USA > Massachusetts > Worcester County > Hubbardston > An address, in commemoration of the one hundredth anniversary of the incorporation of the town of Hubbardston, Mass. > Part 5
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In olden times these homes of ours Were not ndorned with pretty flowers ; Our mothers, at the spinning-wheel, Knew not the pride their daughters feel In working o'er their garden lots, Or rearing flowers in earthen pots, To make their kitchens sweet and fair, And shed their fragrance on the nir. To-day, the door-yards we behold, Are dressed in purple, green and gold ; And lovely flowers of every hue, (Each day presenting something new,) The steps, the wall's and window-sill, And tables, near the fireside, till ; While round the house the gardens fair Give sweetness to the morning air. Mau's work is varions, changeful, strange ; The work of God has known no change. To-day, as we stand looking down The borders of another town, We see the same majestic hill That, in our boyhood, used to fill Our hearts with such untold delight, As we beheld her glorious height :- Her head, above the thunder-cloud, Aspiring, lofty, bold, and proud ; While shafts of lightning, at her feet, Fell harmless as a shower of sleet. She stands there now, in all her pride, The small Wachusett at her side, Her little daughter,-fair as ever, And still as dutiful and clever, Unlike the girls, she's found no other For whom she'd leave a good old mother. Old Rutland, too, on yonder height, Is standing now,-as fair and bright As when she first stood looking down
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On this, her little daughter-town, And watching with a mother's eare, To see her grow up good and fair. 'We still delight to call her mother, For, as a town, we've known no other. The daughter, ns old Rutland calls Us still, had few good waterfalls, But, whether in her maidenhood, She wore the modest shaker hood, Or donned the new style, tiny bonnet, That shows n head with nothing on it, And wore big hoops, as our girls do, We must confess, we never knew. But this we know,-whate'er the past, The waterfalls are gaining fast, Though more upon the danghter's heads, Than by the ponds, or river beds ;- Yet these will drive the spinning-wheel, While those can neither spin nor reel.
There's Princeton, too, and Barre, Who much to market carry, And where the boarders tarry In summer's sultry hours :- Both sons of the same mother, (And each we love as brother, And one as well as t'other;) In sunshine, and in showers, Have stood, like friends who love us best, To guard our borders, east and west.
We're shut out, it is true, Mother, and daughter, too, Where little comes that's new, And railroads never reach us ; The whistle, and the car, And engine, heard afar, All steaming like hot tar, This useful lesson teach us : To be content, and never crave The things we ne'er can hope to have.
We have onr summer breezes. The spring-time always pleases, And Jack, in winter, freezes The ponds and rivers over, To make them fit for skating ; While boys and girls stand waiting, (Perhaps, for life they're mating) Like bees round heads of clover ;
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While merry sleigh-bells on the street, And fireside scenes, make winter sweet.
This home of ours is dear, We should be happy here, Nor drop a single tear, Because the railroads dodge us ; We've land enough to till, And barns that we may fill, If only we've the will ; And houses, too, to lodge us. Enough to eat,-enough to wear, Should make us happy anywhere.
There's Gardner too, and Templeton, (Though neither, our old mother's son,) Have stood by us since time begun, Like true and lawful brothers; And Phillipston and Westminster, Though not a bit akin to her, Have been as firm as if we were The dearest of all others ; And there they'll stand, while time shall last, As they have stood in ages past.
With these good, friendly towns beside ns, (And nothing likely to divide us, ) We'll fear no ills that may' betide us, And let the railroads go. Nor care for telegraph a whit, Nor envy otlier towns a bit, Who long have had the benefit Of what we cannot know ; We'll cling to the old farm, or shop, And let such vexing questions drop.
Old Hubbardston had one odd son, Who answered to Eph. Grimes, And he was known in every town, Quite well in former times, From Worcester through to Canada, And is remembered to this day.
He was a " brick,"-an odd old stick, All running o'er with fun; He loved a joke, and seldom spoke But what he hit some one ; He'd be polite, and sing and pray, And play the "possum" any day. 8
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We heard among the songs t'were sung By rowdies, years ago, "Old Grimes is dead," while his old head Was here, as white as snow. He quite forsook his better half, And only lived to make folks langh.
He broke some laws, and for that cause Was wronged, at Worcester, some; With knife or shears, they cropped his ears, And never sent them home; So every day he lived grew sadder, For he was deaf as an old adder.
