USA > New Hampshire > Merrimack County > Dunbarton > Record of the centennial celebration of the incorporation of the town of Dunbarton, N.H., on Wednesday, September 13, 1865 > Part 3
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Now sweet mem'ry brings before him All the dearest scenes of yore ; New sensations stealing o'er him, Thoughts of days he'll know no more.
'Tis the home his fathers founded, 'Tis the land that gave him birth,
'Tis the spot where childhood bounded In the happiest days of carth.
Some of you who gather with us In these festive scenes to-day,
Far from home and friends have wandered In life's dark, uncertain way ;
Other scenes have grown familiar, And elsewhere your lot is cast ; Yet around Dunbarton linger Hallowed mem'ries of the past.
And to-day she has invited All her children, far and near, .
Once again to meet together, And receive the welcome cheer.
She has called you from the prairies- From the distant western plain ; She has called you from the seaside, By the broad Atlantic's main :
From the northern hills and valleys, She has summoned you away ; And from southern green savannas, She has called you here to-day.
In the city, town or hamlet, In the cottage or the hall ; In the fields or in the woodlands, You have heard her welcome call.
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And you now have come responsive To the bidding of her voice ; Here to meet in glad communion With the spirits of your choice.
Yet we notice many changes- Changes ruthless time has wrought, As against the world's oppression, In life's battle you have fought.
There are those for whom affection Sheds its bitter, burning tear, Who in other lands are resting, And no more will meet us here.
There are those around whose pathway Cares and sorrows seem to stay ; With you, in your gloomy anguish, We would smypathize to-day.
There are some who left us early In their noble manhood's prime, Whose white locks and faltering footsteps Now reveal the march of time :
You, we meet with double greeting, You are welcomed here once more, To the land that you have honored- To the scenes you loved of yore.
Many of thy sons, Dunbarton, In some distant land now roam ; Seeking wealth and fitting honors, Far from kindred and from home ;
Some, lcd on by high ambition, Worship at Minerva's shrine ; Round whose brows and manly foreheads Laurel wreaths of fame entwine:
You have walked where science wandered, You have yielded to her claims ; And in all the noblest callings, You have written high your names.
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Some, as teachers now are guiding Youthful voyagers o'er life's main ; Some as merchants, too, are striving For the fruits of honest gain.
Others seek to shield the body From its countless, fatal ills, Knowing well some panacea, In the shape of drugs or pills.
There are lawyers, learned, skillful, In the labyrinths of laws, Whom we see at justice's altar, Pleading faithfully their cause.
Last and noblest now I mention Those who toil at heaven's command, For man's high, eternal welfare, In that distant, better land.
Their's a high and holy mission ; Their's to lead the soul away From the haunts of low perdition, To the realms of endless day.
Clergy, lawyers and physicians, Who from home have come away ; Farmers, teachers and mechanics, All are welcome here to-day.
There are those who still are dwelling Where contented dwelt their sires, In whose manly breasts are burning All the old ancestral fires ;
They still love thee, fair Dunbarton, Love thy lakelets, brooks and rills- Love thy meadows and thy woodlands, Love thy ancient rock-bound hills.
They, with reverence looking backward To the days of " Auld Lang Syne," Wish to honor those who dwelt here In that grand and olden time.
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Here must we pause, and ask for something more Than that poor aid our muse has lent before. Apollo, guardian of that sacred band, Which yields obeisance to thy wise command, Call forth from off Parnassus's fabled height Some one who'll guide our weary, wand'ring flight Far down the path of each increasing year, Until that time our fathers wandered here. Thou Muse, inspire these few remaining lines With thoughts befitting those of ancient times.
Swayed by the hour, our minds far backward run To when our noble ancestors begun, Along these vales and woodland heights to roam, And fell the trees to build their forest home. Tradition old relates that once there came Two fearless huntsmen here in search of game. What then would seize their eager, wand'ring gaze? What scenes enchant them in those olden days? A broad expanse of green first meet their view, Reflecting back the sky's o'er arching blue ; They saw the stately pine far upward soar To meet the storm-cloud often hov'ring o'er ; The giant oaks would rear their arms aloft To break the winds that howled around them oft. They found within this tangled forest shade No friendly hand to grasp or give them aid, Yet wand'ring still beneath the circling trees, A meadow waving in the autumn breeze Now meets their eager and delighted gazc, Far reaching 'ncath the sun's inclining rays. That meadow where the active beaver reared His labored mound and all the forest cleared, From neighb'ring heights they view with glad surprise, And o'er the prospect cast their wond'ring eyes. When now its lovely verdure they discern, Its promised wealth invites their quick return. They come : there's Putney, Rogers, both of them Were nature's bravest, truest, noblest inen. Here let us pause, and with all honor crown These noble founders of our native town.
