USA > New Hampshire > Grafton County > Campton > The Centennial celebration of the town of Campton, N.H., September 12th, 1867 > Part 7
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your grand and numerous assemblage, to interchange salutations with the living and honor the memory of the departed. Many of those who have gone before, now sleep in the beautiful cemetery just before you.
I cannot say that they do not walk, unseen, among you, sharing your bliss and receiving the homage that your full hearts offer at this fitting shrine !. Be it so, their joys cannot be the less ; yours may be greater. Be it otherwise, we shall all follow them ere long, to meet again I trust, on that still fairer shore, where there will be but one great celebration, and the reunion will be indestructi- ble.
I send you my warm greeting with earnest hopes and prayers for the present happiness and future prosperity of your beautiful town and all its people.
An hundred years! Others will tell the tale of its marvelous changes, recounting the years of toil and pri- vation through which our ancestors fashioned destiny. They " spun for us the web of fate" ! By long and per- ilous Winter marches, they pierced the unbroken wilder- ness ! By unremitting toil they opened the primeval for- ests and crossed the " stubborn glebe." In the morning of their lives, at the dawn of your town's first rising from the night of ages, they sowed broadcast, the seed which yields their children's children harvests richer than earth's fair bosom offers in annual benedictions-harvests of intelligence, virtue and peace. These worthy Puritans, with living faith in the living God, sought more than bread,-by which alone man cannot live,-and what they sought they found. They put the gospel sickle in, they bound the early sheaves of christian love, and bore them to that garner into which themselves have since been gathered.
Would that I were worthy to recite their eulogy. But if no man shall do it fittingly, it still is done! The ver-
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Letter from S. D. Baker, Esq.
dant vales and waving hill-sides are radiant and vocal with their praise. "Who seeks their monument should look around" ! Their lives were solely given to useful toil, and where they finished their labors, the valleys now blossom-
" Fair as the garden of the Lord."
I am happy to claim my lineage from such a line, and wish, again, that I could meet their children in person, as I shall in thought, on the great occasion that will mark the auspicious closing of a century ! May the just-dawn- ing century bring more of the same true honor to our fathers' children and our own, and may all the sons of toil learn from their high example-
"That self-dependent-power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky " !
With great regard, yours truly,
B. FRANK PALMER. CHARLES CUTTER, Esq., Campton, N. H.
LETTER FROM S. D. BAKER, EsQ.
Boar's Head, Hampton, N. H., Sept. 10, 1867. GENTLEMEN : I regret exceedingly that I am compell- ed to decline your invitation to be present at the Centen- nial Celebration of my native town. The nature of my present engagements and the distance from home, com- bine to render my uniting with the sons and daughters of old Campton on this occasion, an impossible thing.
The opportunity thus afforded for the gathering togeth- er of the great family around the ancient hearths and the homes of childhood, cannot be prized too highly ; and I
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Centennial Celebration.
feel assured that nothing but the most urgent necessities will occasion the absence of any one, who claims the hills and valleys of Campton as his by birthright.
I am well aware that the loss in this instance is irre- parable and all my own, for the pleasure I should derive from being present would be far greater than any I could confer. Knowing as I do, that among the thousands who will avail themselves of your invitation, there will be many whose names, not unknown to fame, we delight to honor, it would afford me more gratification than words can express, to meet them on the spot "dearer than all on earth beside," and together with them, receive the greetings of those who have never wandered from their first and only home, but who, through all life's vicissi- tudes, have clung to the old homestead as to a holy thing. But all this gratification I must forego and console my- self as best I may for my disappointment. Trusting that the contemplated re-union of the sons and daughters of Campton will be glorious and heart-refreshing to both residents and weary wanderers, allow me to discharge a small duty by offering the following sentiment :
OUR NATIVE TOWN : Greener than her valleys and hill- tops in Spring-time, will her memory ever be in the hearts of her absent children.
Yours truly, SAMUEL D. BAKER.
.
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A Centennial Waif.
A CENTENNIAL WAIF,
ON THE PEMIGEWASSET RIVER, SEPTEMBER 12, 1867.
BY B. FRANK PALMER, LL. D.
[Written by request of the Committee of Arrangements of the first Cen- tennial Celebration of the Town of Campton, N. H.]