We might, perhaps, were we to search, Find remnants now of that old church Which stood upon or near this spot, And which can never be forgot By ns, who in our youthful days, Oft listened there to songs of praise, And to the voice of him who came To speak to us in Jesn' name. We see it now, with memory's eye, The old square pors, the galleries high, The sounding-board above the head Of the old parson, it was said To give his voice a fuller sound, And through the audience send it round. Those who have reached three score and ten Can pretty well remember when, Beside that church, a great elm tree Stood, clothed in verdant majesty, 'Neath which our aged fathers sat On Snuday noons, in friendly chat, " And talked of this and then of that," While we, poor little barefoot sinners, Stood by, and ate our Sunday dinners, And listened, with wide open ears, To hear them talk of former years. We had no Sabbath schools that day, Yet, we were not allowed to play. Whene'er a troop of naughty boys About the common made a noise, "Iwas sure to start a tithing man, At sight of whom the boys all ran Like sheep when wolves are on their track, And looked as sheepish, coming back.
Perhaps, there's no one thing in town That's changed so little, going down
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The tide of time, as that old clock, The town has held as common stock. The same old clock that's ticking now, With not a wrinkle on its brow, We listened to in early youth ; And, though we knew it told the truth, It vexed us some, in our school days, When, all absorbed in boyish plays,
It put a stop to all our fun, When at its height, by striking one- The same as saying " school's begun." Sometimes, like a rebellious youth, It has refused to tell the truth, And stopped, and ponted for a while, Refusing e'en to speak or smile. But, managed by a skillful hand, Repentant, would forsake that stand, And, as a lad well trained, was clever, And went along as well as ever. While many years have flitted by, That clock, upon the belfry, high, Has ruled with most despotie sway, For lesser clocks must all obey ; And watches, too, must be pulled ont, And have their fingers turned abont ; But this, perhaps, was not so bad, For, doubtless, there's been many a lad, With the best watch he ever had, Who couldn't tell the time of day Had that old clock been but away. That's told us fifty years, and more, What we knew pretty well before, Ilow fast the moments flit away, Amid the duties of the day ; And rapped its knuckles on the bell, The silent hours of night to tell. It never stirs a leaf or willow, But pricks our cars upon the pillow, And bids ns ope' our drowsy eyes, And to our morning duties rise. "Tis rather hard some wintry mornings To heed the fellow's faithful warnings, Drive off night visions from the head, And jump, at once, right out of bed ; But, ere our work is done at night We feel that the old clock was right. We love that clock ;- it's held its station, And ticked away one generation, And ticking there will doubtless stand,
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When we are in the spirit land. To-day, as we who're old look back Along the nineteenth century's track, How few who started on the race With us, are found about this place. Some few to other parts have gone, But many to the world unknown. There's, here and there, a hoary head, Of whom it may be truly said, They stand like some old forest oak, With head declining, branches broke, Amid a host of younger trees, All proudly waving in the breeze. The aged oak, once green and fair, But now of foliage stript, and bare, Is fast descending to the ground, Where little saplings lie all round. And such is life,-the weak, the strong, Are falling like the trees, along The track of time, whose restless wave Has borne its millions to the grave ; And will roll on till millions more Are landed ou th' eternal shore.
Now let us look beyond this place, And mark the progress of our race; And see what human art has done Since this last century begun. Progress has marked the present age, At every step, -through every stage : Progress in science, and in arts, The very life blood, that imparts The thrift and vigor to the land, That we behold on every hand.
Some half a century ago, We had no iron horse, you know, Nor any locomotive power To drag us thirty miles an hour. Nor would you see a tiny wire, Upon some poles a little higher, Perhaps, than any tall man's head, Down which the sparks of lightning sped . To carry tidings to a friend Who chanced to be at t'other end. Of old time, when they carried news, They had two ways 'twixt which to choose : To run on foot, or go horseback Along the winding forest track ;
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But now words go on wings of wind As rapid as the flight of mind.
The greatest wonder of the nge Will now be found on history's page For eighteen hundred sixty-six,- When first the bold adventurers fix The Atlantic cable, sure nud strong, And send their messages along The fathomless and mighty deep, Where fish in countless millions sleep.
