Lydia H. Sigourney. Scenes in My Native Land. Boston: James Munroe & Co., 1844.
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p. 273 | EVENING DEVOTIONS IN A PRISON. |
EVENING DEVOTIONS IN A PRISON.
The silent curtains of the night
Our mournful cell surround,
God's dwelling is in perfect light,
His mercy hath no bound.
His blessed sun, with cheering smile,
Dispenses good to all,
Even on the sinful and the vile
His daily bounties fall.
The way of wickedness is hard,
Its bitter fruits we know,
Shame in this world is its reward,
And in the future, woe.
Yet Thou, who see'st us while we pay
Our penalty of pain,
Cast not our souls condemned away,
Nor let our prayer be vain.
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p. 274 | EVENING DEVOTIONS IN A PRISON. |
Deep root, within a soil subdued,
Let true repentance take,
And be its fruits a life renewed,
For the Redeemer's sake.
Uplift our spirits from the ground,
Give to our darkness, light;
Oh, Thou! whose mercies have no bound,
Preserve us safe this night.
------
All researches into the history of earlier ages, result in giving prominence to prisons as among the strongest engines of tyranny. Despotic princes found them convenient retreats for the conquered foe, the noble, whose estates they wished to confiscate, or the rival, whose eye was upon their throne. The legends of baronial dungeons sleep in the darkness of feudal times. In every age the oppressor hath, at his will, "held the body bound"; and none may compute the number of souls, whose only liberator was death. Though the progress of civilization and refinement mitigated the savage features of these penal institutions, yet it was long ere humanity dreamed of making their discipline salutary. Disregard to the moral health of those who, as a gangrene, had been divided from society, still prevailed; and promiscuous association rendered the novice in guilt, as hardened as the hoary offender.
For the praise of modern times, and for the mild
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p. 275 | HOPE OF REFORMATION. |
nature of our own government, has been reserved that benevolence, which, in sequestrating the criminal, keeps before his eyes the bright iamge of returning virtue, and baptizes his place of punishment with the hope of heaven. If to appease the anger of an offended community, Justice must purge, as it were, with fire, the soul that hath sinned, Mercy forgets not to sit by as a refiner, pronouncing when the dross is fully separated, and, in the sacred words of inspiration, "counting the Law as a schoolmaster, that bringeth unto Christ." How would Howard have rejoiced had such a prospect dawned upon him, while hazarding his life, to "dive into the depth of dungeons, to plunge amid the infection of hospitals, to survey the mansions of sorrow and pain, to take the gage [sic] of misery, depression, and contempt, to remember the forgotten, to attend to the neglected, to visit the forsaken, to compare and collate the distresses of all men in all countries."
The pens of some of our distinguished writers have enforced the feasibility of making prisons adjuncts in the reformation of vice, and in several of our Sates buildings have been erected on this principle, and theories in some measure reduced to practice. Among these institutions, that at Wethersfield, Connecticut, stand conspicuous, in the opinion of foreigners as well as of natives, for the adaptation of its structure, the wisdom of its policy, and the results of its discipline.
It was at the close of a long, cloudless summer's
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p. 276 | DEGRADING EFFECTS OF VICE. |
day, when I first attended, with a small party of strangers and friends, its hour of evening prayer. The richness of the surrounding landscape, the beauty of the prospect from its lofty, mural promenade, the broad, quiet river, the distant, gliding sail, the waving foliage, the hallowed spire, embosomed amid graceful elms,--all seemed to soothe the mind into calm delight, rather than prepare it for painful contemplation. But the harsh sound of locks and bolts convinced us that guilt was near,--that guilt which defaces both the fair creation and the immortal soul.
A bell struck, and the convicts came from their respective work-shops, and arranged themselves in lines in the spacious and strongly enclosed area. There they underwent a strict examination from the guard, who ascertained that none had secreted about his person any weapon of destruction or offence. It was humiliating to see powerful and athletic men holding out their arms for this search with the subdued look of a helpless child. Methought, salutary lessons might here be gathered for the young and tempted, and they be taught to wage a firmer warfare with Vice, after thus witnessing its degradation and misery.
Then each prisoner placed his hands upon the shoulders of the one who preceded him, and all marched rapidly, with the lock-step, towards the chapel. There, seated side by side, were seen the man of full strength, the boy of fourteen summers, and him of hoary hairs, who, sentenced for life, sur-
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p. 277 | ABSENCE OF NOBLE LINEAMENTS. |
veyed, motionless and passionless, objects to which his dim eye and seared heart had been long inured. I bent a scrutinizing glance upon the mass of heads and faces in this prison-home, to discover if possible some indication of talent or nobleness, for we know that the whirlwind of passion hath but too often driven into crime those whom nature and education had fitted for a higher destiny. But there was an absence of those lineaments which reveal the higher developments of intellect, or the promptings of a heavenward soul. Sin had been there with its levelling process, effacing mental elevation and spiritual beauty.
Every brow was raised to the Chaplain, as he simplified a portion of that Book, which is a "light to those who sit in darkness," and lifted up his prayer to Him who "blotteth out transgression." In that prolonged gaze, was there not some shadow of hope, that "where sin had abounded, grace might much more abound"? How impressive was the supplicating voice of that man of God, standing, as it were, like the prophet, with his censer, "between the living and the dead," that the plague might be stayed.
At the close of the devotional exercises, the prisoners passed out in order, to their several ranges of dormitories, each taking in his hand, at the proper depository, a wooden vessel, containing his coarse, but nutritious evening repast. These movements were made with such regularity and celerity, that one moment they might be seen each standing at the door of
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p. 278 | INSTANCE OF A CONVICT. |
his solitary cell, the next all had vanished, and the sharp spring of more than a hundred locks was their vesper-tone, their sad "good-night."
Among the trains of thought that these scenes excited, was the consciousness, that each of these fallen beings had once a mother, to whom his infancy was inexpressibly dear. When she pressed his velvet lip to hers, or lulled him to rest upon her bosom, surely, her visions of delight had no imagery like this. Yet, could we read the secret soul of the erring tenants of this abode, might we not discover some maternal precept still maintaining a place in their memory? Perhaps striving to neutralize the black and bitter elements of evil?
