USA > Maine > Oxford County > Buckfield > A history of Buckfield, Oxford County, Maine, from the earliest explorations to the close of the year 1900 > Part 22
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HISTORY OF BUCKFIELD
Col. Albert D. White
After many years of successful business as a tanner he sold out to Mr. Josiah W. Whitten and bought the farm above the vil- lage where Abijah Buck, the founder of the town had settled. Here Col. White passed the last years of his life. He died Dec. 13, 1887. His wife died July 17, 1891. They had three chil- dren: (1), Julia O., born Feb. 7, 1841, married Rev. S. L. B. Chase and had four children, Albert W., Harold L., William B., and Alice W., all deceased except Wm. B. Chase, who resides in Thompson, Conn. She died May 18, 1893. (2), Alice M., born July 31, 1845, died March 16, 1871. (3), E. Frances, born June 7, 1851, married June 30, 1880, Elmer B. Austin of Buckfield and has six children : Albert W., born Aug. 9, 1882 ; Harold C., born Oct. 10, 1883, died July 30, 1887 ; Grace J., born July 6, 1885; Edward J., born Dec. 11, 1887, died Oct. 10, 1888; L. Bessie, born May 4, 1889 and Melinda H., born Nov. 12, 1890.
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CHAPTER XXI. BUCKFIELD POETS.
ALFRED COLE. (See Sketch) CONVALESCENCE.
How beautiful is the world ! After the weeks in a dreary round, While I, a helpless prisoner bound, On my lonely bed have lain, With the weariness of day and night, And only glimpses of sun and light, Thru the blur of the window pane.
Oh, the deep blue sky and the blessed air! Oh, the glorious sunshine everywhere, And the bird-songs in the trees! Blossoming orchards and fields of green- Was ever before such freshness seen? Or such sweetness haunting the breeze?
I see the flash of the oriole's wings In the leaves of the lofty elm, where he sings His joy to the sunlit hours ; And idly I watch the swallows fly And list to the droning lullaby Of bees in the garden flowers.
Passersby I note as one in a dream- How sprightly and full of vigor they seem. While I in weakness remain ; And I sigh and wonder if ever, or when I may walk as of old with my fellowmen, And my tenure of life-work regain.
Yet how beautiful is the world ! Throbbing with life and bright with cheer, Thrilling with promise and hopes of the year -- There can be no fairer place Than Earth, when its springtide voices call And Heaven seems bending over all With a tender, smiling face.
CHILDREN AND FLOWERS. Flowers, gathered from fields and the valleys And borders of country ways, With ferns from the wildwood alleys Come to brighten my shut-in days ; For they bring the sweet breath from the days that are long, The murmur of bees and the bobolink's song.
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Bright-eyed and with faces glowing, Little children before me stand, Each on me some flower-gift bestowing With a sun-browned, chubby hand ; And my heart is touched with a tender thrill By these offerings sweet of their own free-will.
Thus, while summer is weaving its story, Oft these little gleaners I see ; Gifts, fairer than Solomon's glory, They are modestly bringing to me : Blessings upon you, my little friends,
For the sweetness of life that your presence lends.
MARY HART CUMMINGS.
Mary Hart Cummings, wife of Dea. Whitney Cummings, was daughter of Henry Prentiss of North Paris and his wife, Mary Hart and was born January 26, 1807. She died in Buckfield, February 18, 1878. While a mere girl she began to write for the County paper, then the Oxford Observer, and all through life was an acceptable contributor both in prose and verse to the Ox- ford Democrat, the Portland Transcript and Zion's Herald. Slie also wrote a number of successful stories which were published in the Philadelphia Courier. She had a facile pen, an excellent ear for rhythm and rhyme, much genuine poetic feeling, and great human sympathy. Unfortunately her work was not preserved with any care and even her descendants have little of it. She wrote sometimes under her own name but more commonly under the name of Oithona. The following is taken from the "Poets of Maine :"
REVERIES. My child will come no more, My ministries of love Are changed for those above- The little journey of his life is o'er.
