History of Macomb County, Michigan, Part 40

Author: Leeson, Michael A., [from old catalog] comp
Publication date: 1882
Publisher: Chicago, M. A. Leeson & co.
Number of Pages: 952

USA > Michigan > Macomb County > History of Macomb County, Michigan > Part 40

Note: The text from this book was generated using artificial intelligence so there may be some errors. The full pages can be found on Archive.org (link on the Part 1 page).

THE WORLD'S PIONEER.

BY JAMES LAWSON. "Of Arts and Arms," let Virgil sing, And Ilomer chant heroic lays ; My hands shall strike a nobler string, The world's bold pioneers to praise.

" Be faithful, multiply, give birth, Replenish and subdue the earth," Determined in the Heavenly plan The life and destiny of man To be a wanderer ; and he, Clad with dominion, conquers sea And land. The empire of his reign, The world's encircling, wide domain. If Adam's fall, and the great sin Of disobedience had not been, The gates of Eden would in vain, Ilave barred his exit to the plain Of Edom. If from branded Cain Obedience had wiped the stain Of murder, the submerging flood, That deluged earth, had not been blood, The wisdom of the times to be Still hangs upon the central tree Of knowledge. Ignorance will taste

The fruit, and learn at bitter waste. The evil with the good inwrought For ev'ry blessing man has sought The wings of broken law have brought Full mated with the punishment. But time and mercy have been lent The trespasser ; the respite been Prolonged beyond the day of sin. And Enochs gone in many lands And cities builded with their hands. Great Nimrods through the forests strayed,

And Tubals wrought the polished blade, Subduing wastes, oceans subdued Until a singing multitude Hlas peopled earth, repeopled o'er Isles of the seas, and distant shore Of continent. The waves of time Ilave borne his seed to every clime And ebbed and flowed in end'ess tide, Far reaching as the ambient wide, Empires been founded, passed away, And others built on their debris, Till not an islet lone, or glen, That has not nursed the sons of men, And every step the present tread To where the past has laid its dead,

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And foot-steps of the coming race Will soon disturb our resting-place. No ocean where his daring prow Ilas ventured not, or ventures now, Where yet the world great Argosies Are searching for the Golden Fleece Of Colchis ; and every day Sees other Jasons sail away In search of some new Colchian shore Which golden skies are flocking o'er, Some Leon seeking for the Spring Whose waters youth immortal bring, Only to find life's voyage o'er Nepenthe on the distant shore Of sweet forgetfulness. The cup Of Death's dark fountain lifted up Unto his lips ; the bitter draught Of.Lethe's stream forever quaffed Some Nordson with his tattered sails Still searching for Valhalla's dales. Or Cartier for the Acadian shore, Which restless mortals would explore. For pleasures, which are found alone To cluster round their own hearthstone, Some Cook, far seeking in the West The Happy Islands of the Blessed, But other shores, whose feet have pressed In that dark sea of the unknown, Whose waves in ceaseless sweep roll on. A Moses, with a wand'ring band Long journeying to some Promised Land, Whose weary feet, for life have pressed The desert waste and found no rest On Nebo's Mount, sinks down at last. The Jordan of his hopes unpassed. Columbus for the Eastern seas, Still sailing westward with the breeze Of autumn late, while early spring Perforce was spent in loitering, By chance may gain, not what he sought, But objects widest of his thought. Columbus ! Bravest of the brave, Bold mariners on ocean's wave ; With brow to plan, with soul to dare, Twin born with Faith, stranger to fear, With three small ships boldly sets sail, Where never keel had marked a trail Upon the chart, or pilot been To guide him o'er the deep unseen.

Long time his little fleet sails on, Till doubt and murmuring faint had grown To mutiny. A coward's soul Can never reach a higher goal Than its own littleness, and yet The noblest spirit may be met And baffled by the meanest churl That breathes. Envy would hurl The pillars of the noblest fame

That genius rears, though gods were slain,

And thousands perished in the fall ;

May his parched lips be quenched with gall, While fires of hell consume his soul,

Who, envious of the good and great, Would rob them of their rightful state.

