USA > Massachusetts > Bristol County > Taunton > Quarter millinnial celebration of the city of Taunton, Massachusetts, Tuesday and Wednesday, June 4 and 5, 1889 > Part 6
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At the conclusion of the Historical Address, which without the appendixes, occupied two hours in its delivery and was listened to by the audience with the closest atten- tion; the "Star Spangled Banner, " was sung by Mrs. Cora E. Rhodes, assisted by the chorus and orchestra, after which the poet of the day, Henry W. Colby, Esq., delivered the following :-
1639. POEM. 1 889.
A staunch old proverb in parental tone Sagely remarks-"Let well enough alone;"
The tale is told-and fitly told; what need That I, whose tribute must be weak indeed, Should dim, by thoughts whose lightness might profane, The charm these reminiscent hours contain ? But Fashion, with its many curious laws, Writes in its code an after-dinner clause,
And this provides that though profuse the feast, Yet shall the list of viands be increased By adding superfluities thereto,
To tempt the pampered appetite anew ;
·
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QUARTER MILLENNIAL CELEBRATION.
Thus was I summoned to this bounteous" spread, Whose guests already have been overfed, Upon the chance presumption-we will say- That I might have some dainty stored away : And as the Jester at the kingly court, Must needs contribute to the festive sport, Though airy chaff and jokes but feebly made, May be, perchance, his only stock in trade, So I, though neither king nor lord decree, Will all too gladly seal my loyalty, And, minus cap and bells, will forge and cast My link to chain the Present with the Past. Two centuries and a half have bottled up The wine we pour to-day from memory's cup, And who may censure if the overflow Should swamp some champion's wit and lay him low? What would your ideal Yankee be without His proud prerogative to sing and shout ? Deal gently, then, with every awkward slip, If, in exuberance, the Muse should trip, And while it labors for the public weal, Forget its follies and applaud its zeal.
What mines of thought they delve who backward reach Two cycles and a half, a century each ! Even the years one human life can span, Have almost seemed to change Creation's plan- So full our world, so barren must have been The fields in which our sires were wont to glean. Trouble and hardship, danger and distress Haunted the old Colonial wilderness, And rose the morning sun from day to day,
79 .
POEM.
Upon a bleak and almost cheerless way. Existence was no pastime played in bowers Of Fancy's framing decked with Fortune's flowers, Where ugly shadows in each pathway crept, And banished comfort even while they slept. Pleasure was shorn of all its keenest zest, And happiest moments were but feebly blest ; They saw not as have these-their children, seen- A Canaan with its fields of living green, Each hour some new-born joy or glad surprise, And Earth reflecting gleams of Paradise. Within the narrow circle of their lot, They moved in line precise and faltered not, And welcomed hardship with a joyous pride, If but the Lord of hosts was satisfied.
Could some Van-Winkle of that Pilgrim band Rouse from his lethargy at our command And stalk abroad upon the city street, Our programme of to-day had been complete, The pen of Irving would have cried a halt, And Jefferson's keen art have been at fault To frame a picture of the waking dream Of one who thus should voyage Oblivion's stream. The swiftly passing years have wrought a change Beyond Imagination's widest range, And he in veriest truthfulness might say- "A thousand years of his were as our day." An age of Science has affirmed its place, And Art is pressing Nature in the race. No longer is the restless soul content With blessing in its crudest element,
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QUARTER MILLENNIAL CELEBRATION.
But Life is pouring on us to the fill, In untold measure of developed skill. A world of art, the landscape and the field In richer fullness of their harvests yield. The fruits that deck our Autumn's diadem With golden gems, were quite unknown to them; Even the flower that by the wayside grew, Has changed its tint and wears a lovelier hue : From rudest plant that bloomed on sterile waste, A dozen cultured scions charm the taste, And fresh-born floriculture, rich and fair, Shall greet the wakened vision everywhere. What shall he think when even Nature moves In paths so foreign to her old-time grooves? With firm allegiance to the God he served, His faith in miracles had never swerved, But those were dimly scrolled on History's page- A mystic record of a far-off age, While here, beyond his senses to deny, Are marvels wrought before his very eye. Just for one moment bid your fancy scan The grim_and startled antiquarian : In mournful loneliness behold him stand A stranger in the strangest kind of land, Who might well doubt, 'mid scenes so quaint and queer, That ever he inhabited this sphere : His untrained senses work as in a dream And nineteenth-century chaos reigns supreme : In vain the veteran stretches eyes and ears For some familiar sign of other years; Was this the land that he was nurtured in-
8 I
POEM.