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. Each reared his log house near the meadow lawn, And fell'd the trees to plant his Indian corn ; And though with savage beasts they must compete, These patriot fathers loved their lone retreat.
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They loved in quest of savage game to roam, Or till the land around their cabin home ; And often when the evening shadows fell Along this dark and lonesome forest dell, They loved to gather round their cottage door, And talk about the good old days of yore. No neighbors then their frugal board would share ; No friendly lights would greet their wand'rings there, Save heaven's bright orb, that rules the day, Or Luna's soft and pale reflected ray ; No sound of music, borne by gentle gales Was wafted through those lone, secluded vales, No friendly shout would bear its gladsome sound, No voice familiar break the stillness 'round, Save now and then some forest bird would sing, And through the wilds his cheering notes would ring ; Or when the woods by chainless winds were stirred, And notes of plaintive melody were heard. Yet here they toiled, and all their lives were spent In simple luxury and sweet content.
At times, the roving Indian's piercing yell, Upon their cars in wildest accents fell ; And when night's darkness hovered o'er these scenes, And they retired to sleep and pleasant dreams, Strange sounds would break upon the startled air ; The coward wolf, slow creeping from his lair, Would howl in chorus with his savage foes, And change to quiv'ring fear their calm repose. One night, this densely, darkly shaded glen Resounded with the hurried tramp of men. From Rumford, many a weary mile away They came, to warn them that the coming day Would bring destruction sad, unless by flight They hurried back before the end of night. These tidings told, they heard with blank dismay, And soon went hast ning on their gloomy way. To their loved home, fast fading from their view, They turned and bade a brief yet sad adieu, Well knowing that the sun might shine no more On home, or herds, or trees they loved before. At Rumford, there they find a safe retreat, And many a friend and grateful kindred meet. Returning, they, with bitter anguish found Their much loved home a darkly smouldering mound ;
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Their cattle slaughtered by their savage foe, And all their fairest, choicest trees laid low- Save one alone which long remained to tell How its loved comrades of the orchard fell. Three years have passed away ; that conquering will Which nerved our fathers then, must triumph still ; Again the forests fall before the hand Of sturdy yeomen born to rule this land, And smoke wreaths rise, and darken all the day- Befitting pall of forests passed away. Again we see the log house rude and low, Uplift its front to breast the winds and snow ; Again we see each sweetly smiling field With willing soil a bounteous harvest yield. The brooks are tamed that used to run at will, And on their banks they build the lonely mill. Before their march the giant forests bow, For nature's scepter has departed now ; The savage beast creeps farther from his lair, And seeks to breath a more congenial air. The Indian weeps above his father's mound, Then bids adieu to his loved hunting ground. All things must now their willing homage pay, For man is victor, nature yielding sway. Where once the march of progress was defied,
The district school-New England's boast and pride,
Now marks the era of those brighter days, When education sheds her genial rays, And breaks the gloom that far and near Encircles ignorance and doubting fear. Our pious ancestors did not forget, Through all their toils, their God was with them yet; . .
Each day their prayers were heard, and in due time They reared a church, religion's sacred shrine. Close by, within a lovely chestnut wood, This old log church with many a crevice stood. In later times another temple rears Its solemn front, to count the passing years ; To-day, that same old temple meets our view, With its plain walls of dark and sombre hue ; And as its shadow round us now is cast, What thoughts come back from out that distant past ! 'Tis here you've bow'd before your fathers' God, And sought anew the heavenward path they trod;
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, And here you've listen'd to that stern divine, Whose honored name will live through endless time ; Our saintly Harris sleeps that silent sleep, Yet long his living words will mem'ry keep.
Thy sons, Dunbarton, are no coward race ; They've met the deadliest foemen face to face, They've fought the Indian in his lone retreat, And seen his vengeful, murd'rous legions beat ; They stood before that rampart strewn with hay, At Bunker's Hill on freedom's natal day ; At Bennington their shout of vict'ry rose Where conquering Stark beat back our British foes ; And later still, across the Mexic plains, They followed brave old Scott in his campaigns. Insatiate war ! thy guilty, crimson hand Had ceased to slay the noblest of the land, No sound from fields of dreadful carnage rose, Disturbing now our nation's calm repose : No bugle call, or roll of martial drum Gave warning that the battle storm had come. We fondly dreamed of long-continued peace, Not thinking then that blissful day would cease.