Though chains with triple steel are wrought, They have no power to fetter thought, Nor daunt a hero's breast. Alone The daring pioneer leads on, With thoughts as high above his clan As Alps above the marshy plain Of Lombardy. Steadfast his faith, Amid the taunts and threats of death From his vile crew. On bended knee For three days more-for only three- Ile pleads. Momentous days, how brief, What angrish, hope, distrust and grief Are crowded there. What deed sublime lIangs on that little space of Time. Thrice at the close of day the sun Into the waste of waves goes down, And yet no land. And can there be No farther shore to that vast sea, Wide spreading as immensity ? Dies on the wave the midnight bell : 'Tis twelve o'clock and all is well, But not to him, who sleepless lies Upon his couch. The next sunrise Is life or death. Sad soul be calm ! How little mortals know for them What fate awaits ; the darkest night Will often break with rosy light At morn. The glass has marked the day When he must fruitless turn away From his long search. Ah no ! a light Gleams through the darkness of the night, And Hope with her swift pinions bright, Sits perched upon the Pinta's prow, Faith holds a steady rudder now,

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With cautious lead they stand away. And anxious watch the break of day. It comes at last-the mists are curled. And shouts proclaim a new found world. Crowned with success the very morn Set for their hopeless, sad return, Three gallant ships securely ride At anchor on Bahama's tide. Rebellion, doubt, distrust, dismay, Swept with that morning's mists away, And he-so late derided, jeered- Honored and flattered and revered. Unknown upon the scroll of fame,

Are heroes worthy of a name And place in history. The toil That rings rich harvests from the soil,

Reclaims the forests, tills the plain,

And scatters sheaves of golden grain Upon the white wings of the sea. Is worthy honor, more than he Who conquers armies, devastates The fairest realms, depopulates

Whole towns and cities ; renders waste

The proudest monuments of Art. And plays " the conquering hero's part." To trample with the hoofs of war, The products of the gleaming share, And barracks build where hamlets stood, Great only in his deeds of blood. Greater who builds, though but a cot, And cultures Peace to bless his lot ;

What laurels bring ; how honor here The gray-haired, hardy pioneer, Who, from a home where Eden smiled, Went forth into a rugged wild With faith, new homes and hopes to build. The forest falls beneath his stroke,

His plow, the stubborn fallow broke, IIis thoughtful hand the orchard plants, IIis industry provides for wants. The trail grows wider with his feet,

And fear and doubt no longer meet, And sit upon his threshold rude In parlance with solicitude. IIis barns with garnered store are filled, The hands that penury had chilled Grow warm again ; his wife is blessed, The children of their love caressed,

The old house stands behind the new,

And broader fields give broader view. The temple by the school-house stands, Teacher and pastor shaking hands, And towns and homes and temples stand, The triumphs of his toiling hand, And Freedom's banner of the skies, Floats o'er another Paradise. Another spot of earth subdued,

That toil has wrung from solitude ; Where at the closing hours of day, Contentment drives dull care away ; And Retrospection's eyes are cast Back on the rugged hill that's passed, While Faith points onward to the shore, Where Care and Sorrow come no more. Heaven's blessings on their gray locks rest. While sinks their sunset in the West.

A CHILD'S PRAYER. BY MRS. L. E. CANNON.