Among the inmates of this institution, is one who has plunged into many varieties of sin, and been a wanderer over the face of the earth. Retribution met him in appalling forms, disgrace and suffering became his portion, but he passed through all with a hardened mind. Nothing, he affirms, in his whole life, has ever made him feel serious, but the last words of his mother. When a boy of twelve years old, he was summoned to her bed, to receive her dying counsel. In feeble and tender tones, she told him that she was about to leave him, and earnestly enjoined him to seek the Saviour, to take care of his soul, and to meet her in heaven. She continued clasping his hand, until her own was cold in death. For nearly half a century afterwards, this miserable being was pressing on
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p. 279 | MATERNAL INFLUENCE. |
through a course of crime, too revolting for description. Still he confesses that he was never able utterly to drive from his mind the admonitions of his mother, nor to think of them, amid his deepest obduracy, without emotion.
Is not this a peculiar point of view, from which to contemplate maternal influence? The good and the wise take pleasure in expressing their obligations to this hallowed source. Bacon traced back to it, as to a shaded fountain, his intellectual eminence. Washington acknowledged it as the teacher of his self-control, that rudiment of his greatness. Edwards referred the germ of his piety to the prayers of the saintly one who gave him birth. But here is a different suffrage, a voice as from the lower parts of the earth, bearing concurrent testimony. Such a disclosure gains force from its rare occurrence. Virtue and purity are willing to reveal the origin of those principles, which have guided them, but it is difficult to extort from wickedness, commendation and honor for the precepts which it has violated.
Here is an instance of a man plunging into the vortex of guilt, and laboring to dismiss from his mind everything just and holy. Still, by his side has walked, to this soul has clung, with his conscience has wrestled, the voice of a dying mother. It has prevailed sometimes to soften a heart, which was like a "piece of the nether millstone." May it not yet prove like the rod of Moses to the flinty rock of Horeb?
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p. 280 | DIVINE AID. |
Mother! who with ineffable tenderness, art bending over the babe that heaven hath given thee, knowest thou what shall befall it in this evil world? Parents, who gaze with pride on the budding promise of the fair boy, whom you have nurtured, know ye what may be his lot in the latter days? Redouble your efforts, deepen your trust in the Eternal, that the evening prayer of your son rise not from the prison-house of guilt, when you are motionless in the grave.
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p. 281 | MOONLIGHT AT SACHEM'S WOOD. |
MOONLIGHT AT SACHEM'S WOOD. NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT. On, Moon at Sachem's Wood! Whoe'er hath seen Thy liquid lustre through yon lofty oaks, Broad-armed and beautiful, floating serene O'er copse, and lawn, and hedge, and snowy dome, Will never lose the picture from his heart. Beyond, are sacred spires, and clustering roofs, And on the horizon's edge, yon rude, grey rocks, Like two time-tried and trusty sentinels, Which toward the orient and the setting sun Keep watch and ward. How oft beneath these shades Where now the moonbeam trembles o'er the turf, A hoary-headed and a bright eyed man Walked with a younger one, in converse sweet, Heart knit to heart. The poet and the sage, The father and son. Slow Time had made No chasm between them, since those brighter days,
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p. 282 | MOONLIGHT AT SACHEM'S WOOD. |
When ardent manhood smiled on infancy,
Save that blest change which deepened love doth bring
To grave experience. Sweet it was to see
Communion so entire.
The elder laid,
Just ere the snows of fourscore winters fell,
His patriot head beneath yon hallowed mound,
And slept as good men do.
But where is he,
Whose filial virtues taught that heart of age
A second spring? whose tuneful numbers charmed
His listening country's ear?
From his fair home,
From these loved trees, whence poured the nesting birds
Their mellow descant, suddenly he went
A lonely journey, to return no more.
Yet there were deeper melodies, than those
Of warblers mid the summer boughs, that well
He knew to wake:--songs of the heart, and thrills
Of fond affection, with the dulcet tones
Of husband and of sire.
They died with him.
Words may not tell the silence and the void,
Beside his hearth-stone, nor the bitter grief
That long around his cherished image wept.
----
Yet well it is to be remembered thus,
Poet and friend.
Without it, fame were poor,
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p. 283 | MOONLIGHT AT SACHEM'S WOOD. |
Even though her clarion swelled from pole to pole.
Without the virtues that do bring the tear
Into the loving eye, when life is o'er,
That life itself were but a gift abused.
------
Among the ornaments of the beautiful city of New-Haven, is the residence bearing the name of Sachem's Wood. It is situated on an eminence, terminating a broad avenue of stately elms, adorned by pleasant and tasteful habitations. It is a spacious edifice, distinguished by classic elegance, and studiously adapted to internal comfort. It commands an extensive prospect, and is surrounded by a large domain, in whose arrangement the simple and grand features of nature have been carefully preserved. It is characterized by the fine wood in its rear, and the magnificent forest trees by which it is overshadowed, especially by its noble oaks, some of which bear the antiquity of centuries.
It was erected by the late James A. Hillhouse, on a portion of his paternal inheritance. Seldom has it been the lot of a poet to dwell in such an abode. He has thus simply described it, and also expressed his attachment to the scenes of his nativity, in the poem entitled "Sachem's Wood."
"Here, from this bench, the gazer sees Towers, and white steeples o'er the trees, Mansions that peep from leafy bowers, And villas, blooming close by ours.
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p. 284 | HON. JAMES HILLHOUSE. |
Seldom a rural scene you see So full of sweet variety,-- The gentle objects near at hand, The distant, flowing, bold, and grand; I've seen the world, from side to side, Walked in the ways of human pride, Moved in the palaces of kings, And know what wealth to grandeur brings; The spot for me, of all the earth, Is this, the dear one of my birth."
