USA > Massachusetts > Worcester County > Royalston > The history of the town of Royalston, Massachusetts > Part 32
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O comrades, the army that then marched away Was only one army that helped win the day. There were other grand armies that struggled and strove; An army wrote letters of courage and love; An army sent daily good things without stint; An army of fingers were picking the lint; An army of angels with soft touch and tread Chased many a dark cloud from the hospital bed; And all through the North, between the great seas, Was an army of women-upon their knees! O, not 'till that day when we know as we're known And the great books are opened before the white throne, Will we know what we owe mother, sweetheart and wife For the part that they bore in that terrible strife.
Apostrophe to the Flag:
O, Banner beautiful! O, Flag we prize! Not earthborn thou! God wove thee in the skies! The westering sun, athwart the drifting white, Flashed in red waves its rosy bars of light Until they touched with stripes of crimson hue
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Heaven's starry, boundless, soundless sea of blue. There wert thou first unfurled for mortal eyes, And Freedom, for her emblem, robbed the skies! And, dear old Banner, in the years to come From other wars should kind hands bear thee home; Should thy dear folds, above our heads, once more Be stained with powder, grime and patriots' gore, Should deadly bullet and the cruel shell Rend the fair colors that we love so well, Should other battles on thy stripes be traced, Stripes, fringed and faded, tattered and defaced, We'll love thee better for each stain and tear, And give thee greeting with our foreheads bare! God bless the Flag that freemen died to save! God rest the hearts that died that it might wave! On the red battlefield, where'er they fell, In hospital, in prison ward and cell,
At home, where loving hearts their vigils keep, They closed their dear brave eyes and-went to sleep! And when the Springtime comes, with tender tread We strew the flowers of May above the dead. They have passed on! and, though by us unseen, There's but a gauzy veil that hangs between; And leaving there our offering, sweet with dew, Methinks the breath of flowers must filter through! Sweet be their sleep! and when, our warfare done, We hear beyond the stream our sunset gun, When the Great Captain calls the heavenly roll, And speaks the name of each immortal soul, Through Heaven's arches, ringing glad and clear, Let angels catch our joyous answer, "Here!"
NANCY PRIEST
The most gifted daughter of Royalston, in the realm of poetry is Nancy Priest, whose poem entitled "Over the River" has carried the author's name wherever the English language is read. She was born in the easterly part of Royalston Dec. 7, 1836. Her full maiden name was Nancy Amelia Woodbury Priest. Her father, Francis Dana Priest, was a native of
NANCY PRIEST
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Gardner, Mass., and her mother, Sophia B. Priest, was the daughter of Col. Jacob Woodbury, a prominent man in Winchendon, and famous in his day as a Revolutionary veteran, and for his exploits in pursuing and slaying a wolf. The family had become residents of Royalston but a few months before the birth of their gifted daughter, and after a few years' residence in Royalston returned to Winchendon» their former home, which was thereafter their home, with the exception of three or four years in Hinsdale, N. H., between 1851 and 1855.
Nancy never attended school after leaving Winchendon when in her fifteenth year, with the exception of a term or two as a pupil of Professor Ward at Powers Institute in Bernardston in 1858, and she was never from home any length of time until married in 1865.
At a very early age she showed signs of an uncommon mind that betokened future greatness. She learned all the letters of the alphabet, great and small, says her mother, before she was two years old, and it is stated of her, when about two years old, that nothing ever pleased her like hearing reading and singing. While still in childhood she used to write poetry on her slate, and rub it out quickly if it was likely to be read. Her schoolmates soon found out her fondness for making rhymes, and used to coax her to make poetry for them. Her earliest poem in the printed collection is said to have been written at the age of fourteen, and is entitled "Lines Written to Her Schoolmates," and relates to her removal from Winchendon to Hinsdale. It was while living in Hinsdale that her famous poem "Over the River" was written.
At the time she was living at home and working in a paper mill. One day at the noon hour while the other employees were gone to dinner, she remained, as usual, because her home was at some distance. As she sat on a sack of rags looking across the Asheulot River, which flows through the village, the impulse in her breast moved her to write. Rev. E. S. Best, formerly a pastor of the Methodist Church in Winchendon, gives the origin of the poem in an article prepared for a magazine as follows: "Over the misty current her dark eyes gleam with a mysterious brilliancy. She picks up a piece of paper, and with her pencil writes rapidly for a few minutes: but the bell rings; the machinery begins to clatter; she thrusts the
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paper into her pocket, and resumes her work. On that crumpled paper is written the first sketch of a poem which has gained a well-deserved renown." The author of the poem, in a letter to the brother of a musical composer who desired to set it to music, gave the following account of its origin: "The little poem to which he purposes to give musical expression was written originally on a sheet of brown wrapping paper, in the hour's nooning at the mill, and then carried home, thrown in with other loose papers, and entirely forgotten until I came across it by accident again while looking for something else, more than a year after."