The scene is changed-a dark, portentious cloud Casts 'round us now its gloomy circling shroud ; The pent-up storms of ages are set free To sweep destructive over land and sea. That grand old fabric which our fathers reared, To ev'ry loyal patriot heart endeared, Is trembling now before the savage might Of fiends incarnate, battling 'gainst the right. The southern winds come freighted with alarms, And call each truest patriot to arms. We saw Dunbarton's bravest sons go forth With all those hosts that marshaled from the North, Whose solemn vow was registered on high To save their periled country, or to die.
. The sky no longer now is overcast, That long, uncertain night of gloom has passed, And we behold what ne'er had yet been dreamed : Our own loved country, disenthralled, redeemed. Their work is done-in conflicts fierce, and dark The've proved them worthy of the fame of Stark. A few return, a shattered, broken few,
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To their old flag they always have been true. Let highest honors circle all their ways, And music tune her voice to sing their praise. They have not all returned, alas ! some fell, Before the bullet, cannon ball or shell, And some who fought where fiercest rolled the tide Of battle, by some fell disease have died. We think of one who would have graced this scene, Of manly bearing and of noble mein ; He is not here, brave Caldwell is no more! The scholar, christian, friend, has gone before; To-day, he sleeps beneath a soldier's mound In yonder village-circled burial ground. There's one, who in his brief eventful life, Had wandered far around this world of strife ; We knew his manly, brave, and generous heart, And sadly did we see our friend depart ; Yet Stone has gone, and on a Southern plain, He rests to-day among his comrades slain. These are not all, as valient and as dear Were those we now would sadly mention here; There's Jameson, Barnard, Whipple, Brown and Wate, And Baker, Heath, and Simonds, all did fate Consign to soldiers' graves, yet leaves them now A priceless crown to wreath each soldier's brow. Of these brave men, let each and ev'ry name Be written high upon the roll of fame. They died to save our greatly periled land From sad defeat by treason's murd'rous hand. As we behold our ransomed country free, Remember how they died for you and me ; And when, through craven fear or greed of gain, We'd bow beneath the tyrant traitor's chain, Remember how they fought that valiant tight To gain the triumph of eternal right.
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To-day we stand with mingled hopes and fears, Beside a waymark of departing years: A hundred winters swift have passed away, Since our Dunbarton saw lier natal day. Another century has now begun Its distant, undiscovered race to run, And as time's current swiftly hurries by To mingle with Lethean waters nigh,
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Dunbarton ! may thy soul inspiring name Grow ever brighter with increase of fame; May all thy sons prove noble and as true, As those who founded or defended you : May all thy daughters, fair and honored, crown With myrtle wreaths our own dear native town; And may her light, resplendent ever shine Along the ages 'till the end of time.
- After the Poem came the CHRONICLES, by JOHN C. RAY, EsQ. CHAPTER 1st.
Now it came to pass in the days of Silvanus, the High Priest, that certain of his tribe, being moved within them- selves to celebrate the one hundredth year of the reign of the different rulers of Dunbarton, said, Consider, I beseech you, how long we and our fathers have dwelt in this land. Yea, even five score years. Now, said Silvanus, the High Priest, let us send kindly greeting to those who were wont to dwell within our bounds, to come up to the ancient temple for a season of congratulation and festivity. Now this saying pleased the people, and they cried out, saying, let it be even so. CHAPTER 2d.
Then chose they out of the several tribes of the children of Dunbarton, these men to make ready for the great feast: Na- thaniel, of the house of Joel, a leader of his church and peo- ple ; Charles, of the house of William, aforetime called Captain, and who was wont to marshal certain of his tribe on the plains of Goffstown, that they might become skilled in the use of arms.
Larcom, of the house of Bradford, who divers times has represented liis tribe in the General Assembly of lawmakers.
John, a descendant of one whom his people, to distinguish from others of like name, were wont to call "hoary" or "white-head."
Enoch, of the ancient house of Benjamin, who is one of the fathers of his people.
Lyman, who, for a time, worthily dwelt in the land called
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Skeeterborough, but is now removed to the home of his fath- ers, even unto the land of Mountalona.