In this mansion the father of the poet, the Hon. James Hillhouse, closed a life of usefulness and piety. He possessed a strong and original mind, an untiring industry, with that uprightness and tenderness of heart, which won the confidence of the public, and the love of those with whom he intimately associated. He was the oldest member of the Senate of the United States, when he resigned the seat which he had filled for sixteen years; and when he left the financial management of the School fund, it was found that it had more than doubled its value, while under his superintendence. The city of his residence, whose fair greens and waving trees render it in summer, especially during the leafy month of June, one of the most picturesque spirit and personal labor. The lofty elms, planted by his own hand, are among his monuments. Age did not impair his mental powers, or chill his purposes of philanthropy. In the language of his son,
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p. 285 | JAMES A. HILLHOUSE. |
"None saw his spirit in decay, None saw his vigor ebb away."
In his seventy-ninth year he was removed, as a sentinel from his post, without the warning of a moment, but not unprepared for the transition.
His son, James A. Hillhouse, both sustained and brightened the honors of his ancestry. The delicacy and grace which mingled with his masculine force of intellect, seemed an infusion from the mind of his mother, and he was ever proud to acknowledge that deep and sweet influence, which he repaid with the warmest filial love. His native taste for literature was fostered by education, and on the reception of his second degree at Yale College, he pronounced an Oration on the "Education of a Poet," of such finished excellence, as to attract peculiar attention.
In it, he says, "From the riches of ancient learning, to which he will first be introduced while acquiring the rudiments of a classical education, the poet will derive incalculable benefit. Amid the treasures of antiquity, he will find the productions of many a kindred spirit, and while he listens to their sweetness and majesty, the fire of genius will burn within him.
"In the earlier stages of his progress, pains should be taken to reduce their beauties to a level with his comprehension, and as he becomes skilled in antique lore, they should be his chosen companions. His daily and nightly labor should be to comprehend the force of their ideas, and the beauties of their expressions. Every
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p. 286 | EDUCATION OF A POET. |
passage distinguished for its elegance should be in his memory, and every image of peculiar felicity familiar to his thoughts. Not to remedy barrenness, or enrich his own productions by purloining from their stores, but because by incessant converse with whatever is great and noble, the soul acquires a correspondent elevation."
After speaking of the necessity of an extensive acquaintance with history, the productions of modern genius, and a close observation of the beauties of nature, he thus proceeds.
"This connection of the events of history and fiction with the scenery of Nature, begets for it an enthusiastic fondness, and enlarges its utility by causing it to excite deeper attention. To a vigorous and highly cultivated imagination the contemplation of nature seems like an intercourse with divinity. The soft luxuriance of a blooming landscape, or the rich and blended tints of an evening sky, fill it with emotions as exquisite, as they are inexpressible. And this sensibility should be strengthened by frequent indulgence as a frame of mind, strongly prompting to poetic effusion. Let not these remarks be derided as the fine-spun labors of a visionary, assiduously describing feelings which never had existence. Most probably they have been experienced by every strongly poetic mind since the hour when David, on the summit of Zion, glanced from the vallies of Judea to the skies, and smitten with their grandeur, broke forth into the rap-
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p. 287 | EDUCATION OF A POET. |
turous exclamation: 'The Heavens declare the glory of God!'
"But every precept which has been given, will be inefficacious in forming the mind of the Poet, unless, aloof from the world, much of his time he passed in solitude and reflection. Here alone he can examine nature, and here the seeds of education must acquire full maturity." [sic]
"Such is the outline of the education which should expand poetical genius into perfection. A rude sketch of the subject only could be given here. The poet should indeed be acquainted with all that man can know; for every art, and every science, every department of learning, and every object in nature, may subserve for the decoration of his page. But ever mindful of the awful truth that man's 'life is a vapor which continueth a little time and then vanisheth away,' all his research should tend either directly, or through the medium of reason, to the improvement of sensibility and imagination, the instruments of his great design. Thus heaven-directed genius shall enwreath the brow with laurels of immortal verdure, and enroll its name forever in the record of wisdom and the song of beauty."
This elegant composition, which still remains unpublished, gained for its young author the appointment of poet at the next anniversary of the Phi-Beta-Kappa Society. It was inferred that one, who could so accurately delineate the true nurture and aliment
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p. 288 | POEM OF "THE JUDGMENT." |
of poesty, must be able to exemplify its power. The reasoning was in this instance correct, though it has been said of more than one casuist in the realm of fancy, that, like Moses, he could point out the promised land, without the ability to enter it.
Here it was proved, that there was indeed no interdict. Yet it is perhaps an unparalleled fact in the history of mind, that one altogether unpractised in metrical compositon should produce, as a first effort, a poem of such lofty imagery, so polished in diction, and sublime in spirit, as "The Judgment." His knowledge of the secret springs of poetic impulse, and the innate and versatile powers of his own language, here burst forth with Miltonic energy. That he should go on in the career of excellence, and win for himself, on both sides of the Atlantic, a high place in the temple of fame, might have been expected.
Several years of the early part of his life were devoted to mercantile business. In this his heart had no share. But the diligence and self-denial with which he subjected strong, native tastes to what he considered his duty, proved the correct balance and healthful state of his moral powers. During this period he visited Europe, where his attainments did not fail of their appreciation. There was about him that uprightness, nobleness, and courtesy, indicative of what some writer has styled the "old, unfaded English mind."
After his congenial and happy marriage, the greater
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p. 289 | ILLNESS AND DEATH. |
part of nearly twenty years, that still remained to him, was spent in his native city, between those intellectual pursuits and rural occupations, which relieve and dignify each other. An edition of such of his works, both in prose and poetry, as he thought proper to select, was given to the public during the last year of his life, and ranks among the best specimens of American literature. It was then little thought that this gift to his country would prove a valedictory. Yet while his intercourse with the external world was but slightly changed, there were those nearest his heart who anxiously marked the "fading brow, the sinking eye." After a brief illness, which gave, until the point of fatal termination, no distinct announcement of danger, he passed away, just at the opening of the year 1841.
The intelligence of an event which afflicted so many friends, awoke the following effusion from one absent in a foreign clime:
A troubled sound upon thy heaving breast
Thou bear'st, old ocean, from my native strand
A sound of wo! And art thou gone to rest,
Thou of the noble soul, and tuneful band?