A little maiden knelt beside her bed - A downy couch with snowy covering spread- Clasping her tiny hands with reverent mien, ller head, with golden ringlets, bowed between. "Dear God," she said, " my mamma says that you Know everything we think, or say or do ; When we are naughty you are very sad, And then when we are good it makes you glad, And when we pray, whatever we request, You'll surely grant it if you think it best." There came a little sob and then she said :

" Please, God, my dolly needs another head. I was so frightened that I had to run,

'Though mamma says the dog was just in fun, But then I slipped and fell, and such a crash, And my poor Rosa's head broke all to smash. I picked the pieces up and cried and cried, For mamma is so poor since papa died, And then I thought I'd tell you all to-night, For I was very sure you'd make it right, And when you thought how lonely I would be, You'd surely heed a little girl like me. I have no brothers now, or sister dear, But poor mamma and I are all that's here. The rest are with you up in heaven you know, And sometime mamma says that we shall go, So, if you'll fix my dolly up till then, I'll try still harder to be good. Amen."

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A LEGEND OF SHELBY TOWNSHIP. BY MRS. L. E. CANNON.

Long years ago-at least so runs the story- There lived, not far away, A chieftain, covered o'er with paint and glory, A gorgeous array.

Where rang the war-whoop or the scalp-knife glist- ened, fle led his trihe along, 'Till the few settlers held their breath and listened, Hearing their barbarous song.

The little children's eyes grew big with wonder At mention of his name ; All feared they should from friends be torn asunder, If that bold chieftain came.

The story goes, one day a wee small maiden Of summers only four Wandered along, with fragrant wild-flowers laden, Far from the cottage door.

The old chief saw the tiny, winsome creature, And gloried in his might. Covered with war-paint, every hideous feature Grew harder at the sight.

He snatched her up, and through the forest bore her, Where no pale-face would roam, And all their faithful search could ne'er restore her To anxious ones at home.

The mother's heart the dreadful loss was pondering 'Till resting 'neath the mound ;

The father vowed he'd never cease his wandering Until his child was found.

Meanwhile the chieftain cherished well his treasure, Humored her every whim ;

Thought nothing wrong that gave his Bright-eyes pleasure, 'Til she grew fond of him.

And when ten times the snows had come and van- ished Slowly from off the earth, Their different ways had from her memory banished All knowledge of her birth.

Then to his wigwam with its gaudy trappings He led her by his side,

Gave her bright beads and shells, with furs for wrappings, And kept her for his bride,

One ornament she had, a necklace golden, Clasped round her throat of snow, The only link that bound her to the olden Strange life of long ago.

Years afterward, an old man, bent and hoary, Came to the wigwam door,

Trying in broken ways to tell his story, So often told before.

He saw the chain, and with a cry of pleasure Started to reach her seat,

Calling, "Oh. mother, I have found our treasure," And fell dead at her feet.

They buried him beside the river flowing Through forest dark and wild,

And she lived on in ignorance, not knowing She was that old man's child.

Until the chief from age and wounds lay dying With many a feeble wail,

Called her beside the couch where he was lying And told her all the tale.

And she forgave him then for the great sorrow She could not understand, And laid him by her father on the morrow, Honored by all his band.

WHO DONGLES THE BELL?

The following lines were written by Samuel H. Ewell, February 19, 1867. The subject of this hu- morous sketch, Cyrus Hopkins, was born at West Bloomfield, Ontario Co., N. Y., in 1802, and came to Romeo in about 1838. Ile rang the Congrega- tional Church bell, which was the first church hell of Romeo, from the time it was hung, for thirty-two successive years, and took care of the church that entire time. He ceased ringing only about three weeks before his death, which occurred November 10, 1878 :-

There is a man with white whiskers who walks in our streets,

With a smile and a joke for each man that he meets, Though his head has grown white and his eye has grown dim,

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He still tells a story and laughs with a vim, Who is that queer man ? You will ask me to tell, ' Tis the jolly old joker who dongles the bell.

You have heard, I presume, of one Cyrus the Great, Well, this is our Cyrus, not second in rate, He's the power of old Cyrus, or even the Pope, For he draws folks to meeting by pulling a rope. And he struts up to church with a kind of a swell. When he goes with the churchi key to dongle the bell.