David, the capenter, of the house of Samuel, and near of kin to Joseph, who was chief ruler for the space of two years over the land of Dunbarton, and all the region around about.
Thomas, a descendant of John, who was for many years an elder of the ancient church of his sect.
Daniel, who is much venerated for his counsel and wisdom, who has long been a pillar to his church, and a guide to his people.
John, of the house of Silas, this day called to marshal the hosts around this ancient sanctuary ; but being a very modest man, he said, Pray, have me excused.
Charles, of the tribe of Ezekiel, aforetime called the ready- writer and speaker.
Leonard, a descendant of Job, who once dwelt in a coun- try called the land of eels, otherwise, Derryfield.
Charles, the carpenter's son, of the house of Samuel, and for many years, chief scribe for his people.
Oliver, the 2d, like his forefathers, a great dealer in cattle and other four-footed beasts.
Eliphalet, who, aforetime dwelt in other lands, and has great possessions, both of houses and lands.
Harris, of the house of Ezekiel, who is tax-gatherer for his people, and much esteemed throughout the country.
Leo, the tenth, who once dwelt on the hills of his forefath- ers, but is now removed to the valleys of a strange people, even unto the borders of Smoky Hollow.
Henry, the 2d, famed for much learning and witty sayings, also as a teacher of the youth of the region round about Dunbarton.
David, of the house of Abraham, a friend to the poor and outcast, and who dwelleth near the borders of the land of the Uncanoonucs.
Gilbert, who, aforetime dwelt within the bounds of Mount- alona, being moved within himself to take a wife, he left his father's land, and now pleasantly dwells with a fair damsel of the house of Benjamin.
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James, the son of Oliver, who sits in high places, and mak- eth laws for his people.
John, the Baptist, near kinsman to Aaron, and who walk- eth in the way that seemeth right in the sight of the Lord, and of the people.
Thomas, of the house of Timothy, aforetime a hewer of stone, and maker of laws.
And these were all men of wisdom, and much renown throughout the land of Dunbarton ; therefore were they en- trusted with this matter.
CHAPTER 3d.
Then assembled these men together in a certain place, that they might take counsel with each other, and immediately they set about making preparations for this great feast.
Then there were sent forth from the land of Dunbarton, scrips of parchment unto all those who once dwelt in this land, to bid them come home on this joyful occasion. More- over, they removed from the ancient sanctuary many seats once occupied by our venerable fathers and mothers, to make greater abundance of room whereon to spread the tables for the refreshing of the multitudes. And this kindly greeting was exceeding welcome to all the sons and daughters of the land, "even a clear spring in the desert of life," and as many as could, repaired thither.
CHAPTER 4th.
Now, on the morning of the thirteenth day of the ninth month in the reign of Daniel, aforementioned, a vast multi- tude assembled around about the ancient sanctuary, to greet the long absent sons and daughters of the land. Now, after a season of congratulation, Daniel, the ruler, called with a loud voice, saying, listen now, I pray you, while Charles, the learned, recounts the history of our tribe, replete with joy and sorrow. Then a deep silence fell on the vast multitude, even unto the end of his words.
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After much speaking by this man, and others of the seve- ral tribes, with all of which the people seemed well pleased, Daniel again cried, saying, come now, ye long absent sons and daughters, into the ancient temple, and partake of the feast prepared for you, and they did eat, and were all filled. and there was taken up of fragments that remained, twelve baskets. Now, the rest of the doings of the tribe, will they not be recorded in the book of Henry, the Scribe ?
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Next followed the reading of a Centennial Hymn, written for the occasion by Mrs. Lavinia H. Pillsbury, of Sutton.
We may not look into the long past years, Whose histories have never reached our ears ; Nor scan the centuries when our fathers trod Brittania's wilds, and worshiped many a god ; Nor scarcely glance at the bright dawn of day, When on them shone the gospel's earliest ray ; When first they heard of Jesus crucified, And cast their heathen idols all aside.
But for this time and place enough to know, Here came our sires a hundred years ago. They came with stalwart arms and spirits brave ; The forests trembled at the strokes they gave. Felled are the trees, the cheerful cabins rise, And the blue smoke curls upward to the skies. Not mansions such as now your hills adorn, But cots whose chinks let in the rosy morn.
Not long content were they to till the sod, Till they had built a house to worship God; Rude was the structure, brown the boards and bare; Yet thence ascended songs of praise and prayer. And scarce a score of years had passed away, Ere one was built, now venerably gray ; But modern taste chose out another site, And now our churches stand in snowy white.