I saw thee last within thy pleasant dome,
Thy fair, ancestral oaks, in glory spreading,
While every blest affection round thy home,
And through thy heart a genial warmth was shedding.
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p. 290 | OPINION OF A BROTHER. |
Yet now, while sullen sounds the wintry wind,
I sadly mourn thee, on this Gallic shore,
Ordained amid mine own loved land to find
One friend the less, and one cold tomb-stone more;
But thou, for whom such bitter tears are shed,
Thy glowing strains shall live, when Friendship's self is dead.
------
His brother, for many years a resident in Europe, remarks to a member of the family: "His compositions, in prose and verse, are before the American people, to whom it pertains to stamp his reputation as an author, and to assign his rank in the rising literature of our country. Competent judges have already pronounced, that it has never produced a writer of more refined and cultivated taste, or more graceful and polished style. To his relatives and intimate friends, who alone could fully appreciate his virtues, it belongs to do justice to his moral worth, by declaring that few persons acted under a deeper and more habitual sense of duty, or labored more faithfully for their own improvement; one great part of the allotted task of man."
An author well qualified to know and to express what fraternal love thus left unsaid, the Rev. William I. Kip, has permitted us to use the following just tribute.
"Of the loss of Mr. Hillhouse, as a man, none can fitly speak but those who, like the writer of this brief sketch, knew him well and loved him much. It
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p. 291 | TRIBUTE OF A FRIEND. |
was crushing an object, around which were clustering the fond affections of many hearts. It was quenching the light, which shed its rays over a wide circle. In his beautiful residence, the same little group has gathered, as of old, but he who formed its life and soul is gone. The behold from the windows the same bright landscape, stretching out in its beauty, yet the eyes which once dwelt with so much pleasure on the view, and which could behold so readily 'a glory in the grass, and a splendor in the flower,' are closed forever. The 'old ancestral oaks' wave their branches, and their leaves rustle to the breeze, but that ear, to which the sound once came as music, listens to them no longer. He is sleeping with his fathers in the still and quiet churchyard, yet resting there, we trust, 'in the sure and certain hope of a glorious resurrection.' His virtues are embalmed in the hearts of his friends, for to them he can now only be united by the chain of memory running back to what he once was, and the aspirings of faith, stretching forward to what he now is. But his works belong to the literature of his country, and will ever secure to him a lofty station among the poets of America."
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p. 292 | TRENTON FALLS. |
TRENTON FALLS.
Beautiful Waters! sparkling, free,
Spanning the globe with your ministry,--
In the tireless might of an angel's wing,
Sent from the courts above,
Tidings of mercy and peace to bring
To man, the child of love.
Onward ye press, in your mission proud,
And still with spirit free
Receive the wealth of the weeping cloud,
And bury it in the sea.
----
The little fountain in the wild,
The play-place of the laughing child,
Who dreams, as he mocks its bubbling force,
With his tiny feet to bar its course,
Strikes a line of silver out,
And the wild flowers follow it all about,
While the winged seeds that the breezes bear,
Make their cell on its margin fair.
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p. 293 | TRENTON FALLS. |
Perchance it singeth a tuneful song,
A song to the pebbles rude,
Or tells them a tale, as it glideth along,
Of joy and gratitude:
A tale that softeneth hearts of stone,
But theirs are hard, and it hurrieth on,
For it may not stay, it may not stay
On its master's errand, night or day.
----
It claspeth the hand of its brother streams,
And runneth a merrier race,
As down the far cliff, where the eagle screams,
They gladly leap; or through meadows sheen,
Tracked by their fringe of a brighter green,
Rush on to its embrace.
----
Anon, it spreadeth a broader tide,
And over its breast the fisher's boat
And the snowy sail doth lightly float,
Till in the fullness of beauty's pride,
And veiled in mist, like a graceful bride,
It plighteth its faith, at the ocean's brim,
And the marriage-song is his thunder-hymn.
----
But thou, along whose banks we stray,
'T was not for thee to choose,
Mid quiet flowers and reeds thy way,
Nor with the whispering willows play,
That idly droop and muse.
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p. 294 | TRENTON FALLS. |
A rugged path 't was thine to tread,
Disputing with the rocks thy bed,
And inch by inch, with deafening din,
Thy troubled course to steer,
Still through adversity severe
Thy fame to win.
----
No cloud upon the summer air!
The forest-boughs are green and fair,
And joyous beings tread
The slippery margin of thy tide,
That on, from plunge to plunge, doth glide
So beautiful and dread.
Hark! to a cry of wild despair,
Echoing from yon guarded dell,
While the imprisoned flood doth to fierce madness swell.
----
Where is that lovely one,
Of fawn-like step, and cherub air,
And blooming brow, unmarked by care?
Troubled Torrent, tell me where!
She marked thee with admiring eye,
Thy verdant marge, thy craggy steep,
Thy boiling eddies, bold and deep,
Thy white mist, curtaining to the sky;
Where is she now? with sorrow wild,
I hear the parents' voice, lamenting for their child.
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p. 295 | TRENTON FALLS. |
Thou, terrible in beauty! hold thy way,
Foaming, and full of wrath. Thy deeds shall be
Graved on yon altar-piece of frowning rock,
That every worshipper, who bows to thee,
May read the record, and indignant mock
Thy siren charms. And henceforth, she, who guides
Some darling child along thy treacherous tides,
Marking the trophy thou hast torn
From fond affection's heart, shall turn away, and mourn.
----
Would that it were not so,--
That no dark shade of woe
Marred thine exceeding beauty. Then the breast
That heaves with rapture at this glorious scene,
Might hoard thine image, stainless and serene,
Wrapped in the light sublime
That at Creation's prime
Fair Eden blest,
Ere at its gate the sword of flame
Told with a warning voice, the lapse of grief and shame.
------
Trenton Falls, upon the West Canada Creek, are at the distance of a pleasant drive from the city of Utica. None who are thus near, should, unless impelled by necessity, depart without paying them a visit.