O River fair ! here, wandering long ago, I listened to thy murmurs, wild and low, When loitering on the bank, with shining wish, To find Pactolian sand, or golden fish. And forty seasons since, in infant pride, Talked with thy bubbling shoals, on Thornton' side ; Where pearly ripples seize the orient beam, And mystic forms in mirror's beauty gleam. A sailor of three seasons, on time's tide, With whaleman's chances for a devious ride,
Embarked, to pass the eddying ferry o'er, And gained this sheltering, wood-invested shore. A balking bullock is a sorry yawl For stripling nerve to scull above a fall ; A saddled centaur might as well be manned By infant mermaid round a coral strand. The dashing wherry drank the sparkling spray, While trusty pilot walked the watery way ! Thus steering o'er the wild, uncharted course, I now survey on wing of reinless horse. My conscious life-boat hailed the impending strife, And " walked the waters like a thing of life." Portentous fathoms strode with prowess grand, Till surging stream and beetling bank were spanned. And now, as then, I may not stop, to choose
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Centennial Celebration.
To note th' ethereal forms that o'er thee glide ; And, fly or fall, the goddess I will thank, Who wings me coyly o'er the cradled bank. For here I earliest saw the star-gemmed morn Descend, with Ceres, o'er her waves of corn ; To tinge the dew-drop with prismatic light, And lift the azure robe from blushing night. The dawning sang life's lullaby awhile, My infant joys to crown, and woes beguile ; Till Fancy fringed with flowers youth's sunny way, And hope half blossomed 'neath the genial ray. In boyhood-dreams beheld the laurel wave, When the coy nymph, a smile of promise gave ; And here, above thy velvet-vestured shore, The nymph shall weave the laurel evermore. The mystic muse shall steal thy banks along, Inspiring here some son of lofty song ; And genii, from the old Parnassian fount, Shall linger round Franconia's mantled mount ; To quaff the bliss I see, and they may sing, Who tune their harps by the Castalian spring ; But none, beneath th' inspiring goddess' wand, Shall feel more joy to see thy blooms expand. Here plucked the evergreen when hope was young, And listened, raptured, to thy sylvan tongue ; Here youth shall garland Time's centennial urn With palm and laurel leaf, in joy eterne. And if the breezy vale shall bear along Through echoing groves, to live in infant song, The strain that lingers in each burning thought, Not all in vain have I my tribute wrought. A heart-beat, pulsing in the tide of time, Inspires the verse I bring (in faulty rhyme) The century-bloom will close on morning's verge, And fold the record in the cycle's surge.
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Centennial Waif.
And thus upon the ebbing wave I trace An imaged thought, which time may not efface ; And FAITH (not fancy) here with hope shall stray, To view the nymph that bears the bloom away. She will return ! He who the century gave, Will send the blossom round on refluent wave ; And then (from cruel critics meanwhile safe) Perchance some friend may catch my floating waif. The patient plant that blooms so fair to-day, Has waited ages for its tints so gay ; O man, be patient ! wait the blooming hour, Snap not the bud, to lose th' immortal flower !
And now I come, from wanderings wide and long, To cast upon thy wave my waif of song ; Receive me kindly, as a child of thine, Returned to joy at boyhood's sacred shrine. No chaplet from th' enchanted grove I bring- A little wild-flower grown by Friendship's spring ; Reset in genial soil, 'twill bloom again, As once upon your fair, expanding plain. Transplanted in the dews of early morn, The hovering cloud has watered rose and thorn- The bloom alone I bring, and fondly yield- I plant no thorn within th' emblooming field. Here thought, aspiring o'er yon summits gray, From visual forms began the trackless way ; And leaving soon, too soon, the rural vale, To launch on youth's wild wave-to strand or sail, I bade adieu to sweetest pastoral charms, Where conscious beauty blossoms in thine arms ; But now, returned, I greet with manly pride Each old familiar spot I've joyed beside ; Here, respite from life's jar and jargon find, And all the sheaves of olden friendship bind.
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Centennial Celebration.
The hills are vocal, and the circling sphere In wavy cadence charms the listening ear ; From mast-head life I greet the natal bound, And hail the joys of the centennial round. A century past ! what visions spring to view ; What we call old our fathers hailed as new ; What they called old their fathers ne'er had seen- Our sons will say the same of us, I ween. The seventeen hundredth year and sixty-seven, Saw, gliding 'neath the smiling crest of heaven, Thy mingling rivers, winding through the way Where the dread Indian ruled with savage sway. The placid Beebe's current stole along,*
Its music blending with the savage song ; While o'er the valley spread, like waving sea, Wood stretched to wood, a vast immensity. Within the fastnesses and gorges dark, No click of flint had given the tinder spark ; No axe had sounded from the old elm's trunk ; No flash of firelock lit the sluggish punk ; Bleak, bald, and awful rose the giant forms Of granite mountains, battling with the storms ! But hark ! the mountains hail the listening sea- The wave, responsive, greeting sends to thee ! Though " westward" empire takes its onward way, As westward speeds the light of circling day, Our fathers trusted God's descending streams, His forests stretching 'neath auroral gleams ; They took their course along the ice-paved road, To fashion fate, and find this fair abode.