"Tis said improvements will go on, And more, and greater things, be done Before the next half century's past Than those we witnessed in the last. If so, then we shall fly through space, Like morning sunbeams on a race, For cars now carry us so fast,
We hardly know where we were last ; And Europe and America Can talk together any day ; And words across the ocenn find Their way almost as quick as mind. "Tis doubtful whether mau e'er will, With ail his deep artistic skill And great inventive powers, be able To run before the Atlantic cable If he outruns the iron horse By any new propelling force.
Among the wonders of the past, The temperance movements may be chssed. When men the great discovery made, That rum was not, as had been said, The necessary staff of life, But fraught with death, disease and strife,- 'Twas then the power of moral suasion Was tried on every tit occasion, And did more good than all the laws In rearing up the temperance cause. The pledge was taken, and did save It's thousands from the drunkard's grave ; And some, "restored to hope," again, . Now rank among the best of men. To-day we need that moral power To meet the crisis of the hour. We've trusted statute law in vain- The tide is rolling back again,
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And to arrest its fearful course It must be met with moral force.
Now, at the 'isms of the past One look-" not longing look"-we cast, For men have strutted on the stage Who brought disgrace upon the age. Some 'isms have sprung up forthwith,
But Mormonism, led by Smith, Sprung up at first, a feeble shoot, Not finding soil in which to root. Its life was doubtful for a time, But, finding a congenial clime, And soil in which its roots would take,
It pitched its tent around Salt Lake. There it has flourished,-gone to seed, And like some noxious, poisonous weed, Is now, with pestilential breath Dispensing sorrow, sin and death ; And, with n bold and daring hand, Defies the power that rules the land. And yet, we fear, there are among These silly dupes of Brigham Young, Some townsmen, whom we're often met, And have friends here who love them yet.
Some less than forty years ago, One Miller started np, you know, To be a prophet, and explain What was,-what is,-and must remain A deep,-a hidden secret,-known To the omniscient God alone. In eighteen hundred forty-three, lle said the end of time should be, And earth and man would be no more Before the dawn of forty-four. Well, some believed, and trembled, too, And many round the prophet drew, With pinions plumed to mount the skies Whene'er the flames were seen to rise.
Yet forty-three und, forty-four, And even twenty-three years more Have come,-have lingered, -and are gone, And still the sphere is rolling on, And time grows older every day, Yet shows no symptoms of decay, While Miller sleeps beneath the sod, With those who lived before the flood.
POEM. 63
If what the poet said was true, And I believe it-(so do you) "Aspiring to be Gods, if Angels fell Aspiring to be Angels, men rebel."
Our modern spiritualists have said That spirits came up from the dead ; And though no mortal eye perceived 'em And none but simple ones believed 'em, They tipp'd the tables, moved the chairs, And put on quite fantastic airs, First came the soft and gentle tappings,
And presently the londer rappings, And soon they'd answer yes or no, Just as the listeners wished them to; Then tell about the spirit land, Inform us in what sphere they stand, Tell who's above thein, who below, And where departed spirits go. And when you asked them,-(nothing daunted) The answer'd come, just what you wanted. And thus in various ways 'twas said, Some held communion with the dead ; And this was managed with such tact That many thought it was a fact. As by their footprints on the way, We trace the 'isms of the day, We find, alas, among the many, Sectarianism, bad as any. This last has stamped upon our race, And on our churches, font disgrace. The truth of God has been abused, And Christian intercourse refused, Till charity, that Heavenly grace, Has sought from shume a hiding place ; But, in this town, we're proud to say That spirit does not reign to-day.
IIere are three churches, and we meet, Each Sabbath day upon the ' street, Some going up, and others down, From every portion of the town, Each to his cherished house of prayer, To join with those who worship there ; And yet none ever stop to say To those they meet, "you've lost your way ; There is but one true church, you see,- Come, turn abont, and go with mne." Here, all may keep God's holy day,
.
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And worship in their chosen way. Now, this is right, for Christians should, Like travelers in a lonely wood, Pursue the path each thinks will best Condnet him to his promised rest. If travelers to some distant land, Each with his title deed in hand, Securing each a happy home When to their journey's end they come, Should stop to quarrel by the way, And make no progress through the day, Because each had a different ronte, When either path would lead them out, 'Twould prove that selfishness and sin Were yet the ruling powers within. But what, we ask, do Christians less, While passing through life's wilderness ? All have one compass, all one chart, From which they never need depart ; All have one object, too, in view, A happy home when they are through. One fitith, one hope inspires them all If they are Christ's, and yet they fall To judging, without merey, those Who, c'er so honestly, oppose.