The poem first appeared in the Springfield Republican of August 22, 1857, when she was in her twenty-second year, and under the name of "Lizzie Lincoln," which was the nom- de- plume under which she wrote many of her poems. It was soon set to music by six or eight different composers, and re- garding the poem one writer has said, "One cannot conceive that anything can make it less popular a hundred years hence than it is to-day. Though it cannot compare with Gray's 'Elegy' in finished elegance of expression, yet it has a music, a rhythm, a pathos which is unsurpassed. Surely one has not lived in vain to whom it has been given to speak words of solace, comfort and hope to millions of aching hearts in measures which cling to the memory and infuse the soul with a heavenly calm.
Among her other poems, one of the most popular is the one entitled. "Heaven," which has been much admired, and has found its place in one or more collections of the choicest poetry in the English language, We believe it worthy of a place in the history of her native town.
HEAVEN
Beyond these chilling winds and gloomy skies, Beyond Death's cloudy portal,
There is a land where beauty never dies And love becomes immortal.
A land whose light is never dimmed by shade, Whose fields are ever vernal,
Where nothing beautiful can ever fade, But blooms for aye eternal.
/
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We may not know how sweet its balmy air, How bright and fair its flowers;
We may not hear the songs that echo there Through those enchanted bowers.
The city's shining towers we may not see With our dim, earthly vision;
For Death, the silent warder, keeps the key That opes those gates elysian.
But sometimes, where adown the western sky The fiery sunset lingers,
Its golden gates swing inward noiselessly, Unlocked by silent fingers.
And while they stand a moment half ajar, Gleams from the inner glory, Stream lightly through the azure vault afar, And half reveal the story.
O land unknown! O land of love divine ! Father all wise, eternal, '
Guide, guide these wandering way-worn feet of mine Unto those pastures vernal.
In 1882 a volume of more than one hundred of the poems of Nancy Priest was published, many of which bear the mark of genius, and which are arranged under the divisions of"Reli- gious", "Love and Friendship," "Elegiac Poems," "Patriotic Poems," "Poems of Nature" and "Miscellaneous Poems." In every division are poems of more than ordinary merit and beauty of expression.
It is said that the songs of patriotism are alone sufficient to recommend the whole volume to those who fought our country's battles, and all those who rejoiced in the triumph of freedom. Of the poem entitled "War to the Knife, and the Knife to the Hilt" it has been said that "it is an heroic and awful strain, as terrible as the fiercest lines in the "Marseil- laise Hymn," and that it cannot be read without a shudder. This was written in the darkest hours of our Civil War, when the very life of the nation was in peril.
She was peculiarly sensitive to the charms of Nature, which is strikingly illustrated in her poem.
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INVOCATION
I'm tired of strife; I'm sick of heartless living;
Fain would I from the world's rude jostling flee. No longer toward youth's high ideal striving,
Thy child, O mother Nature! turns to thee.
For thou can'st comfort when the heart is sorest; Oh, let me take thy hand and walk with thee, And watch thee sowing acorns in the forest,
Or scattering spring's blue violets o'er the lea.
Let me sit with thee 'neath the maples' shadows, Or watch upon the hills to see thee pass; Teach me to trace thy footsteps in the meadows By the bright cowslips dotting all the grass.
Speak to me in the murmur of the river; Sing to me with thy thousand voices sweet; Hold my tired head, and let me sit forever Drinking in rest and patience at thy feet.
So shall I rise above earth's selfish sorrow; So shall I win new strength to bear life's pain; And waiting hopefully for heaven to-morrow. Take up my burden, and press on again.
She was married Dec. 22, 1865, to Lieutenant Arrington Clay Wakefield, who had made an honorable record in the War of the Rebellion. She died Sept. 21, 1870, after less than five years of married life, having borne three children, two of whom with her husband survived her.
The "Congregationalist" in an article published a few weeks after her death, referring to her poem "Over the River," said: "It may be doubted whether a single week has trans- pired in the last ten years when these verses might not have been picked up from one or more of our American newspapers in their issue of that week. We know, indeed, of no bit of poetry of late, from any pen, that has struck the popular mind so exactly."