The river, in its descent to a rocky ravine, makes
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p. 296 | PICTURESQUE SCENERY. |
three successive leaps, or efforts to effect a passage. These, together, comprise more than a hundred feet, though neither of the separate cataracts are of any remarkable height. The stream sweeps on sinuously between each of these plunges, but gains no interval of rest, being broken upon pointed rocks that contest its course. These are of dark limestone, and rise in cliffs, from one hundred to one hundred and thirty feet, crested with evergreens of fir, spruce, and hemlock, like the saving plumes in the helmet of some ancient chieftain on the battle-day.
Our visit to Trenton Falls was immediately after a heavy rain, when, every crevice in the rocky path being filled to overflowing, we seemed to tread amid bowls of water. The intense heat of a July sun beat upon our heads, and radiated from the surrounding precipices; but the cool breath of the stream, and the foliage from every narrow cleft around and above us, striking out in wreaths and festoons, gave continual refreshment, while the surpassing beauty of that sequestered dell dispelled every sensation of discomfort.
Still it seems more fatiguing to explore Trenton than Niagara. The paths are so slippery and precipitous, and it cannot be forgotten how repeatedly they have led to the tomb. The allusion, in the foregoing poem, is to a beautiful child of Colonel Thorne, so long a resident in Paris, who, in visiting this scene with her parents and family, slipped from the hand of the servant who led her, and was lost in the foaming depths.
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p. 297 | MOURNFUL ASSOCIATIONS. |
Others also have perished here, of whom it might be said, in the sweet strains of our lamented melodist, Willis Gaylord Clarke,
"It was but yesterday, that all before thee
Shone in the freshness of life's morning hours,--
Joy's radiant smile was playing brightly o'er thee,
And thy light feet impressed but vernal flowers.
How have the garlands of thy beauty withered!
And hope's false anthem died upon the air!
Death's sudden tempests o'er thy way have gathered,
And his stern bolts have burst in fury there."
The Falls at Trenton, are perhaps more indescribable than even the great Niagara, which, throwing the mind continually back on the Almighty Creator, can in some measure be delineated through the solemnity and sublimity of the emotions it creates. But Trenton exhibits a ceaseless, bewildering change of the surprising and beautiful, a sort of Protean character, a chamelion [sic] tint, which neither pen nor pencil can arrest, without injustice or failure. Go, and see for yourselves.
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p. 298 | THE SNOW-STORM. |
THE SNOW-STORM.
How quietly the snow comes down,
When all are fast asleep,
And plays a thousand fairy pranks
O'er vale and mountain steep.
How cunningly it finds its way
To every canny small,
And creeps through even the slightest chink
In window, or in wall.
To every noteless hill it brings
A fairer, purer crest
Than the rich ermine robe that decks
The haughtiest monarch's breast.
To every reaching spray it gives
Whate'er its hand can hold--
A beauteous thing the snow is,
To all, both young and old.
The waking day, through curtaining haze,
Looks forth, with sore surprise,
To view what changes have been wrought
Since last she shut her eyes;
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p. 299 | THE SNOW-STORM. |
And a pleasant thing it is to see
The cottage children peep
From out the drift, that to their eaves
Prolongs its rampart deep.
The patient farmer searches
His buried lambs to find,
And dig his silly poultry out,
Who clamor in the wind;
How sturdily he cuts his way,
Though wild blasts beat him back,
And caters for his waiting herd
Who shiver round the stack.
Right welcome are those feathery flakes
To the ruddy urchins' eye,
As down the long, smooth hill they coast,
With shout and revelry;
Or when the moonlight, clear and cold,
Calls out their throng to play--
Oh! a merry gift the snow is
For a Christmas holiday.
The city miss, who, wrapped in fur,
Is lifted to the sleigh,
And borne to daintily to school
Along the crowded way,
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p. 300 | THE SNOW-STORM. |
Feels not within her pallid cheek
The rich blood mantling warm,
Like her who, laughing, shakes the snow
From powdered trees and form.
A tasteful hand the snow hath--
For on the storied pane
I saw its Alpine landscapes traced
With arch and sculptured fane,
Where high o'er hoary-headed cliffs
The dizzy Simplon wound,
And old cathedrals reared their towers
With Gothic tracery bound.
I think it hath a tender heart,
For I marked it while it crept
To spread a sheltering mantle where
The infant blossom slept.
It doth to Earth a deed of love--
Though in a wintry way;
And her turf-gown will be greener
For the snow that 's fallen to-day.
------
The occurrence of slight snow-storms, being unusually frequent during the autumn of 1843, I amused myself with making the following simple calendar of them in their order of succession.
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p. 301 | FLOWER-GARDEN. |
Monday, October 23d.
Snow! Snow! Who could have expected such a guest, now in the very autumn prime? The sun was shining so gloriously too, at early morning. The trees stand utterly amazed, in their rich robes of crimson, and orange, and brown, like dowagers in their court-dresses, arrested on their way to the palace. Especially, are the flower-people incommoded and struck with consternation. The roses, with their bosoms full of snow, look indignant, and redden to a wrath-glow, while the meek verbenas and violets at their feet partake less of the chilling shower, for dwelling so humbly sub-rosa. The buxom marigold lifts her hardy cheek with a smile, as if to say "I 'll make the best of it," while the aristocratic dahlias curb their chins in displeasure. Well, this is a republican clime, my ladies. It respecteth not your high-sounding titles of countesses and queens. Crowns and coronets are at a discount in this pilgrim-planted land, and the snow settleth as saucily upon them, as upon the unbonnetted cottager.
Yonder, ensconced in a snug recess, are two Hydrangeas, with their broad purple and pink faces bending towards each other, like a pair of rustic lovers in a tête-a-tête. How aghast they look when the snow discovers and parts them. That tiny lakelet at their side, which shone like a mirror in the morning ray, how it swallows the chill morsels with a dim and sullen face. Up come the gold and silver fishes, their
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p. 302 | BURIAL OF AN INFANT. |
smart liveries powdered with the insinuating flakes. Keep your gills close, my gay piscatorials, and don't nibble at those floating nodules, mistaking them for crumbs of Naples biscuit. In the same nook is a prim-bush, badly trimmed, reaching forth its angular arms and claw-shaped fingers to gather all it can. Methinks it is of the miser-genus. Friend Prim, dreamest thou that thou hast gotten gold? Well, make the most of thy cold handfuls. Peradventure it may last thee as long as the winged riches in which thy betters trust.