This restless race a portion of his kin? Could modern genius with its mighty tread, Steal such a march above his slumb'ring head, And progress roll in such a tidal wave, Nor fail to start the sleeper in his grave? And whence these wonders-from a source Divine, Or strange devices sprung from Satan's mine ? For truly might this neophyte of ours Suspect the working of Satanic powers, Where every whim of daily life is hedged By some inventive process newly fledged ;- Inventions often bearing on their face Suspicions of a diabolic trace. What more infernal to a casual eye Than harnessed steam like fury dashing by, And whence these bound unless to Pluto's realm, Who, with some modern Stygian at the helm, Are stalking on at such a startling speed, Propelled by fiery breath of iron steed ? What arrant nonsense could be more complete, Than shouts the newsboy on the city street- "Evening Gazette-last issue-all about Some old-world king dethroned or counted out ? " Was ever stranger tale of fiction heard, Or could be human fancy more absurd- To hourly voice the beat of distant heart In lands so many thousand miles apart, And ascertain as with a lightning-flash The daily balance of our foreign cash? And yet, old friend, that doesn't tell it all, For hear yon chap "hallooing" at the wall,
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QUARTER MILLENNIAL CELEBRATION.
While every whisper that his lips convey Is clearly listened to for miles away. Munchausen's monstrous tales are told anew, But modern sorcery has stamped them true ; The frozen music in his bugle-horn No more with empty echo mocks in scorn, Since floods of song and peal of merry laugh Betray the secrets of the phonograph. With every step and turn our Pilgrim takes, Some new and strange discovery he makes; Along the old-time lanes the street-car wheels Press with bewildering clatter at his heels : The wayside saplings, shorn as though by fire, Are joined together by a web of wire, Whose pulsing lines, as arteries of thought, An instantaneous, world-wide voice has caught : The tick and stroke of omnipresent clock Salute his ear with nerve-disturbing shock ; He marked his hours, if we believe the yarn, By chasing solar shadows round the barn, Or if the sun for cause should fail to tell, An hour-glass did the business quite as well. One glance within a photographic place, And lo ! his portrait stares him in the face, While vague remembrances of patience worn, Struggling with sullen fire on frosty morn, Mingled with other memories which wear A dangerous nearness with the verb "to swear, "- These all steal o'er him as his senses catch Their first impressions of a friction-match. We have a proverb held in honored trust-
83
POEM.
"Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just;" We render this upon a broader plan, For six times armed is our revolver-man ; How old Miles Standish would have leaped for joy, Had he possessed our military toy, And Indian-hunting would have had a boom To hurry many a native's day of doom.
" 'T'were hard to tell which shall impress the most,- The merits or the faults our age can boast; As every crown is mated with a cross, And Fate permits no gain without some loss, So shall our newly-wakened friend find cause To frown upon some strange and startling flaws ; Not all is gold that glitters, and, alas- Too often flaunts its substitute in brass ; Utopia still remains a distant dream Of inspiration for the poet's theme, And mighty strivings for the unattained, Leave present joys unnoticed or disdained. The press and push of Life leave little room For the old halcyon days of bud and bloom ; Scarce known is Youth; the infant, in his pride, Has banished cradle, and in state doth ride ; Old-fashioned childhood lingers as a myth ; Twelve-year old Jack is known as Mr. Smith ; And half-grown urchins vaunt their manhood more Than did their ancient grandsires at four-score. Along with lavish luxury and taste March side by side extravagance and waste ; From Crœsus' daily meal the crumbs alone Would make the old Thanksgiving table groan,
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QUARTER MILLENNIAL CELEBRATION.
And God is mocked in praying for the poor Too often hungering at the rich man's door. Confusing customs lacking seeming sense Crowd to the front with arrogant pretense ; Time was when honest people, it is said, Pronounced their prayers and tumbled into bed, And deemed a Christian's duty fairly done With business ended at the set of sun ; Not so with us, who entertain a freak Which makes existence vastly more unique ; Scouting at Nature's laws, which seem to mark Daylight for business, and for sleep the dark : We paralyze old customs and dragoon The work of morning into afternoon : Thus, paradoxical, our matineé Puts in its claim the latter half of day; The proper dinner is an evening rout, And supper crowds to-morrow's breakfast out, Disturbing habits by tradition fixed, And rendering morn and eve a little mixed; Hence doth our Pilgrim find the streets at night Aglow with modern-born electric light, Whose spectral rays glare at him as the ghosts Of fallen stars on lofty hitching posts.