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ALBERT BRYANT
Albert Bryant was born in Troy, N. H., Jan. 30, 1838. He was the son of Lucien and Charlotte Peirce Bryant. When a young child his parents moved to Royalston, the native town of his mother. He was fitted for college at Kim- ball Union (Meriden, N. H.) and Phillips Andover academies, graduating from Amherst College in 1862. He was an honor scholar at Amherst, excelling in mental philosophy and the studies of senior year. His classmate, Rev. George C. Phipps, writes as follows: "His commencement poem was entitled 'The Coming Republic,' and two of its glowing lines might well stand for his own epitaph.
"'That no life however silent in the grand result is lost, When the gain for human progress vindicates its bloody cost.'"'
Another tribute to his poems is from Marquis F. Dickinson, the well-known Boston lawyer, a native of Amherst, and classmate of Bryant's, who writes as follows:
"In my opinion Bryant's poems are the best that ever emanated from an Amherst graduate. He had too much on hand for the free cultivation of his gift, but I am inclined to believe that if he had enjoyed sufficient leisure he might have left behind a great name. I remember the peculiar interest which attached to the title of his address when he grad- uated from the Andover Theological Seminary 'Charity Begins Abroad,' a plea, of course for foreign missions to which he had then devoted himself." Besides his Commencement Poem he wrote the Class Ode, which was sung on Class Day to the old camp-meeting tune to which Mrs. Howe set the words of the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." His poem at the "Centennial Celebration" of Royalston will long be remembered as a tender and loving tribute to the memories and affections of her children.
He studied theology first at Princeton, N. J., but finally graduated at Andover, and was immediately ordained as missionary of the American Board to Sivas, Turkey. The same day of his ordination he was married to Miss Mary E. Torrey, a daughter of the noted "Martyr Torrey," and great- granddaughter of Dr. Emmons, the famous Puritan divine,
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and with united zeal they entered upon work for the Armenians; but after a service of three years, were compelled to leave the field on account of the Bryant's weakness of sight and exposure to ophthalmia. The period spent among the Turks and Ar- menians of Asia Minor, however, proved a source of much profit and influence for him in after years, for his published articles upon those themes alone would fill a large volume.
He was an indefatigable student, and with his multiple pulpit and parish demands upon his thought and speech his pen was never idle, for stories, poems and other articles went con- stantly to the press.
On his return to this country he soon began his ministerial labors. His first church was at Everett, Mass., where he re- mained seven years. From there he went to Somerville, and then as missionary to Lead City, Dakota. He was for eight years Superintendent of the City Missionary Society of Wor- cester. He held many other charges and was particularly adapt- ed and successful in building up "run-down" churches, restoring them to a healthier growth and better financial standing. His wife died in 1897, and he was again married to Miss Anna F. Burnham, who with four of his seven children survive him. He died at Scituate, Mass., Sept. 2, 1904. An obituary notice pub- lished at the time of his death, says: "Albert Bryant was a man of remarkable talents, of great and constant service to man- kind, as a missionary abroad and as pastor over several churches, and always a force for ideals of life, as well as a man who lived for his fellows in every fibre of his being. His personality and his career must recall to the minds of those who in his day,-the day of the crucial stress of the union,-were thrilled by his in- spiring and even prophetic strains."
MRS. GEORGE WOODBURY.
Mrs. George Woodbury was born in Warwick Dec. 25, 1826, her maiden name being Almira Greenwood Chase. She mar- ried George Woodbury of Royalston June 24, 1849, and this town was her home ever after. She was prominent in the social and religious life of the town, and was deeply interested
SIDNEY G. BOSWORTH
REV. ALBERT BRYANT
AMANDA (BEMIS) SMITH
MRS. GEORGE WOODBURY
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in the starting of a public library. Dr. Frank W. Adams in his address on the libraries of Royalston at the dedication of the Phinehas S. Newton Library says, that the present library had its origin in the Ladies Benevolent Society, and that to Mrs. George Woodbury, the honored Secretary of the Society, must be given the credit of the first suggestion of working for that object. She held the pen of a ready and prolific writer of verse, and often furnished verses for many occasions. The best known of her productions is the hymn which was sung by the united choirs of the town to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne" at Royalston's Centennial Celebration, Aug. 25, 1865.
The memr'y of a hundred years, Unfolds its scattered page, And welcomes back, with grateful tears, A past, and present age. We welcome, now, the good old day, Whence gleamed a rising sun,
To guide our footsteps in the way That echoes back "well done."
The red man's feet had wandered here, Where first our grandsires trod; Their hearts were filled with hope and fear - Their firmest trust was God. That hand still leads and guides us on When brighter days illume:
And "home, sweet home," is now our song, While paeans swell the tune.