While the beauties of the garden, bear their rebuke as they may, lo! there passeth by a blighted bud of our own higher nature. An infant with its funeral train, goeth slowly homeward to its last repose. They divide the snow-wreaths to lay it by the side of its young mother. Thou canst nestle no more into their bosom, poor babe, it is marble cold. She stretcheth forth no fond arm to welcome and enfold thee. Only a few times didst thou gaze upon her, ere she hasted away to the angels. Yet, shall not the bright drops of that affection, which were shed into her heart amid extremest agony, be gathered up in Heaven, and flow on as the river of life, an eternal stream?
"Oh! when a mother meets on high,
The babe she left in its infancy,
Is there not then, for all her fears,
The day of woe, the watchful night,
For all her sorrows, all her tears,
An over-payment of delight?"
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p. 303 | CONSULTATION OF BIRDS. |
Tuesday, November 7th.
Well done, Mr. Saggitarius, thou hast brought us a fair gift, notwithstanding thy belligerent moods, and thy skill in archery! snow- flakes, falling as quietly as the slumbers of innocence. This is better than to pierce us with thy frosty arrows, or smite us with ague-fits.
The birds, however, are mightily discomposed. They convene in noisy Congress, clamoring for immediate emigration. Troops of orators mount the rostrum, vociferating, vanishing, and returning to the charge. Many more speakers than hearers, and no chairman to call them to order. How the black-birds chatter and gesticulate, and what throngs of swallows besiege yonder old church-steeple. My eloquent gentry, I counsel you forthwith to commence your journey; for, as the ancient proverb elegantly saith, "great cry, and little wool," so this babel-like discussion helpeth not forward your weary pilgrimage. Please remember us among the groves of the Bosphorus, or the gardens of the Nile, and come back with the spring-flowers,--and so, farewell.
The domestic fowls congregate under the fences, or hay- stacks, with a remarkable solemnity. Chicklings of the last summer, who have had no regular introduction to the snow, dip their bills in it and look grave. Perhaps, like chemists, they are essaying to analyze it. The young house-cat, having the antipathy of her race to wet feet, steps into the new element, and sud-
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p. 304 | INDIAN SUMMER. |
denly draws back, steps again, and draws back: then with long leaps gains the shelter of the kitchen-threshold, and applies her soothing lips, to her maltreated paws.
But what exultation among the boys, who rushing from school discover it. How it clings with a humid tenacity to their caps and shoulders, for the careful mother to brush off, when they reach home. With what zeal they gather it in their hands, the merry urchins. How eagerly they anticipate their winter-sports, which suit so well the quick flowing blood of the young. Often have I watched the bright-browed throngs of Boston boys, gliding with swift sled over their noble Common, and rejoiced in their joy, and blessed the wisdom of those law-givers, who protect the happiness of children.
Wednesday, November 29th.
The beautiful Indian-summer, which our poor aborigines used to call "the smile of the Great Spirit," hath been among us. With its elastic breath, it quickened all the springs of life. Between the storms, it stole hither, touching the faded leaf with its early hues, and the skies with their cloudless azure, rekindling the scarlet of the woodbine and hardy rose, and whispering to our hearts of the cheerful patience that should arm them for winter's adversity. It wrapped the distant landscape in soft mists, like a dream of Paradise. Then, foreseeing the evil time, it vanished, while
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p. 305 | ANNUAL THANKSGIVING. |
the snow-spirit made haste to whiten its robe as it departed.
Thursday, November 30th.
A little snow this evening, a few hoarse threats from the winds, and then the clouds relented. They would not cast a lasting shade over New England's almost sole festival. For this day is her annual Thanksgiving, set apart by the fathers amid colonial toil and privation, when, amid the scanty harvest, the rude hovel, or the Indian conspiracy.
"They shook the depths of the desert-gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer."
Methinks even the pitiless storm would not willingly bloth out the joy of the child, preparing to return to its home, from a distant school, or from service, to brighten, for a brief season, the loved circle around the hearth-stone.
Hark! the steam-engine shrieks, the mellow stage-horn winds, and see, they come. The spruce, young collegian arrives, ready to display new stores of knowledge to his wondering sisters; and the soberly- clad apprentice grasps heartily with his hardened hand that of parent or friend. A carriage stops at the door of a pleasant farm-house. A fair, young woman, who at the last Thanksgiving wore the white robe of the bride, descends, and with her husband enters the home of her nativity.
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p. 306 | FARMER'S FAMILY. |
What does she bring with her? What is so cunningly concealed beneath her warm mantle? Lo! a little rose-bud, with a beating heart. How its large, clear eyes expand with wonder, as the young people, proud of their new titles of uncle and aunt, unsheath it from its convolutions of soft blankets, and cover its face with kisses. The new father mingles in the group with rapturous delight, and bends on her, who has thus completed the climax of his joys, that smile of the heart which effaces every care. The grandparents welcome this young scion of their house with secret pride; yet taught, by long experience in life's changeable road, to chastise that buoyant sentiment, they wear a sedate gravity, as they lead the way to the laden board.
Invoking Heaven's blessing on their happiness, all zealously address themselves to the work before them. Justice must be done to the huge turkey, and the chickens, which they themselves have reared; the numerous tarts must all be tasted, as they are the productions of the young daughters; nor must the fruits and nuts be slighted, which the boys have so carefully gathered. The satisfaction of a feast in a farmer's family is heightened by knowing the history of every viand, or having had some agency in preparing it for its post of honor.
But see, passing the window is a melancholy stranger, pale with home-sickness. His heart is with the spot of his nativity, in the distant halls where
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p. 307 | HOSPITALITY AND BENEVOLENCE. |
his childhood grew. Here are no fond eyes to welcome him, no kind voice to bid him to the hospitable repast.