Note his amazed expression as he reads Emblazoned on our seal-"A woman leads ;" Alas, what doubtful change of base is this That throws its shadow over human bliss ? It was not so in ages e're he slept When woman silence in the churches kept, And deemed her worldly mission best fulfilled
85
POEM.
In following where her legal master willed : And yet, my dear and resurrected sir, Sadly have you misapprehended her, For verily, did not the record score Her leadership in Eden long before? What if in part our speech belie our act And reads our motto fancy more than fact,- What if to-day we rest our strongest claim In kind perpetuation of her name, Through trade-mark or an advertising bill For pleasure wagon or a cotton-mill? Better by far her memory thus embalmed Than on some stagnant wave of life becalmed, Whose many daughters, spinster though she was, Shall find a cheering music in the buzz Of busy wheels, whose kind though rugged play Is charming poverty and want away.
"Tis not the province of the bard to dwell Whereon the orator might better tell, But sundry notions of "Ye olden time," Inspire a passing comment from our rhyme. We read that "should the Governor-elect Throw that high office into disrespect By non-acceptance, when the public voice Through vote unanimous declared their choice, Due cause for declination he must show Or pay a fine of twenty pounds or so.". Let modern statesmen ruminate on that, When next they pass their office-seeking hat ; With contrite heart look back upon an age When politicians scrambled not for wage,
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QUARTER MILLENNIAL CELEBRATION.
And when desire for high position had Small charm to lure your Puritanic dad. If Governors were priced at twenty pounds, What limit, think you, of financial bounds Would circumscribe, at proper market rate Some of our minor officers of state,- Whose Titan struggles for official loaves, Would strip the laurels from a dozen Joves ?
Among old penalties for slips from grace, We find this pointer stares us in the face ;. Shirking church service cost the absentee In form of fine, a round ten-shilling fee. From this small straw we find the truth evolved Concerning one old problem long unsolved ; Why those grim saints should take such keen delight In service, morning, afternoon and night, Was never quite apparent till we read The old colonial statutes on that head, For, facts and premises brought down to us, We reasoned to a fair conclusion thus- If we, whose Sabbath homes are all aglow With every comfort that a soul can know, And piety by dint of fashion's aid, Combines devotion with a dress-parade, Where inspiration generates in style, Within some gorgeous architectural pile, Upon whose sunlit panes the artist paints His grotesque fancies of the honored saints, (Creating pictures, which to unschooled eyes Are those of angels in extreme disguise.) With more than kind provision made for those,
87
POEM.
Who wish religion mingled with repose,- The studied comfort of luxuriant pews, Where rhyme and reason both suggest a snooze, While padded floors as flowery beds of ease, Turn most invitingly to bended knees, With cultured choir, who render in their strains, All shades of meaning which that noun contains ; And last, though not by any means the least, The easy eloquence of gifted priest, Whose rarely used anathemas are hurled With much discretion at the outside world, Thereby implying that his favored flock Are no prospective part of Satan's stock, If all this panoply of Christian art
Wake not devotion in the modern heart,
What strange inducement, human or divine Compelled attendance at the Pilgrimn shrine? Surely not comfort lured the devotee In paths, where, plainly, comfort could not be, Nor could the ancient preacher's threatening tones Bring balm of soothing to the sinner's groans The charm of music held but little part, And e'en that little seldom reached high art, Where voices unattuned launched into song And dragged all shades of melody along. But here the record haply solves the doubt And lets a long mysterious secret out. Who questions that a moderate fine to-day Might guide and keep us in the better way And just the faintest touch of sacrifice Develop light for our beclouded eyes ?
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QUARTER MILLENNIAL CELEBRATION.
Is there not danger that the Christian song- "Salvation's free," is pitched a little strong, As each one knows that what he values most Is so esteemed with some regard to cost?
Another freak of Pilgrim enterprise Forbade those Sabbath saints to close their eyes,- The which was judged a pious breach of peace, To be reported to the town police. The old police at times were busy men, If sermons now are types of sermons then ; And this stirs up the point we wish to state,- That naps in church are subjects for debate : Why should the pulpit 'scape its proper due And all the odium fall upon the pew? Cause and effect as equal factors pose, Which quite explains the wearied layman's doze. And he who cannot keep his flock awake May fairly rate his calling a mistake.