Amid the nodding forest pines, Their homes a shelter found; Where now we train the clustering vines, And broad, green fields abound. Then welcome, welcome, ever more The names, our hearts enshrine,
And while we count their hardships o'er, Join all in "Auld Lang Syne."
We greet with joy, this hallowed day, Sweet impress of the past;
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'Twill ever shed a ling'ring ray, Time will not soon outlast. We greet you friends, we greet you now, Who claim a birthright here,
Though age has marked the earnest brow, And silvered locks appear.
We welcome back the young and old, The statesman, priest and sage, And seal a friendship, tried and told, That changes not with age. We sing a requiem for the dead, Our mem'ries still retain,
And on their graves our tears will shed While our short lives remain.
We welcome back a hundred years, And breathe a gentle sigh, That mingles with our hopes, and fears, 'Mid changes ever nigh. Soon will another century end, Earth's dearest ties be riven,
Then may these hearts, which sweetly blend, Sing with one voice in Heaven.
The sailing of Mrs. Josephine Ballantine, granddaughter of Royalston's second minister, Rev. Ebenezer Perkins, as a missionary to India called forth the -
Lines addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Joseph L. Perkins - on the sailing of their daughter as a missionary to India, Oct. 23, 1885.
Mother, the days and months are gone, Which I have told you make the year, When I shall sail upon the sea, So kiss me now, without a tear, For to-morrow I sail for India.
And look upon me, with the smile That gives good cheer to all my ways; Forget it seems the sunshine ray,
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To guide me on to future days, As to-morrow I sail for India.
And breathe anew the heartfelt prayer, That while "I lay me down to sleep"
That he who holds the unseen winds,
Will stay their fury on the deep, While I to-morrow sail for India.
And Father, say, as oft you do, Something to bring a cheering smile, 'Twill be like apples set in gold While silver pictures, are the while, When I to-morrow sail for India.
Now, good-bye, father, mother, all, Whose choicest wish knows no alloy, We'll hope for a reunion here,
Or for sweet days of well-earned joy, Beyond the sea, where India lies.
SIDNEY G. BOSWORTH
Sidney G. Bosworth, the writer of the hymn sung at Royalston's 150th Anniversary, is a native of Royalston, son of Chilson, Jr. and Sarah Prescott Bosworth. He was born June 11, 1861 in what was once known as the Withington place, just south of the North Royalston Road, on land ad- joining the Beryl Hill Farm. The family moved to Win- chendon when he was eleven years old, and that town has since been his home. With the exception of a few hymns, his poems have been mostly written for special occasions. They are in quite a variety of stanzas and bear the mark of special care in construction. His longest poem, up to the present time, is "Invitation and Welcome" written for the Winchendon 150th Anniversary celebration, and consists of eight verses of Spencerian stanzas.
His "Anniversary Hymn," written for the Royalston 150th Anniversary, was sung by a Winchendon Chorus Choir at the exercises of August 3.
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I
There's a thrill of gladness in our hearts to-day, As we meet and greet dear ones from far away. Tears of joy are falling, glad songs upward soar, Glad are we to greet you, dear old home once more.
Refrain.
Welcome, happy people! hear all nature say, Welcome! yes, thrice welcome, to our town to-day See! the fields are teeming, as in days of yore, Whispering, welcome, welcome to your home once more.
II
Memories dear are crowding, clothing with a charm Every recollection of the dear old farm, Fancy brings before us scenes of childhood sweet, As we come rejoicing, dear old friends to meet.
Refrain.
III
Summertime in beauty looks on the display, You now make in honor of your natal day. Spirits of the fathers, watching from above, Mark with glad approval this display of love.
Refrain.
His "Response Especial" is a fine tribute to the "Boys in Blue," and a recognition of the country's dependence upon God, and is worthy of preservation:
"God of our fathers! known of old," Who in those long dark years of strife Gave to the blue, the victory, And thus preserved our nation's life. To thee, to-day our prayers ascend Be thou with us, unto the end.
Thy nation old, was rent in twain, Thy people worshipped wood and stone,
In our dark hour, it was not so,
We looked, Oh, God, to thee alone.
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Father in heaven! hear us we pray, Teach us to look to thee alway.
Honor we give and praise, to those, Who bravely met, our country's foes, On battlefield, by campfire bright Their hearts were strong, the wrong to right; Thou wast their God, and thus 'twill be Honor to them, Glory to thee.
Brave hearts, and true, who wore the blue, We meet again to honor thee Dearer to us you grow each year, Thus may it ever, ever be.
