffy shore,
And sending far abroad their muffled roar.
Oft, waked at midnight, I have mused to hear,
Borne by the night breeze to my “hearing ear,”
The solemn anthem of thy thundering tide,
Where Turner battled, and the Indian died.
Now lulled the breeze—a whisper hoarse of grief;
Now swelling rose the death-song of the chief;
And Justice, prompting with his rigid power,
Scann'd History's record at the thoughtful hour.
Ah, yet more just shall that stern record be
To those who died for love of home and thee!
Along thy banks thy bordering beauties are;
Should painter copy faithfully and true
The scenic glories that belong to you,
Scarce nature copied would his picture seem,
But some bright, beautiful, ideal dream.
Variety is thine; as if to move
The multifarious taste of man to love:
Here, by green shores thy waters seem to sleep;
There, flashing, dashing, in a torrent leap,
Flecking with foam the trembling, cliffy shore,
And sending far abroad their muffled roar.
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Borne by the night breeze to my “hearing ear,”
The solemn anthem of thy thundering tide,
Where Turner battled, and the Indian died.
Now lulled the breeze—a whisper hoarse of grief;
Now swelling rose the death-song of the chief;
And Justice, prompting with his rigid power,
Scann'd History's record at the thoughtful hour.
Ah, yet more just shall that stern record be
To those who died for love of home and thee!
Thou dost exert an influence in thy flow
Strong as thy current, and as silent too.
Thy shores that bless with beauty every eye,
Thy placid waters stealing calmly by,
Thy elms so full of dignity serene,
Thy mountains sleeping o'er a quiet scene,
Incite to peaceful thoughts, and ope the road
That leads “through Nature up to Nature's God.”
Strong as thy current, and as silent too.
Thy shores that bless with beauty every eye,
Thy placid waters stealing calmly by,
Thy elms so full of dignity serene,
Thy mountains sleeping o'er a quiet scene,
Incite to peaceful thoughts, and ope the road
That leads “through Nature up to Nature's God.”
And many hardy wanderers of the deep,
Who plough its billows or beneath them sleep,
First dreamed of ocean in life's morn, when they
Toiled on thy banks, or strayed in childish play:
Thy mimic surges, whispering on the shore,
Awakened love for ocean's solemn roar;
Thy seaward journey, and expanse so wide,
Waked curious longings for the shoreless tide.
Then Fancy pictured, with her colors gay,
Their hopeful future, bright, and far away:
A life of daring on the ocean-wave,
The fadeless laurels of the seaman brave,
Such as Macdonough and Decatur wore,
The flag of Freedom and the battle's roar;
The piping winds, the music of the deep,
All vaguely blended as in dreams of sleep,
Wrought those high colors on their youthful brain
Which Time will fade, but not retouch again.
Who plough its billows or beneath them sleep,
First dreamed of ocean in life's morn, when they
Toiled on thy banks, or strayed in childish play:
Thy mimic surges, whispering on the shore,
Awakened love for ocean's solemn roar;
Thy seaward journey, and expanse so wide,
Waked curious longings for the shoreless tide.
Then Fancy pictured, with her colors gay,
Their hopeful future, bright, and far away:
A life of daring on the ocean-wave,
The fadeless laurels of the seaman brave,
Such as Macdonough and Decatur wore,
The flag of Freedom and the battle's roar;
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All vaguely blended as in dreams of sleep,
Wrought those high colors on their youthful brain
Which Time will fade, but not retouch again.
How oft a Ledyard can from distant lands
Look back to thy bright flood and silver sands
As first incentives to that spirit high
Which stirs the trav'ler, and directs his eye
O'er earth in search of paradise to roam,
To find, at last, 'twas left with thee at home
Look back to thy bright flood and silver sands
As first incentives to that spirit high
Which stirs the trav'ler, and directs his eye
O'er earth in search of paradise to roam,
To find, at last, 'twas left with thee at home
And much I owe thee; more than I can sing:
Ere half-fledged Fancy tried her fluttering wing,
When floating thoughts, of Truth and Fiction born,
Hung, like thy misty cloud on April morn,
O'er and around me—vapors of the brain,
Now like to something, now convolved again—
Thy charming influence shaped the forming strain;
It rose incited by thy Naiad throng;
God gave the elements—thou gav'st the song!
And kneeling, now, beside thy crystal brink,
Thou'rt the Piërian from which I drink.
Ere half-fledged Fancy tried her fluttering wing,
When floating thoughts, of Truth and Fiction born,
Hung, like thy misty cloud on April morn,
O'er and around me—vapors of the brain,
Now like to something, now convolved again—
Thy charming influence shaped the forming strain;
It rose incited by thy Naiad throng;
God gave the elements—thou gav'st the song!
And kneeling, now, beside thy crystal brink,
Thou'rt the Piërian from which I drink.
Oh, sweetest stream that poet ever sung!
Here to thy waters is my offering flung.
Would that its worth were such, a bard might know
Thou wouldst upbear it whilst those waters flow!
And when in years that swift are stealing on,
I to the shadowy spirit-realms have gone,
Some bard more skilful and with sweeter lyre
May thee emblazon with Apollo's fire:
Smoother than mine his strains for thee may move,
But more devoted cannot be his love.
Here to thy waters is my offering flung.
Would that its worth were such, a bard might know
Thou wouldst upbear it whilst those waters flow!
And when in years that swift are stealing on,
I to the shadowy spirit-realms have gone,
Some bard more skilful and with sweeter lyre
May thee emblazon with Apollo's fire:
Smoother than mine his strains for thee may move,
But more devoted cannot be his love.
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