My young and happy boy- I see his glad step springing, I hear his sweet voice singing, And yet these mem'ries bring no thrills of joy.
I see his garments hang In many a spot- How can he be forgot, Tho' every mem'ry brings the heart a pang !
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But why these restless days ? The promises are mine ; I hear a voice divine Call on my soul a sovereign God to praise.
'Tis vain to change the scene -- From each sequestered nook, His little treasures look : I cannot wander where he hasn't been.
Why spend my hours in gloom, Or weep for treasures gone, When I am hurrying on To join them in a world beyond the tomb?
Spring's glorious sunbeams stream, And brightly do they fall. Alike on floor and wall: But my lost boy looks out on every beam.
My cherished one is there, He spends his glorious days, In songs of holy praise To Him who heard on earth his daily prayer.
I turn my eyes above, But tears will force their way E'en when I strive to pray- Is there no place of rest for earthly love?
Then let my heart arise To his bright home above, And to the God of love Look for a blessing on "Earth's broken ties."
COLUMBIA GARDNER See Sketch THE OLD CATHEDRAL BELL.
How many mem'ries crowded fast, As on my ear it fell ; Those melting tones to childhood dear, That old cathedral bell.
Long years had passed and childhood, too. But youth had thrown its spell ; Around each chord that echoed back. That old cathedral bell.
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'Twas here a mother taught nie first. My simple prayer to tell ; And here I bowed, whene'er it rang, That old cathedral bell.
How oft-full oft, it sadly peals, The mourner's grief to tell; And yet it cheers the bridal band, That old cathedral bell.
I hear it now, it speaks of home, Where dear and loved ones dwell ; And brings my happy childhood back, That old cathedral bell.
It comes again, that deep-toned chime ! It breaks o'er hill and dell; It calls the huntsman to his home, That old cathedral bell.
O may it ring me to my home, And chant the parting knell ; And sing the requiem, o'er my tomb, That old cathedral bell.
For I could calmly, sweetly die, If on my ear it fell ; And half I wish 'twas tolling now. That old cathedral bell.
MY MOTHER.
My mother ! O how much I love To speak that cherished name : My mother! though thou canst not hear, Its music is the same.
A destiny, I know that's strange, Has from thee, bid me roam; Yet I have but to speak thy name. And Fancy wafts me home.
My mother! 'twas the carliest sound, My infancy could learn ; And ever as I hear it lisped, Those joyous hours return.
And when in listening wonder stood, A prattler by thy knee : I ever thought the world was where My mother chanced to be.
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My mother ! yes that very sound, Can make me quite forget ; How much thy daughter's heart has felt, Since last thy smile she met.
My mother! When my heart is sad, And silent steals the tear ; I'll softly breathe thy gentle name, And feel that thou art near.
CLARA MARCELLE GREENE.
Clara Marcelle Greene, the youngest child of the 3d Dea. David Farrar, was born in Buckfield, Me., April 17, 1840. She is the great-great-granddaughter of Anna Crossman Smith, the grandmother of Seba Smith, Jr., the author from whom he ap- pears to have inherited his literary tastes. Miss Farrar began writing under the nom de plume of " Kate Kendall." She opened an art studio in Portland in 1870. Some of her poems, particu- larly "Possession" and "The Magdalen" have been highly prized for their dramatic quality. She married Mr. Wyer Greene of Portland, where they have resided many years.
Clara Marcelle Greene
IN BONDS.
Hedge a lion in his lair,
Bind him fast with leash and thong ; Muscles quiver, eyeballs glare, Nerves and thews wax iron strong ; Mad with fury and despair, He will rage against his wrong. With his bonds and fiery heart, Spirit! This is what thou art.
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Cage an eagle, maim his wings, Seek to tame his dauntless eye ; Teach him songs, the linnet sings, Tell him to forget the sky; Tell him flight brings arrow-stings, He must soar or he will die.