Send thou, and gather him as a sheaf into thy garner. Make glad his soul with the incense of thy fireside charities. So shall his smile of gratitude strike to the depths of thine own spirit, and dry its secret tears.
Oh, at this festival, and at that still more sacred one, of our dear Lord's nativity, forget not the forgotten, nor the forsaken, nor the poor. For if thou hast sent portions unto the needy, and if the stranger or the orphan sitteth beside thee at thy board, thine own feast shall be the sweeter, and be remembered at the banquet on high.
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p. 308 | THE DESERTED NEST. |
THE DESERTED NEST.
Flown! Flown! my little ones? Your cunning house,
So deftly hid beneath the mantling vine,
Quite empty?
But a few short days it seems,
Since first we spied you, a strange, breathing mass,
Unfledged and shapeless, with bright, staring eyes,
And ever-open beak. We often came
To inspect your tiny tenement, because
Your parents were our lodgers, in a nook
Of the piazza, where the vine-leaves curled,
And thatched it like a cottage. They were out
Most of their time, upon the busy wing,
Seeking your food, while you at leisure lived,
Eating and chirping, with an equal zeal
Alternately; for whatsoe'er they brought
Was eagerly received. I feared you 'd be
Such gormandizers, that you 'd never learn
Your gamut; for you certainly were blest
With a most wondrous appetite. And still,
To help the matter on, my little girl
Amused herself by dropping now and then
A small green grape into your gaping mouths,
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p. 309 | THE DESERTED NEST. |
Feeling so very sure 't would do you good.
But as for me, I had a thousand fears
Of cholera, and all the latent ills
That birds are heir to, and with fainter step
Stole every morning to your curtained couch,
Filled with sad visions of your early death.
But lo! you grew like mushrooms, and your sires,
Who screamed at first with terror, when we drew
So near their hopeful race, at length became
Quite passive to our visits, and partook
Our scattered crumbs complacently.
Yet now,
You 're gone, my birds, and I shall miss you much,
Both morn and eve.
Methinks you were too young
To try your fortune in this world of snares,
And much I fear that some marauding cat,
With her keen feline tastes in exercise,
May seize and bear you, with your tender wings
All helpless, hanging from her whisker'd mouth,
A gift to her voracious little ones.
Yet hence with such forebodings,--and I 'll think
When from yon shrubbery I hear a song,
Trembling with sweet, unpractised melody,
It is your descant.
How will ye obtain
Your sustenance, thus sent as wanderers forth,
Mid all the ignorance of infancy
To cater for yourselves?
Yet this wide earth
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p. 310 | THE DESERTED NEST. |
Is your refectory, and the light leaf
That shivers on the gale, and the seamed trunk,
And the fresh furrow where the ploughman treads,
Show to your microscopic glance a feast
Ready and full.
Our Father feedeth you!
Ye gather not in store-house, or in barn,
But seek your meat from Him.
Would that we shared
Your simple faith,--we who so duly ask
Our daily bread, and yet distrust His hand
Who feeds all creatures and upbraideth not.
And when our homes below are desolate,
Even like your empty nest, my winged ones,
And when their eyes, who loved us here below,
Shall seek and find us not, may we have risen
Where melody shall know no dissonance,
And love no parting flight.
------
The habits of the migratory birds form a fruitful subject of observation and inquiry. The unerring instinct that guides them through the trackless fields of air, avoiding the hostility of birds of prey, the comparative mystery of their residence in far distant regions, and the punctuality of their return, increase our respect for these winged friends, who from their lodgings upon the Sultan's harem, or amid the gardens of the Nile, remember their brown nest in the thorn-hedge, or the cottage-roof, and compass earth and ocean to rebuild it.
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p. 311 | BIRDS OF PASSAGE. |
How beautifully has an English naturalist remarked: "When we think for a moment that the swallows, martins, and swifts, that sport in our summer skies, and become inhabitants of our houses, will presently be dwelling in the heart of regions which we long in vain to know, and whither we travellers toil in vain to penetrate; that they will anon affix their nests to the Chinese pagoda, the Indian temple, or beneath the Equator, to the palm-thatched eaves of the African hut; that the small birds which populate our hedges and fields, will quickly spread themselves with the cuckoo over the warm regions beyond the pillars of Hercules, and the wilds of the Levant, of Greece and Syria; that the nightingale will be serenading in the chestnut groves of Italy and the rose-gardens of Persia; that the thrush and the field-fare, that share our winter, will pour out triumphant music in their native wastes, in the sudden summers of Scandinavia, the desolate rocks in the lonely ocean, the craggy and misty isles of the Orkneys and Shetlands; the wild swan rewinging its way through the lofty regions of the cloud to Iceland, and other arctic lands,--we feel how much poetry is connected with these wanderers of the earth."
We are led still more to feel His infinite wisdom and goodness, who maketh them to know their appointed time:--
Who marketh their course through the tropics bright, Who nerveth their wing for its weary flight,
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p. 312 | MIGRATIONS. |
And guideth their caravan's trackless way By the star at night and the cloud by day. The Indian fig, with its arching screen, Welcomes them in to its vistas green,-- And the breathing buds of the spicy tree, Thrill at the burst of their melody; And the bulbul starts, and his carol clear, Such a rushing of stranger-wings to hear. O wild-wood wanderers! though far away From your summer homes in our vales ye stray, Yet when they awake at the call of spring, We shall see you again with your glancing wing, Your nest mid yon waving trees to raise, And teach our spirits their Maker's praise.
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p. 313 | THE WASHINGON ELM. |
THE WASHINGTON ELM,
AT CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS.
Words! Words!, Old Tree! Thou hast an aspect fair,
A vigorous heart, a heaven-aspiring crest,
And sleepless memories of the days that were
Lodge in thy branches, like the song-bird's nest.
Words! give us words! Methought a gathering blast
Mid its green leaves began to murmur low,
Shaping its utterance to the mighty Past,
That backward came, on pinions floating slow.
"The ancient masters of the soil I knew,
Whose cane-roofed wigwams flecked the forest brown,
Their hunter-footsteps swept the early dew,
And their keen arrow struck the eagle down.