Ah, well, the wayward world must have its joke Though souls are weary and though hearts be broke ; Tis well to banish carking care awhile, And solace sorrow with a sunny smile. Pleasure and pain are proper counterparts- A twin-born heritage of human hearts, And whether sadness shrouds us with its spell, Joy has its compensating claims as well. Life lacks in flavor did we not admit The sauce of humor and the spice of wit. And if our Pilgrim fathers seldom smiled Or merrily their weary hours beguiled,
89
POEM.
Then do their virtues claim a brighter hue, Reflected through an atmosphere so blue. Methinks our age in this has wiser grown And taken on a better, healthier tone; No longer is the solemn phiz a sign Of any kinship to a life divine, Nor do funereal features guarantee Their owner's conscience altogether free ; Even the parson airs his pun with grace And smiles adorn the worthy deacon's face ; Dramatic art, so long beneath the ban, No longer horrifies the Puritan, And Shakespeare's shadows-(or Lord Bacon's-which ?) Are flitting almost in the cloister's niche.
It were an easy task to jog along In simple verse and never-ending song; The brain revolves as doth a school-boy's top, And once in motion scarce knows when to stop. Hour after hour the Muse might ramble on Amid the shadows of the days agone, And newer thoughts and fresher fancies still Would throng Imagination's path at will : Vast is the theme and worthy of the pen Of loftiest flight among the poet-ken : If but a master hand might press the keys That chime our rich heroic harmonies, Bringing the glories of the Past to view In tints which I, poor limner, cannot do Then were a picture drawn so grandly fair, That all the world with pride its fame might share ; But I must deem my tribute fittest paid
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QUARTER MILLENNIAL CELEBRATION.
Through thought unspoken and with word unsaid, Content am I to chant in lighter lays And wake the echos of more peaceful days.
Nor were our genealogic jubilee Complete, unless we climb the family tree And greet those scions who have held aloof So many years from the maternal roof ; For Taunton was a mother-town, forsooth, With wayward children in their earlier youth, Who needs must fold their tents and, Arab-like, For fresher fields and newer pastures strike, And in their fond conceit to go alone, Must set up little townships of their own, Around the hearthstone of their childhood's home, They need no welcome, bidding them to come, For in the free and easy reach of all, Our latchstring hangs upon the outer wall; The mother-heart in self-complacent mood, Has only plaudits for her wandering brood And grants them, with no small degree of pride, A place of honor by the parent's side.
Perchance, when two more centuries shall have flown, And with the Past our Present shall be known, Our children's children with their speech and song Shall meet and pass these compliments along ; With rev'rent hand shall take the volume down, Which tells the story of the grand old town, While we, as Pilgrims of a later age, Shall furnish copy for the second page. And will they, think you, as our names are told,
91
POEM.
Weave with our memories some threads of gold ? Will they in truthfulness find voice to say As we have boasted of our sires to-day ? Shall they, as we have done, a story tell,- That for our day and age, we builded well, Or must their bard, with fetter on his tongue, In kindness leave our eulogy unsung ? Duty enlarges with advancing years ; Louder our call than that which reached the ears Of those whose narrow pathway day by day, Within the handbreath of a circle lay; Shall our ten talents, coined of brightest gold, For lack of use grow dim with rust and mould, Nor richer harvest reap than they have done, To whom the Master trusted with but one? And here a lesson read, you whose life's toil Has been a struggle mainly for its spoil- You who have gathered honey all your lives Like human bees in mercenary hives- Who, from some chance-born height of vantage place, Have looked not Fate but Fortune in the face- Feeding with golden spoons from Mammon's plates, With little thought of Earth's unfortunates,- By so much more as Fortune's friendly smile, Through kindly Providence hath blessed your while Above those patient souls whose lot was cast Within a barren and unfruitful past, So presses with an unrelenting claim, A call of duty which to shun is shame. Of what avail the wealth of millionaire,
Whose days are freighted with a world of care,
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QUARTER MILLENNIAL CELEBRATION.