Beating pinion, eye of flame Spirit ! This is thou, the same.
Mark the everlasting sea, Watch its mighty heart uplift; O'er its bosom, broad and free, Fleets may ride and wrecks may drift, Aye, storms may rage ;- what recketh thee. Boundless freedom is thy gift,
"Spirit, wait," it murmurs thee "Eternity-Eternity."
DANA B. HARLOW.
Dana Bradbury Harlow, son of Christopher and Miriam ( Far- rar) Harlow was born in Buckfield in 1854. His education was acquired in the town schools at Hebron Academy and at Hamil-
Dana B. Harlow
ton, N. Y., Theological Seminary. He early evinced a talent for composition, both in poetry and prose. Has written much for the press and is soon to issue a volume of his poems. Is an elocu- tionist of ability and for many years has been a successful teacher. Several years ago he moved to Paris where he now resides.
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THE BOYS IN BLUE.
Oh, green the robe that Nature wears,
Bespangled o'er with flowers, And birds and brooks are sing- ing low
Through amaranthine bowers.
And soon the loved Memorial Day
Will fresher call to view
The never-dying names and deeds
Of our loyal boys in blue.
Full many a soldier sleeps to- day
In Southern lands at rest:
Where white magnolia blossoms fall Above his faithful breast. And many others, all unknown, Their comrades brave and true, Been laid to rest at Arlington, Of the loyal boys in blue.
Oh, dark the day that called them forth
By Freedom's side to stand,
For them to die, if need be so- For God and native land.
Ye bands of happy children fair, This day was meant for you. Bring flowers from all the vir- gin bowers, For the loyal boys in blue.
And scatter them upon the turf That gently wraps them
round,
For each known spot where they repose To us is hallowed ground. Oh, maidens twine the ever- green, Fresh with the morning's dew, And white, unfading immor- telles For the loyal boys in blue.
ABBIE CHASE HOLBROOK.
Abbie ( Chase) Holbrook is the daughter of Hon. Thomas and Esther M. (Daggett ) Chase and was born in Buckfield, Oct. 23, 1839. She married Wm. C. Holbrook and resides at Malden, Mass.
THE OLD SOUTH HILL SCHOOL HOUSE.
Again I climb the old South Hill; Stands there the time-stained schoolhouse still; Unchanged, its windows blankly stare, The walls their mildewed clapboards wear ; And rusting in its ancient grooves The noisy door-latch stiffly moves As when we pressed it, years ago, To cross the threshold, broad and low.
In rows the vacant benches stand, And, frescoed o'er in school-boy hand, The plastered walls disfigured rise, As when they met my childish eyes ; And, fronting all, the master's throne In state majestic, stands alone ; Less awful now than when we heard,
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For saucy prank, the threat'ning word From him who tried, with rod and frown, To keep our bubbling spirits down.
Here sitteth one, a phantom fair,
With tender eyes and nut-brown hair ; With outstretched arms and longing cry To clasp her close I vainly try.
Alas! she melteth in my grasp- My arms but empty air enclasp.
Ah, me! I know she sleeping lies,
And well I know from her dear eyes
No tender glance niy own shall meet, Until her angel-self I greet.
* * *
Good-bye, old house,-dear haunt of mine, Where young I drank of life's new wine,- May rains fall gently on thy roof,
May harsh winds keep from thee aloof,
May winter snow fall soft and light,
And fold thee warm in mantle white, And Time deal gently with thee still.
While thou dost stand on old South Hill.
JOHN N. IRISII.
