 | Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life |  |
119
POEM
DELIVERED AT THE RETURN OF THE “OLD INDIAN DOOR,” AND FAIR AND FESTIVAL AT DEERFIELD, MASS., FEB. 29, 1868.
When one has passed upon a weary way,
And toil and dangers have consumed the day;
When restless care and all his stock of skill
Barely averted the impending ill;—
How welcome, thrice, to him his fireside bright,
That glows before him with its ruddy light!
Gone, then, the perils of the weary way;
Gone, then, the torturing troubles of the day;
Refreshed and happy in his easy chair,
He rests at ease, and cries “Avaunt!” to care.
And toil and dangers have consumed the day;
When restless care and all his stock of skill
Barely averted the impending ill;—
How welcome, thrice, to him his fireside bright,
That glows before him with its ruddy light!
Gone, then, the perils of the weary way;
Gone, then, the torturing troubles of the day;
Refreshed and happy in his easy chair,
He rests at ease, and cries “Avaunt!” to care.
So, when a hardy and adventurous band
Break up the fallow of a savage land,
And wage with Circumstance a fearful strife,—
One hand for daily bread, and one for life;
One eye to guide the plough, and one to spy
The lurking foeman, and the danger nigh;—
When, through the perils of successive years,
By sleepless watch, by prayers, by blood, and tears,
Success awards them with a civic crown,
They are become a People, and a Town,—
Then, as the peaceful years roll smoothly on,
The dangers vanished, and the foeman gone,
And smiling fields in place of savage land,—
How can the children of that hardy band
Exult in peaceful, plenteous homes, at last,
And shut the door upon the trials past?
Door, did I say? Ah! that's the very thing
I came, to-night, to Deerfield street to sing;
And, whate'er some may say, I say not wrong,
'Tis no mean theme for sermon or for song.
For instance: “Door of Mercy,”—“Door of Hope”;
And yet, this kind is scarce within my scope.
I yield the showing of these blessed doors
To Dr. Crawford, and to Brother Moors,
Hoping you'll enter in their thresholds o'er,—
And point my numbers to the “Indian Door.”
Break up the fallow of a savage land,
And wage with Circumstance a fearful strife,—
One hand for daily bread, and one for life;
One eye to guide the plough, and one to spy
The lurking foeman, and the danger nigh;—
When, through the perils of successive years,
By sleepless watch, by prayers, by blood, and tears,
Success awards them with a civic crown,
They are become a People, and a Town,—
Then, as the peaceful years roll smoothly on,
The dangers vanished, and the foeman gone,
And smiling fields in place of savage land,—
How can the children of that hardy band
Exult in peaceful, plenteous homes, at last,
And shut the door upon the trials past?
Door, did I say? Ah! that's the very thing
I came, to-night, to Deerfield street to sing;
120
'Tis no mean theme for sermon or for song.
For instance: “Door of Mercy,”—“Door of Hope”;
And yet, this kind is scarce within my scope.
I yield the showing of these blessed doors
To Dr. Crawford, and to Brother Moors,
Hoping you'll enter in their thresholds o'er,—
And point my numbers to the “Indian Door.”
Door of Old Memories! thy battered face
We welcome home again, its fittest place.
There are who're said to “go away from home”
(Meaning from welfare)—wherefore didst thou roam?
We welcome home again, its fittest place.
There are who're said to “go away from home”
(Meaning from welfare)—wherefore didst thou roam?
Here, where you stood in those dark days of yore,
And did brave duty as a Bolted Door;
Where you withstood the Indians' fiendish rage
Who on your tablet scored a bloody page;
Where you survived the havoc and the flame,
And float Time's tide, to-day, a Door of Fame;—
Here, where for long decades of years gone down
You've served attractor to this grand old town,
Made for yourself and physics one name more,—
For thou hast been, shalt be, Attraction's Door.
Here, where years since, a wonder-loving boy,
I first beheld thee with a solemn joy,
Gazed on thy silent face, but speaking scars,
And dreamed of “auld lang syne” and Indian wars,
Door of the Past thou wast, indeed, to me,
And Door of Deerfield thou shalt ever be!
And did brave duty as a Bolted Door;
Where you withstood the Indians' fiendish rage
Who on your tablet scored a bloody page;
Where you survived the havoc and the flame,
And float Time's tide, to-day, a Door of Fame;—
Here, where for long decades of years gone down
You've served attractor to this grand old town,
Made for yourself and physics one name more,—
For thou hast been, shalt be, Attraction's Door.
Here, where years since, a wonder-loving boy,
I first beheld thee with a solemn joy,
Gazed on thy silent face, but speaking scars,
And dreamed of “auld lang syne” and Indian wars,
Door of the Past thou wast, indeed, to me,
And Door of Deerfield thou shalt ever be!
121
Here, grim old relic! thou shalt aye repose,
By keepers guarded, unassailed by foes;
Stronger in age than most doors in their prime,
The Indian's hatchet and the scythe of Time
Thou hast defied; and tho' no more for harm
'Gainst thee the painted warrior nerves his arm,
Shalt still defy the blade of Time so keen,
Till he his scythe shall change for the machine.
By keepers guarded, unassailed by foes;
Stronger in age than most doors in their prime,
The Indian's hatchet and the scythe of Time
Thou hast defied; and tho' no more for harm
'Gainst thee the painted warrior nerves his arm,
Shalt still defy the blade of Time so keen,
Till he his scythe shall change for the machine.
Bless thee, old relic!—old, and brave, and scarred!
And bless Old Deerfield! says her grandson Bard.
Towns may traditions have, by Error spun,
She has the Door of History,—here's the one!
And bless Old Deerfield! says her grandson Bard.
Towns may traditions have, by Error spun,
She has the Door of History,—here's the one!
| Poetry of the Farm and Rural Life | |