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But outward things form not of grace a part ; God loves the worship of the humble heart- The heart where his good word has taken root, And bears in its full measure, holy fruit. He sent his servants here to sow the seed ; With what a fervent zeal did Harris plead And Putnam pray, till God to each had given Full many a star to gem his crown in heaven.
In neighboring fields young Wescott broke the soil, While others reaped the harvest of his toil ; But those who sow, and those who reap, shall meet With joy, when earthly labors are complete. And while the marble tells where Harris lies, And summer suns shine warmly down the skies, Hold fast the truths he lived as well as taught, Deep in your spirits may they be inwrought. Turn not to false philosophy aside, Nor hope for heaven but through Christ crucified. Who talk of progress, ne'er one step will go, Who first regeneration do not know. We, who the love of country well have proved, By giving our brave sons so dearly loved, Who treasured up each kind and loving word, Eer they departed, as the last we heard.
Shall we not prove our love to God as warm, Gird on the armor, bravely breast the storm, Press to our hearts that precious Book divine, Nor for blue lights this glorious sun resign ? Not for the generations past alone, Did God inspire it, but for this our own, And those to come. Its precepts shall descend From age to age, till time itself shall end.
Our sons shall learn it and their children tell Their future offspring to observe it well. And if the next Centennial Jubilee, Some of our offspring may be spared to see, May Peace, Religion, Virtue, then o'erspread This land for which our sires and sons have bled.
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The following Hymn, written for the occasion by Mrs. L. H. Pillsbury, was sung to " The Angel's Call :"
O Thou, whose care was o'er us, When bowed beneath thy rod, Whose Angel passed before us, " Our God, our fathers' God," Accept our thanks and blessing, Father, forever kind, And let no doubt distressing, Disturb the humble mind.
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When on the ocean tossing, Thou, Lord, wast ever nigh, Our feeble purpose crossing, Yet guiding by thine eye. Thou bad'st us raise the banner For all the poor oppressed ; This was thy chosen manner To give thy people rest.
We thank Thee who has given To us this land so fair. Now from our hearts be driven Each sordid, selfish care. Thy mercies we will cherish, As on through life we go, Nor let their memory perish A hundred years ago.
By this time the congregation " Began to feel, as well they might, The keen demands of appetite,"
and accordingly adjourned to the interior of the Town House. The divine blessing was invoked by Rev. Thomas Jameson, of Exeter, after which three houses full in succession were supplied with dinner, and yet a large amount of provision
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remained unconsumed. When the first company came out, the exercises were resumed at the stand, commencing with the reading of a Centennial Hymn, written by MRS. ACHSAH M. BROWN, of Loudon.
A hundred years have passed away Since Starkstown claims its date ; And many a tale of interest rare, I gladly would relate, But leave for abler pen than mine To be transposed and wrought in rhyme.
A hundred years ! with solemn tread Each year has hurried by ; Interrogate those living then, No voice would give reply ; But in the solemn pause of thought,
We list' in vain, no tone is caught.
Silent and cold those men of worth, They mingle not in scenes of earth. In fancy we can see them now In places where they trod ; They felled the trees, they built their huts, And turned the yielding sod ; They planted trees and made a home, And thought to found a town ; But home and hopes by adverse fate, Alike came crumbling down. By savage men with dark intent Their settlement was sought; In sudden haste and great alarm, They fled to Rumford Fort. Their houses were in ashes laid, And ruin reigned around ; And o'er these hills and through these vales, The war-whoop did resound. Of all their trees, they spared but one, Their hatchets laid them low, And that long stood to mark the scenes Of a hundred years ago. Full many a scion it has spared, That this late age might know The flavor of the fruit that grew A hundred years ago.
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Those men returned, and others came And toiled, as time went round, Till from a wilderness uprose This pleasant rural town. Starkstown no longer, but the name, Known at the present time, Though sounding well in sober prose, Is hard to blend in rhyme.
And now, to-day, from South and North, From East and distant West,
Her sons returning, joy to meet, At this centennial feast.
The lawyer, doctor, teacher and divine, Farmer, mechanic, tradesman, all combine To add enjoyment to this festal hour, While memory comes with her awakening power. Forms of the living past seem here once more. As if returning from the far off shore ; But in a moment the delusion's fled, For they, alas! are sleeping with the dead.
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