I heard the bleak December tempest moan,
When the tossed May-Flower moored in Plymouth Bay;
And watched yon classic walls, as stone by stone
The fathers reared them slowly toward the day.
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p. 314 | THE WASHINGTON ELM. |
But lo! a mighty Chieftain 'neath my shade,
Drew his bright sword, and reared his dauntless head,
And Liberty sprang forth from rock and glade,
And donned her helmet for the hour of dread:
While in the hero's heart there dwelt a prayer,
That Heaven's protecting arm might never cease,
To make his young, endangered land its care,
Till through the war-cloud looked the angel Peace.
Be wide, my children," said that ancient Tree,
In earnest tone, as though a Mentor spake,
"And prize the blood-bought birthright of the free,
And firmly guard it, for your country's sake."
Thanks, thanks, Old Elm! and for this counsel sage,
May heaven thy brow with added beauty grace,
Grant richer emeralds to thy crown of age,
And changeless honors from a future race.
------
This fine old Elm, on the Commons, at Cambridge, doubtless a remnant of the primeval forest, has a heritage of glory. Beneath its shade, Washington first drew his sword, as Commander-in-Chief of the American army. It is thus associated with one of the most important eras in our history, and in the life of that illustrious man, who was "first in war, first in peace,
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p. 315 | INTERESTING LOCALITY. |
and first in the hearts of his countrymen." From the flash of that sword, beneath these branches, until it was finally sheathed at Yorktown, what heart-stirring events transpired for the historian, the politician, and the poet. The drama, which was conceived and commenced by the "Bay State," the noble mother of New England, and which in its progress more or less convulsed every member of the "Old Thirteen," reached its catastrophe and termination of glory in the "Ancient Dominion," where first the Saxon vine took root in the soil of this New World.
The venerated Tree, thus forever connected with the memory of the Father of our country, has a fitting and beautiful locality. Its foliage almost sweeps the walls of the most ancient University in the United States, for which the first appropriation was made in 1636, the year after the fathers of Connecticut took their departure from Cambridge, and began the settlement of Hartford.
It is touching and even sublime to recall the efforts made by our ancestors, to secure the means of education for their descendants, while themselves enduring the hardships and privations attendant on colonial life. Sixteen years from the first landing on the snow-clad rock of Plymouth had scarcely elapsed, ere they laid the plan of a collegiate institution, the poorest contributing from his poverty, perhaps only a bushel of corn, or a single volume, yet given with gladness and in hope. The infant colonies of Connecticut and
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p. 316 | ZEAL FOR EDUCATION. |
New Haven, testified also their sympathy and good neighborhood, by a benefaction from every family, of twelve pence or a peck of corn,--gifts of no slight value in those days of simplicity.
How truly was it said by our ancestors, in a work written more than two hundred years since: "After God had carried us safe to New England, and we had builded our houses, provided necessaries for our livelihood, reared convenient places for God's worship, and settled the civil government, one of the next things we longed for and looked after, was to advance learning, and perpetuate it to posterity."
The Washington Elm is also in the vicinity of the sacred solitudes of Mount Auburn, that spot which has so often given a subject to the traveller and the bard, but whose unique beauty it is impossible to appreciate, without the privilege of musing amid its hallowed shades.
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p. 317 | FAREWELL TO NIAGARA. |
FAREWELL TO NIAGARA.
My spirit grieves to say, Farewell to thee,
Oh beautiful and glorious!
Thou dost robe
Thyself in mantle of the colored mist,
Most lightly tinged, and exquisite as thought,
Decking thy forehead with a crown of gems
Woven by God's right hand.
Hadst thou but wrapped
Thy brow in clouds, and swept the blinding mist
In showers upon us, it had been less hard
To part from thee. But there thou art, sublime
In noon-day splendor, gathering all thy rays
Unto their climax, green, and fleecy white,
And changeful tinture, for which words of man
Have neither sign nor sound, until to breathe
Farewell is agony. For we have roamed
Beside thee, at our will, and drawn thy voice
Into our secret soul, and felt how good
Thus to be here, until we half implored,
While long in wildering ecstasy we gazed,
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p. 318 | FAREWELL TO NIAGARA. |
To build us tabernacles, and behold
Always thy majesty.
Fain would we dwell
Here at thy feet, and be thy worshipper,
And from the weariness and dust of earth
Steal evermore away. Yea, were it not
That many a care doth bind us here below,
And in each care, a duty, like a flower,
Thorn-hedged, perchance, yet fed with dews of heaven,
And in each duty, an enclosed joy,
Which like a honey-searching bee doth sing,--
And were it not, that ever in our path
Spring up our planted seeds of love and grief,
Which we must watch, and bring their perfect fruit
Into our Master's garner, it were sweet
To linger here, and be thy worshipper,
Until death's footstep broke this dream of life.
------
And now, reader and friend, our hour of pleasant gossip is finished. We have said nothing of the pictured rocks, or the great western caverns, nor wandered together in spirit on the borders of our mighty lakes, or the shores of the "father of waters."
No. I have spoken only of such places as "keepers at home" may readily reach, and which probably you have yourself visited. Still it is as useful, and vastly more convenient, to admire objects near at hand than those far away; and on what the eye hath oft-times
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p. 319 | PARTING WORDS. |
looked, we may still discover an unplucked flower, or an ungathered sunbeam, to cheer and to uplift the heart.
I have frequently used, in this little book, the language of others; sometimes, because I considered it better than my own; and sometimes, because I remembered the saying, that there is no greater compliment to an author than to quote from his works.
You will not, I hope, count it a deception, that while its title announces a description of scenes, its page so often presents those who have peopled them. I felt that a landscape was improved by figures, and that it was a solace made stronger by advancing years, thus to deepen the heart's memorial of the good and the lovely, who are no longer among the living.
So now, reader and friend, unknown, perchance, but still a friend, Farewell. If it is morning with you, may the day be blessed and happy; and if it is evening,
"a fair good night, And pleasant dreams, and slumbers light."
Hartford, Conn. Dec 4, 1844.