Cyrus gazes with pride, on the church, and the steeple,

That holds his greater talker, whose tongue moves the people,

On Sundays it gives them a sense of devotion, On week-days it sets the whole town in commotion. Oh, Cyrus takes pride in its magical spell,

How he loves to go up there and dongle the bell.

Sometimes we complain that he works like a botch, That he rings by his dinner instead of his watch, But what should we do without Cyrus to chime ? We'll overlook his faults and comply with his time, For Cyrus we know means to do his work well. Success then to Cyrus who dongles the bell.

Cyrus moves, lives and breathes where much talking is done,

He talks by his fathers but rings by the sun,

He has rung the old bell since the day it was hung, And if Cyrus was not ! Why! it could not be rung. May his old age be green, if 'tis green I'll not tell, So long as he likes let him dongle the bell.

MY MOTHER.

BY H. F. PHILLIPS.

If I can boast a manly thought, A pure ambition, shameless-free. To soar where earthborn spirits ouglit, My mother, it is all from thee- Where first I learned to lisp the prayer, That cradled innocence to rest, ' Twas then those first impressions came. That longest stay-are oftenest blest.

Yon taught me then the lovely way, That leads beyond this world of pain,

And thinks not though I wildly stray I never will return-again ; Oh, no! Those words are never lost. A mother whispers to her child, The mem'ry puts them safely by, Enriched with pictures-how she smiled.

A tribute now this natal day, Thy wayward son returns to you, Not gems from islands far away, Not Eldorado's golden dew- But words of love, and happiness, A tribute richly due to thee, My mother dear, to whom Iowe, All that I am, or hope to be.

THE GARDEN OF THE HEART. BY J. E. DAY.

" There is a fragrant flower that maketh glad the garden of the heart." TUPPER.

God has placed a beauteous garden, In the power of man's control ; And has told us how to fill it,

With the sweetest flowers of soul. He has placed a wall around it ; Strength and beauty are combined, And has left its portals guarded By the strongest powers of mind.

Sweet within the terraced arches, Music's echoes wildly ring, And through all its winding alleys, Floats the breath of constant spring. Through its midst bright crystal rivers, O'er their pearly bottoms flow, And along their shining margins Richest flowers spontaneous grow.

Heavenly place ! If well we till it, As the Master bids us do ; But if not its flowers will wither,- Choked by weeds of bitter woe. And its walls are soon demolished, Its fair streams are stained with sin, And in place of its sweet music, Swell the notes of keenest pain.

And its alleys once so pleasant, Tales of awful misery tell;

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And the air at first so balmy. Seems the burning breath of hell. Let us then improve this garden, Till it blossoms pure and bright, And our work will end with pleasure, In a home of pure delight.

APRIL STORMS. BY J. E. DAY.

Leaden clouds are o'er us hanging, Gloomily the rain comes down, And the winds are sadly wailing Nature's universal frown.

Hushed the cheerful hum of business,- Not a wagon on the street, Nonght overhead but wind and water -- Mud and water under feet.

Overcoats and wet umbrellas. Flit like ghosts from place to place ; Muddy boots and spattered garments, Tell of hurry more than grace.

Ladies closely indoors staying -- Strive the dull hours to beguile. And anon, the dark clouds watching- Think of rain-beaus all the while.

Cattle looking qnite demurely, View the chilling storm with dread, And their sage brain doubtless thinking. Something must be wrong overhead.

Sages tell ns oft, that April Augurs well the life of man- Lights and shades are intermingled- We must catch them as we can.

Every year must have its April- Every life its rainy day- Lo, the sunshine, quickly turning Stormy April into May.

So the storm of life may gather, Darkly o'er my onward path And around my heart may linger, Signs of elemental wrath.

But the bow of faith is hanging In the clouds of daily strife, And Hope's sunbeams softly gleaming- Hush the April storms of life.

HAPPY TO-NIGHT. BY JOHN E. DAY.