"Lord God of Hosts!" to thee we pray, Be with "The Boys in Blue," to-day.
Among his other verses are "Lines in Memory of Charles Sampson," "Hymn to Men's Bible Class of the Methodist Sunday School, Winchendon," and verses for a Birthday Club, together with others prepared for various occasions.
AMANDA BEMIS SMITH
Amanda (Bemis) Smith, a writer of numerous poems and articles on various subjects contributed by her to New England papers was born in Warwick, Mass., April 1, 1827, a daughter of Luke and Susan Steele Bemis. She was married to Nathan Smith of Royalston at the age of nineteen years. Five children were born to them, a daughter who died in infancy; a son, Leander A., who died in Athol in 1907; a son Loreston B., who died in Royalston in 1863 at the age of thirteen years; and two daughters, Mrs. Charles H. Grant and Miss Mary Smith both of Brattleboro, Vt.
Her parents moved to Royalston in her early childhood and she was a resident in this town until 1871, when with her husband, she moved to Athol and later to Springfield, Mass., where he died in 1878. After Mr. Smith's death she lived in Springfield, Athol, and in the vicinity of Boston a number of years before making her home with her daughter in Brattle- boro, Vt., where she died Sept. 19, 1915.
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She was a woman of unusual mental attainments, having been a wide and constant reader and student from her child- hood. Her poems were published in the Boston Transcript, Springfield Republican and New England Farmer and she was a frequent contributor to the Worcester West Chronicle from the time it was founded for a period of more than forty years. Many verses written by her for family reunions and birthday anniversaries are treasured by friends and relatives.
Her poem that became the most widely known was one written immediately after the Johnstown, Pa., flood entitled, "Johnstown or Conemaugh Flood," which she presented to the Governor of Pennsylvania to be sold and the proceeds used for the flood sufferers. This was published in both book and pamphlet form and was sold in large numbers in Pennsyl- vania and adjacent states.
LIGHT FROM THE DARKNESS
Comfort ye my people .- Isa. 40:1
O! Angels that hover o'er scenes of distress; O! Spirits that wing your way earthward to bless;
O! Love, on whose lips is the balm for all woes;
O! Faith, on whose bosom our dead find repose.
We wait for thy bidding to lift up the lyre, Once more with glad music and hope to inspire The homeless, the heart sick, the weary and faint, And the hands who are toiling mid Conemaugh's plaint.
O! Earth, wreathed in beauty of verdure and bloom, Fair birthplace of fame and of glory the tomb; Full often by earthquake, by storm, flood and fire, Thou hast drank back thy life with its human desire.
And paved with destruction the way for the rew, Thus Johnstown's fair city by faith now I view; Restored to thy glory by time's ceaseless tide, Once more thou shalt rise in thy honor and pride.
The mountain will fold the fair lake to her breast, The rivers course on in mid ocean to rest,- Ambition and enterprise rear its high tower Where fate felled its thousands in one fatal hour.
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Thy churches, thy schools, thy halls and thy homes, Again to the Heavens shall lift up their domes, And fields again smile in glad beauty, where now The sword of destruction hath laid them low.
The fame of thy morrow shall glitter more bright As the veil of thy sadness uplifts to the light ; And more shall the love of our Union abound When the suffering lambs of the flock are all found.
One heart, and one hand, is our nation's strong band ; "Divided we fall, but united we stand." In sorrow or sickness, in death and dismay, One Father o'er all-and His love is the way.
In fair Pennsylvania's fertile domain, - Where the blue Alleghanies are woven in chain, - 'Mong nature's wild grottoes, where fairies might dream, Where Stony Creek glides into Conemaugh stream : Mid the wealth of her ore, in the pride of her fame, Fair Johnstown arose in its ancestral name. Her villages, ten, were grouped side by side, With homes born of love and of liberty's pride, And close to heart, with industrial behest, Was the Cambria plant, in its iron bound vest. Her wealth and her fame were in many a deal ; Our railways have girdled their lines with her steel. Here, science and art and knowledge held power, With houses of worship and schools rich in dower ; And all that the state with its honors afford, In the circling domain of the city was stored. But, the requiem we sing of her glory today, Is the fate of her thousands now gone, -gone away, Away on the wings of Eternity's might,- Away to the realms of our visionless sight. But the breezes that waft from the mountain's fair brow And dimple with kisses the streamns as they flow ; The life that will waken the fields and the flowers To mingle their perfume with sunshine and showers, Will breathe in memorial for ages to come, Of Conemaugh's grief -- and the fair city's doom. And the spirit of Kickenapawling will wake
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