If increased riches open not the door For love and charity in greater store ? If merely counting dollars were a joy, Then blest indeed the banker's office-boy, Whose fortune, though it scarce conceals his rags, Is quite the equal of old Moneybags. The rich may live and die: what better they, Lifeless and earth-bound than the common clay, And hath not Scripture, as the text is given, Almost denied to such the hope of Heaven? Let new-born inspiration from this hour, Lend to your gold a more benignant power ; Break the charmed circle which has wrought this spell Of loving wealth, not wisely, but too well, And grant the crowning grace our city needs To round the record of her better deeds. Enlarge' her charities and hush the sneers That all too often smite our tingling ears ; With liberal hand endow the sick man's home, Within whose portals health and hope may come; Be more than generous-be just to those Who saved your country. from your country's foes ; Spanning these many years of retrospect, It seems a sorry and a strange neglect, That bade those heroes in despondent mood, No longer wait their city's gratitude ; May those who ring the next centennial bell With happier voice than ours their story tell Of monumental benefactions strewn In every path where want or need is known.
But Time, which brings all mundane things to grief,
93
POEM.
Bids me afford your patient ears relief ; Yet would I, ere I set my task aside, Pledge the old hamlet with a loyal pride ; Forever be her memories a joy Beyond all hostile fortune to destroy ; In hours of needed rest from toil, I find Her charm of peacefulness exceeding kind ; The trees that shade her pleasant streets and ways, A lingering vestige of the earlier days, Are gladsome in the eyes of those who prize The bounteous gifts which Nature's hand supplies ; The fields o'er which I rambled when a lad, Then only with the simplest verdure clad, Have laid aside their coat of native green, And happy home-life paints anew the scene; Those modest cottage-homes and garden-plots Are more than brown-stone fronts and city lots. "God made the country and man made the town, " The scribe of poesy hath written down, And though both town and country God hath willed, And each with tokens of His goodness filled, Yet rustic Nature wears a happier face Than ever shone from out the market-place.
Peace be within thy walls fair home of ours, And prospering airs possess thy sheltering bowers ; And as the coming generations ring The changes that successive epochs bring, May there be written, never less than now, A fond, maternal welcome on thy brow. As an old homestead to the wearied heart, Of all things else remains a joy apart,
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QUARTER MILLENNIAL CELEBRATION.
Reaching with outstretched hand to every son, Though he be prodigal or prudent one, So may this homestead of a larger kin, With Memory's echoes lure her children in; May there be tender voices in each breeze That waves with rustling ripple through her trees ; Sermons in every rock and stone, which preach With more than human eloquence of speech ; Books in her lakes and brooks, whose magic lore Charms as a loving study evermore, And good in all that tells us Nature's truth, Which never quite betrays the dreams of Youth, But ever and anon lights up the path That leads the toiler toward Life's aftermath, And he must senseless be and dull indeed, Who in his Autumn hours has failed to read Among the lessons that his years have brought, That none were plainer or more kindly taught, Than that which writes the home that gave him birth As one among the dearest spots on earth.
The closing hymn America was then sung with telling effect by the Beethoven Society and the great assemblage, accompanied by Reeves' Band, after which Rev. Charles H. Learoyd pronounced the
BENEDICTION.
The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of His son Jesus Christ our Lord ; and the Blessing of God Almighty, the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, be amongst you, and remain with you always. Amen.
NECK OF LAND, A Business Centre in the Olden Time.
1
Fuller. HERsey.89
ANCHOR FORGE, The Original Taunton Iron Works.
THE BANQUET.
At the conclusion of the exercises in Music Hall, car- riages were at hand to convey the invited guests of the city to Agricultural Hall, on the Bristol County Fair Grounds, for the appointed Banquet, served in admirable style by the renowned caterer, T. D. Cook of Boston.
Plates were laid for six hundred persons, and that num- ber were supposed to be present. The Hall was tastefully decorated and music was furnished by Reeves' American Band.
After the company were seated, Mayor Hall invited Rev. John P. Forbes, pastor of the First Congregational Society, Taunton, to invoke a Divine Blessing, which he did, as follows :-
O thou, who wast and art and art to come, we bow before thee in spirit. Age after age thy children seek thee and find that of thy faithfulness and mercy there is no end. We reverently thank thee for all the blessings which we enjoy. Deeply mindful of the hardship, the sacrifice and the noble fidelity of our Fathers, -we pray that we, thy servants, may be strong and true to do the work laid upon us, that every good we have received from the past may be bettered in our hands, and sacredly preserved for the fu- ture. Humbly we ask that thy Kingdom may come and thy will be done in our beloved land and in all the earth. And as thine is the honor and the glory, so shall the praise be thine, forever and ever. Amen.
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