I'm happy to-night, and this is just why, The cares of the day have gone quietly by ; My chores are all done and my supper dispensed, And the joys of the evening are fairly commenced.

My wife, with her sock and a satisfied smile. Sits by and converses serenely the while, On topics-the old as well as the new- Most important to me, though perhaps not to you.

My little pet danghter, so pretty and gay, Has dropped all her playthings and left off her play, Has given instructions her treasures to keep, Dropped her sunshiny head and gone sweetly to sleep.

And now it may be that the tempest of life Has cast o'er her dreams the first warning of strife, And swells her young bosom with pleasure or pain As it rises and sinks on her infantile brain.

Who can tell us what beautiful thoughts may be piled

High up in the dreams of the innocent child ? What thoughts and ambitions of embryo size May be brought by the goddess who closes her eyes ?

What care we what pleasure or riches may bring ! What care we how leisurely time moves his wing ! There is hope in the Future and joy in the Past, And a strength in our hearts for adversity's blast.

We'll stand by each other whatever betide, And pass down the pathway of life side by side : Enjoy what we can, bid adieu to the rest. And receive the reward of the Faithful at last.

There's pleasure in life, though storms may arise ; In the end we will find them but friends in dis- gnise ; My hopes may be blasted, but that is all right ; My Faith's like a mountain-I'm happy to-night !

THE LONELY GRAVE. BY DR. W. H. HAMILTON, 1857. Clondy is the day and cheerless, Moaningly the north wind grieves, As I sit and watch the motions Of the faded, falling leaves.

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While they slowly flit before me, Fancy bears me o'er the waye, And I see them falling sadly On a distant, lonely grave.

Dreamily the Past arises, Bringing back the loved one's form, And again his eyes beam on me With a lovelight soft and warm.

But my bosom heaves with anguish As I see him yield his breath, Hurried from his near and dear ones By a sad and painful death.

Then appears the dreary graveyard, As upon that gloomy day When our cherished one was buried From our grief-dim'd sight away.

And I hear the plaintive echoes Of the low, funereal hymn, Swelling like the wind-harp's music Through the forest, old and dim.

But our deep, heart-breaking sorrow, Passion's wild, resistless flow, All our spirits, hid in struggles, Thou alone, O God, can know.

Thou, who knowest all our frailties, All our doubtings and our fears, Strengthen us to bear our trials, Comfort us amid our tears.

Light our darkened understandings, Fill our souls with lively faith, Till the mystery is unravel'd, Life's dark problems solved in death.

ON THE DEATII OF LINCOLN. BY REV. JAMES H. MORTON.

A star has fallen from our Nation's'sky, It rose so bright, it glistened far on high. But, like a meteor, suddenly its light, Has been eclipsed within the folds of night.

Lincoln, the patriot, honest, just, and true, We sigh, we weep, we mourn most sore for you O, why should death eclipse thy glory bright, And pall the Nation with the darkest night. In humble life, at first, thy lot was cast, We look admiring on thy history past ; But truth and fortune led thee up to fame, And on its summit stamped thy noble name. When storms of treason and bitter hate, Had almost 'whelmed our ship of State ; We asked, O, God ! a noble heart and hand, To be our pilot, and to take command ! God gave us honest Abe that he might be Our gallant captain on the raging sea. Storms fiercely glared, and mountain waves us tossed,