Oh, when will Christians cease their strife, And only try to sweeten life With kindness, gentleness and love, Like that descending from above,- First pure, then peaceful, gentle, kind,- The love that moved the eternal mind To give his own beloved son, To die for deeds that we had done. Is Christ divided ?- can it be- That God's own children disagree, Fall out, dispute and quarrel even, While traveling on the road to Heaven ? At different altars we may bow, And worship as we choose to, now, But this can never make it right To disagree, dispnte, or fight.
Since this old township took its name, Which, for a century's been the same, Three direful wars have drenched the land With blood and tears, on every hand ; And Hubbardston has had its share Of all these dreadful woes, to bear.
POEM. 65
Our fathers threw off England's yoke, And from colonial bondage broke ; And, in a time that tried men's souls Attained the power that still controls The destinies of this great nation, That ranks so high in wealth and station. Peace came,-but soon another war With our old mother,-bloodier far, Broke out, and madly raged awhile ; But peace, with her benignant smile, Dispell'd the clouds, dried up the tears, And reigned again for many years. Again, in eighteen sixty-one, A fearful civil war began, That, like a mighty sweeping flood, Drenched all this goodly land with blood. When honored fathers, brothers, sons, And dearly loved and cherished ones, By tens of thousands, had been slain, Peace smiled upon the land again, And with the dawn of sixty-five The nation's drooping hopes revive. But as the spring in beauty opes, And all are buoyant with new hopes, A sudden gloom comes o'er the land, When, by the bold assassin's hand, The man at helm, who'd steer'd so well And was so loved and honored,-fell. Then grief and mourning settled o'er This mighty land,-not known before ; For, worst of all, the government, By party broils, in twain was rent, And patriots, with a tearful eye,
. Beheld the clouds that veiled the sky, Which, by their wild and angry form Seemed to forebode a coming storm.
We see these clouds still hovering round, And hear the thunder's distant sound. From north to south,-from east to west, One firebrand, more than all the rest, Shines up the clouds with horrid glare, As if a fire was kindling there, That in one general conflagration, Would yet involve this mighty nation. The reconstruction of the States 'Twould soem was destined, by the fates, To spread the conflagration more Than Samson's foxes did of yore,-
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Who, with a firebrand to each tail, Ran through the corn and down the vale, And filled with horror and dismay, The poor Philistines of that day. The rebel States are firebrands now That set the country all aglow, And sparks of the secession brand Are kindling up all o'er the land, And, what our future is to be No mortal man can yet foresee.
We meddle not with politics. Of parties, or of party tricks, We here have not a word to say ; 'Tis not the time, the place, the day, To bring up themes of any kind That so distract the public mind. We much regret the party strife Which through the land is now so rife ; That spirit's wrong, but we persist "Tis well that parties do exist ; They are a check to those in power, Without which, in some evil hon, They might incline to go astray, Or wander far from the right way, And governments as good as ours Claim more than delegated powers. Without the check that parties hold, The men in office might grow bold, And despotism have a birth On this most favored spot of earth.
If party spirit is a curse, That of mad speculation 's worse, That's now so rampant in the land, And seen, and felt on every hand. Once we could traffic with the great Producing lands by paying frieght, And sugar, cotton, flour and rice Were had at the producer's price. Now speculators, cash in hand, Are roaming up and down the land To seize on all that comes their way, As hungry wolves pounce on their prey, And one, perhaps, sells to another Mean, swindling, speculating brother ; And thus things go from hand to hand Until the poor consumers stand In want,-and are compelled to buy,
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Thongh prices may be twice as high As e'er they should, or would have been But for these speculating men. Call politicians what you please,- They're honest men, compared with these.
To our friends from abroad, permit me to say, We welcome you here, most gladly, to-day. On this great occasion, 'tis joyous to meet The sons of old Hubbardston on the old street, Where often we've met in youth's sunny days At meeting,-at school, -and in frolicsome plays. If 'tis not so now, the place of our birth In chillluna's the dearest of any on earth ; And even in manhood, it's never forgot ; We always remember and cherish the spot Where loved ones watched o'er us in our helpless hours, And where we first lingered among the sweet flowers.