John N. Irish was born on North Hill in Buckfield, January 23, 1838. He was christened Jonathan Nelson, but has always been called John. His education was obtained in the district school on South Hill and the high school in the village. He be- gan teaching at the age of eighteen-his first school being taught in the Lothrop school house. His sister, Emily, also taught her first school there. The writer of this sketch attended as a pupil and has ever since held them both in grateful remembrance. In his 20th year Mr. Irish went to Kentucky to teach and was at- tacked with a serious illness which came near proving fatal. His father went there and brought him to his home in Rumford, he having in the meantime sold the old Buckfield homestead and pur- chased another in that town-where his good mother nursed him back to health. After recovery he worked on the farm summers, teaching winters, writing and occasionally lecturing.
His father having died, Mr. Irish returned with his mother to his native town, where he settled down on a small place, a mile
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below the village on the Turner road. He has always been an ardent lover of the drama and dramatic poetry and for many years has been a large contributor of wit and wisdom to the weekly county papers under the pseudonym of "John." For years these have held the interest of the general reader. Mr. Irish has al- ways been a sturdy advocate of Temperance, education and all moral reforms. His poems are characterized for their pathos and sentiment. He died at the home of his brother, Henry D. Irish, Nov. 1, 1913.
EVELYN.
Fallen asleep, in the flush of the morning, On green sunny slope of life's mystical hill : Weariness came in her youth's early dawning,
Her tired hands fell, and her young heart is still.
Sweet in her rest 'neath the wide spreading willow, Undisturbed by the tread of the world passing by ; Death scattered poppy leaves under her pillow,
Yet she can't awaken to smile or to sigh.
Fairiest of maidens, all others excelling ; She had dawned in my soul like a beautiful star; Light shone again in my long darkened dwelling, Faith and love entered which had lingered afar.
Vanished from sight and now aimless, I wander, A grave in my heart and a grave by the sea ; Is there a land and a home over yonder,
With the blessings of life for my darling and me?
HON. JOIIN D. LONG. (See Sketch)
Forefathers' Hymn sung at Plymouth Celebration, 1882.
THE PILGRIM.
Almighty God, to thee we raise Our hymns of thankfulness and praise, Within the hollow of whose hand The Pilgrim sought his promised land :-
Not the rich pastures of the vine Flowing with honey, milk and wine, But bleak shores swept by storm and sea, His rude sole welcome-thou art free!
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With corn he wooed the sullen soil. But more with learning, home and toil, Till now no vineyard of the sun Blooms like the wilderness he won.
Inspired by faith, in purpose great, He steadfast set his church and state ; Made them to stand 'gainst flood and shock, For both he built upon the rock.
One taught-to God and conscience true- More light to seek, the right to do: The other broadened to the span Of man's equality with man.
Children of fathers such as he, Be ours his true nobility ! Lord of the realm, he served its growth ; To serve-be still the freeman's oath !
THE MOUNTAINS OF MAINE.
I ne'er shall forget when returning one day To my home 'amid the mountains of Maine, When the summer was nigh and the fair hand of May Was bedecking the country again, What a thrill of delight, inexpressibly sweet, I felt while extending my gaze O'er the scenes, unforgotten, where often my feet Had rambled in earlier days.
What a welcoming look I imagined I found In the old streaked mountains in view, In the quick-flowing streams, and meadows elm-crowned, And the fields clothed in summer's bright hue. How the full honest breeze I had tasted so oft, With health and with vigor o'erladen, Swept over my cheek with a touch that was soft As the smooth, velvet hand of a maiden.
My soul swelled with joy, springing up to the skies With the view that was spread out before it; Then, deeper emotions beginning to rise, A feeling of sadness came o'er it : For I knew from these scenes of my boyhood around me, The lakes, and the woods and the plain,
I must part and dissever the ties that had bound me So long to the mountains of Maine.
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NEZINSCOT.
Returned from years of rack and toil, Escaped from fetter-locks of care, Again I walk my native soil, Again 1 breathe my native air.
The snow is on the circling hills ; The crisp smoke curls its morning tress ; My heart with old-time freedom fills, I feel again its restfulness.
Beside bright hearths with clustering friends. We live our memories back once more ; Too soon the winter evening ends ;-- It can recall but not restore.