So high, so low,-at one time all seemed lost. Just then, with beaming eye, he spied afar The brilliant rays of light from Freedom's star. At once across the noble ship he veered, And for the light with steady hand he steered. Just as the storm was swiftly giving way, And morn was dawning, -of a glorious day- Behind our captain stole a wretch of hell, And by his bloody hand our Lincoln fell. Justice flew swift along the villain's track, ller fiery sword gleamed o'er a crime so black -- And quickly traced him to the hidden spot, And like a guilty dog the wretch was shot. Cold be that hand, and palsied he that tongue, Who dare declare they're glad the deed was done ! I'm sure a blacker fiend dwells not below, Within the precincts of eternal woe. Lincoln, though now with thee we have to part, Thy name, for aye, we treasure in our heart, And swear by Heaven, the work by thee begun, By traitors' hands shall never be undone. llard was thy task, the starry flag to save, Rest quietly now within thy honored grave. No hostile bullet can again reach you, Shot by Jeff. Davis and accursed crew. The spirit pure has reached its home above, Entwined for aye by bands of kindred love, We pledge with thee the joys of heaven to share, For traitors vile can never enter there.

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CHAPTER XX.

PROGRESS OF EDUCATION.

The education of the masses is one of the leading characteristics of a good govern- ment. It is the guide to national greatness and to salutary reforms. Without education, the people would be less than the Negroes of the darker days of the Republic. Without it, man cannot sum up the blessings of liberty; cannot understand the principles of a Federal government; eannot fulfill the duties of citizenship. Though men may be always prepared for liberty, yet he who had not an opportunity, in his earlier years, to attain even the rudiments of that education which a common school offers, is a dangerous member upon whom to confer liberty, because his animal passions generally overbalance his good intentions, and lead him from vice to vice, until those who won for him the pre- cious are forced to ery out, "Oh, liberty, what crimes are committed in thy name!" From the want of a well-organized educational system. many, if not all evils, spring. The terrible forces with which the dangerous classes often threaten to annihilate the peo- ple are recruited from the haunts of ignorance and vice. Again, the tyrant may subject an uneducated people with impunity-without fear of encountering any disciplined oppo- sition. All the shocking crimes which tarnish the annals of glorious revolutions have their origin in and must be credited to ignorance. The hideous Parisian communist, the blind followers of seetionalism in politics, the inhuman religious bigot, all draw their inspiration from ignorance, and by it are urged on to those terribly foul deeds which darken, as it were, the enlightenment of this age, and stain the pages of its history. Though the seeret tribunal of olden times comprised men of fair fame, the members of it were led to acts which, to-day, would be punished in the most severe form known to the law of the country, and result in consigning their names to obloquy. In the dim past, such men were heroes; they boasted of learning and culture, and merely acted a part in the drama of their lives. The members of this tribunal dedicated themselves to justice, and seldom -- never-failed to punish the guilty and avenge the innocent. Yet the secret tribunal, with all the terrific sublimity which surrounded it, all the high characteristies which belonged to its members, was founded upon ignorance. In recent years-aye, in our own times-political and religious parties have resorted to desperate and disreputable means to assert supremaey. This could not occur had the people been educated up to the requirements of our duty. All the evils attendant on a want of a true system of edu-

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cation have been carried down to the present time, as if to point out to us the dangers of ignorance and lead us far away from the shoals whereon it has wrecked so many. It is evident here, in Macomb, that examples of ignorance have resulted in good; crime is merely nominal here: a peculiar friendship seems to exist between all classes, and a full desire exists in the hearts of young and told to study, that they may know what gives prom- ise of good results to themselves and their country.

Macomb County has, from a very early period, bestowed much attention on all mat- ters pertaining to education. Throughout this work, many references to the attempts made by pioneers and old settlers to establish schools appear, so that it is unnecessary to treat separately each school and school building, the history of which belongs to the town- ships. However, for the purposes of the general history of the county, what has been written regarding the schools first opened here belongs to this section of the work, and for that reason is subscribed as well as referred to in the township history.

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History of Macomb County, Michigan, Part 40

Author: Leeson, Michael A., [from old catalog] comp Publication date: 1882 Publisher: Chicago, M. A. Leeson & co. Number of Pages: 952

Author: Leeson, Michael A., [from old catalog] comp
Publication date: 1882
Publisher: Chicago, M. A. Leeson & co.
Number of Pages: 952