There is one pleasant feature abont our old place, That c'en to be proud of would be no disgrace,- If we travel New England all through, up or down, We find but few places, perhaps, not a town, Where less aristocracy is to be found, Or more democratic feelings abond. There's little of caste ;- the rich and the poor Have access alike to every man's door. If we look at the present or past, we shall find That Hubbardston people are friendly and kind. As a general thing, for the last hundred years, They've regarded, and treated their neighbors as peers. If any grew haughty,-if rich, young or old, They soon found themselves " left out in the cold." If they took a position above their true place, They met with no favor, but rather disgrace. We have no religions dissensions of note ; The ladies dou't grumble because they can't vote ; And at all the social gatherings we tind, All classes can mingle with one heart and mind. We hope it will be so for long years to come, When we are forgotten, at this our old home.
Although your new homes may be far away, We rejoice that we've been permitted, to-day, To meet you, as ofttime we've met you before, And sit at the table together once more. And when you return to the place you love best, Be it far to the east, or the south, or the west, We hope you'll be happy for long years to come On the spot you've adopted as your second home.
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If our homes lie far distant, our country's the same, And alike we rejoiec in her glory and fame. We all love that country, though much we deplore The storms of dissension that howl at her door; And we'd have every plague-spot that rests on her now Wiped off, and forever, from her noble brow. We would have the monuments reared to her sons, Her heroes of old time, and more recent ones, Stand up in their glory, till marble shall rust, And granite, through age, shall erumble to dust. Now that most unnatural of all wars is o'er, And the blood of her sons is streaming no more, Now she is de facto, the land of the free, 'The model of nations, that she's elaimed to be, Now bodies and souls are not bartered for gold, Nor husbands and wives at the auction block sold, We would this great country, from th' Pacific to Maine, Might all be united and happy again. That a spirit of concord and love might shine forth Through the east and the west, the south and the north ; And a union of states be cemented once more, More perfect and happy than ever before.
If only she's freed from her internal foes, We may hope for our country a lasting repose.
Now, soon, dear friends, this meeting ends, Our last, perhaps, on earth ; Some leave, to-day, for homes away, Far from their place of birth. The parting word,-the last farewell Is one that makes the bosom swell.
Yet, as we part, cach throbbing heart, With thoughts of home will beat, For many here have homes now dear, And friends they hope to meet, Far from this old, long-cherished spot, Though this can never be forgot.
Those leave to-day,-while others stay, Still lingering in the arms Of our old mother, for no other Has yet possessed her charms For those, who, from their childhood up, Have sipp'd their life-blood from her cup.
There's now a vacant lot, In some old burial spot, That waits for you and me ;
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For time, that rolls along, Bears on its current strong, Such slender barks as we, To sink them in that endless deep, Where now, such countless millions sleep.
Yet, there's a home above, Of pure, undying love, Where friends may meet once more.
May we, and every son
Of good old Hubbardston, When this short life is o'er, Be borne to that delightful home, Where parting seasons never come.
PROCEEDINGS AND EXERCISES.
AT'a legal town meeting of the inhabitants of the town of Hubbards- ton, held on the 2nd day of April. 1866, a committee consisting of Wm. Bennett, Elisha Woodward, Levi Peirce, Henry Prentiss, and Aaron Greenwood were chosen to take into consideration the propriety of hold- ing a Centennial Celebration, when the one hundredth Anniversary of the Incorporation of the town should arrive.
At a subsequent meeting, held Nov. 6th, of that year, the Committee made their report, recommending that a day on or abont the 13th of June. A. D. 1867, be set apart and observed as a Centennial Celebration, in accordance with the enstoms of the times in the vicinity. And also recommended that a Committee of Arrangements, and other necessary committees be appointed, and an appropriation of three hundred dollars be made to defray the expenses of proenring an historical address to be delivered on that occasion, and the publication of that address, and other statistics and historieal information connected therewith.
And the Town voted to accept and adopt the report, and thereupon chose Levi Peirce, Elisha Woodward, William Bennett, Lyman Wood- ward, and T. Sibley Heald, as the Committee of Arrangements, aud en- trusted them with the entire subject.
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