AT THE FIRESIDE.
At nightfall by the firelight's cheer
My little Margaret sits me near,
And begs me tell of things that were When I was little, just like her.
Ah, little lips! you touch the spring Of sweetest sad remembering,
And heart and hearth flash all aglow
With ruddy tints of long ago.
I at my father's fireside sit, Youngest of all who circle it, And beg him tell me what did he When he was little, just like me.
THE FLAG.
Like the grass swayed to and fro Over which the breezes go. Like long tresses tumbling down Rippling up from foot to crown, Like billows rolling on the ocean, Our glorious flag floats full and free. Its matchless hues now interfuse, And now swell wide against the tide That bloats its straining canopy ;
Like smoke it wreathes in rills, and breathes Its fainting blaze into the haze, And slowly palpitates until It lures the eye as if it still Went rippling further through the sky- The very poetry of motion!
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Emblem thou of liberty ! Banner of the brave and free! Stars and stripes! Red, white and blue ! Old Thirteen, new Thirty-two! Afloat aloft on land or ocean, There's not an eye with tears untraced That sees thy glory in the sky ; There's 110 true heart that would not die To keep thy scroll, no stripe erased, No star obscured, still floating high; There's no man, worthy to be free, Who doth not look and cling to thee With all a patriot's devotion.
ZADOC LONG. (See Sketch) MY OLD VIOLIN.
While evening's dim folds round me gather fast, And the chill breezes chant a low moan, My fancy is busy with scenes of the past, As I sit by my fireside alone.
The group that once cheered me affection recalls; Beloved ones I ask, where are they? My own voice comes back from the echoing walls, And sadly repeats-Where are they ?
A sound like a serenade, plaintive and sweet, An almost inaudible strain, Now rises and swells into tones more complete, Now sinks away softly again.
It seems like the spirit of many a lay- A voice from the past that I hear, In lingering cadences dying away, On memory's faltering ear.
Or the music of dreams in the stillness of night, By some spirit guardian sung ;-
'Tis the air through the cracks, and the vibrations slight Of my old violin, all unstrung.
How many a cherished remembrance it brings Of dear friends and pastimes of yore ; A sorrowful touch on the heart's shattered strings, That soon will respond never more.
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TO THE ROBIN.
Sing away, robin, thon gay little thing ; Thy melody heralds the coming of spring; Bright verdure is spreading o'er meadow and tree, And buds leafing out where thy dwelling shall be. Where the air shall be vocal till summer shall fade, At morning, and eve, with thy sweet serenade. Then sing, robin, sing, sound thy notes loud and long ; Our hearts fill with love as we list to thy song. The sun, all unclouded, is opening the day ; O, sing, merry bird, while the dew melts away; The earth wears a smile at the charm of thy voice, The echoing groves and the valleys rejoice ; The zephyrs breathe blandly, the light branches bend, Their delicate rustlings in harmony blend ; The tinkling of bells, and the brooks, lend a chime, And with thy sweet warbling all nature keeps time. Then sing away, robin, thou beautiful bird, With grateful emotions our hearts shall be stirred, And joy shall abound where thy music is heard.
HORRORS OF WINTER. (1841)
Hoar winter rules with awful might The trembling world below ; We have to wallow day and night Up to our knees in snow. The frosty atmosphere is rife With epidemics dire ; We can't keep warm to save our life So many round the fire, When midnight darkness veils the world With shadows cold and drear,
When puss lies in the corner curled, And bose is growling near, When in the yielding downy bed Our weary bodies sink, The rats so noisy overhead We cannot sleep a wink, What dismal fancies haunt our souls, And thrilling scenes of woe! How much those brutes that have no holes, Poor devils, undergo. Our dreams are filled with warnings dread; And when Aurora wakes, We find our likeliest lambs are dead And frozen stiff as stakes.
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Thick robes of ice and fetters chill The earth's broad surface bind ; The naughty urchins slide down hill And tear their clothes behind. When rising storms the heavens begird And mortals stand aghast, When rattling window-blinds are heard Above the loudest blast ;
When furious winds the valleys sweep, And rend the mountain oak,
When chimney currents downward leap And fill the house with smoke; And men of dauntless spirit pause Their gushing tears to stay, And women scold like fiends because Their clothes are blown away,- Oh how we long in scenes like these For summer's milder reign, When striped squirrels leap the trees And thistles bloom again-
Once more to range the hills and glens,
O'er verdant lawns to stray, And hear the cackling of the hens When they begin to lay :
When radiant suns and lucid skies And myriad warblers greet us, And lightning bugs and butterflies And legions of musketoes ; And divers flowers abound,
And turkeys gobble as we pass Their happy roosting ground. Come, gentle spring, the earth renew With showers and shadowing roses Before all flesh turn black and blue And thousands lose their noses.
If winter's reign much longer time Continue thus to vex us One-half the folks will curse the clime And emigrate to Texas.
CHARLES CARROLL LORING. (See Sketch) THE BEATING OF THE RAIN.
I lay the book aside, I try to pierce the gloom
And turn my weary eyes
To the river's rolling tide.
And the overhanging skies.
That swallows half the plain, No sound invades the room But the beating of the rain.
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Yes, the river murmurs low. Like a spirit under pain, In its ever onward flow To the waters of the main.
But for these a silence deep All the valley seems to fill, Flowers of the garden sleep, The singing birds are still.
I hear no echoing feet, Nor din of moving wain; No noise comes off the street But the beating of the rain.
I love the soothing sound, And monotonous refrain, That come from roof and ground, At the beating of the rain.
I often think of thee, As the hours so slowly wane, Dost thou listen now like me To the beating of the rain?
Though from me thou art gone, Thy pleasant looks remain; Still I hear thy tender tone In the beating of the rain.
The day will shortly end, For the twilight shadows gain, Yet the river's murmurs blend With the beating of the rain.
And the notes of yonder bell, From the steeple of the fane, For vespers lapse and swell 'Midst the beating of the rain.
WILLIAM WALLACE MAXIM.
The subject of this sketch is the 4th child of a remarkable fam- ily and was born in Buckfield, Sept. 19, 1844. He was educated in the common and high schools of his native town and vicinity and early began writing for the newspapers and periodicals. He has been a voluminous writer on agricultural topics and has pro- duced many fine poems which he designs to produce in book form. For many years he has been a resident of Paris.
NEZINSCOT.
Sweet flowing stream, couldst thou but bear the sorrow Of those whose shores are washed with foaming crest On thy pale brow, what joy would come to-morrow To cheer these troubled ones and hush to rest !
Ah, many a lad has followed down the meadows, Close by thy side, and laughed and leaped with thee, When leaves were bursting from their winter garments, And all thy waves were hurrying to the sea.
Maidens with flowing ringlets coming after, With rosy cheeks and merry laughing eyes, Have watched their faces mirrored in the water With waving branches and the bending skies.
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Ceaselessly flowing, though the winter's reigning Shut all thy sparkling glory from our view, We hear the sobbing and the low complaining, And long to greet thy silvery waves anew.
Sad is the cadence when the heart is weary And all thy moaning seems to mock its pain ; When loved ones part, and all the world is dreary, And winter binds us with its icy chain.
Loved ones are laid to rest beside thy billows, And sobs and tears are mingled there with thine; And the same sun that shines among the willows, Glows on thy breast beneath the whispering pine.
O, sobs and tears! O laughing, joyous river ! The psalm of life can well be sung from thee, When the sun and breeze from all thy chains deliver, And set the smitten soul from sorrow free.
MY RETROSPECT.
Once in my younger days I longed for fame, And swiftly ran, her form to catch and hold ; She shied my grasp, I ran and called her name She answered-"Sold."
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