As once the sons of Israel found their way, Led by a pillar of the cloud by day, Which, changing to a glorious guiding light,
*NOTE. Beebe's river is a smaller stream. Its confluence with the Pemigewasset is in Campton, if I mistake not. The name may have been changed, or my spelling may not be correct.
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A pillar'd fire led on by starless night ; As trustful march'd they o'er the Red Sea bank, Nor asked if any in the tide e'er sank ; Our fathers crossed a sea of ice, well shod, With Christian sandals ; faith and trust in God- They to the plow had put the firm right hand, To look not back till gained this chosen land ; Through wintry wilds urging their way they trode, Or on the thong-lashed, snow-shoe sledges rode. Unbroken woods, red faces, hail and snow ; Mad rivers, ice-bound rills, (that ceased to flow ;) Rapacious beasts, whose predatory rounds Recrossed the way that skirts the valley's bounds ; Descending blasts, that swept the forests through ; No vegetation sprang to cheer the view ; Ice, ice below, and ice-girt caves around, Where grizzly wolf and surly bear were found ; On ev'ry side a cheerless view was given, And clouds portentous hid the light of heaven ! Behold the friends that met them at the gate ; Behold the scenes through which they fashioned fate ; Of later day the mountaineer will tell How the gaunt, hungry wolf stood sentinel, Beside the hut that held his all of life- His cradled children and his weeping wife, While the wild Indian from the thatch would stoop And thrill the forest with his hideous whoop ! The woodman, seated, once upon the shore Yon mountain towers in lofty grandeur o'er, With scanty dinner spread on frosty pan, Beheld that old colossal granite man ! Eternal Rockface ! seated mountain high, In solemn majesty 'twixt earth and sky, The rock-ribbed fastness holding in his hand ; The lightnings hurling from his gleaming wand ;
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Centennial Celebration.
In granite might he stormward sets his face, When the tornado rocks his ancient place ; Divides the whirlwind with his locks of gray, And bathes his forehead at the fount of day ! Arise, to touch the lofty theme, O muse ! On stronger wing ascend to loftier views ; Th' eternal hills centennial homage bring- The valley blooms-a hundred seasons sing. An hundred years ! O that same sleeping seer Might wake to lead centennially here ! Ye ancient bards who smote the conscious lyre- With breathing strain the silent string inspire ! The watchful shepherds saw the joyful flight Above Judea's plains, that radiant night When men, adoring, heard the new-made hymn Sung, to soft harps, by shining seraphim ; Then choral stars found jubilant employ, And hill to vale proclaimed th' extatic joy, Which rolls, melodious, o'er these natal plains, And claims the tribute of your highest strains. Here Faith, while circling years and cycles fade, Will stand in all the bloom of youth arrayed ; To cheer the heart whose faint devotion springs, As joy centennial through the ages rings. And may each listening mortal, not in vain, Scale yon gray dome to catch th' inspiring strain ; As century mile-stones mark the flying round, And reedy groves prolong the joyful sound. Fair Campton ! not as I beheld of yore- I now behold the visions floating o'er ; Not wholly thine the change-for, since that day, From boyhood's eyes the mists have passed away. Then fays and fairies round the mountain walked, Ere the small crib, (with smaller knowledge stocked) A better rampart furnished, of defence-
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Centennial Waif.
Or budding wisdom bade th' intruders hence ! Thy hills then rose and pierced the heavens as now, The moon, ascending, lingered on thy brow, O Lafayette ! while glowing Red Hill's crest, Dissolved in green and gold-O vision blest ! Then, towering Washington, above the cloud His lofty forehead reared in triumph proud ; Dim distance gave a charm to parting day, As night closed o'er a sea of turrets gray ; Thy rivers were as clear, thy woods as grand, (The pine and cedar kissed by zephyr bland,) But I, a simple stripling, only knew Thy mountains hid the outer world from view, Thy hills surveyed, only to learn the rule For easiest scaling-on the way to school ! Sweet vale ! I own th' enchantment of the scene, Where meadows wave in wealth of gold and green ; Where forests vocal spread in vast expanse, And fleecy clouds around the mountain dance ! Enchanting nymph ! with trappings of a bride, And floral cestus gleaming at thy side ; The lily of the valley veils thy charms, And conscious tendrils clasp thy jewelled arms. Dissolving day and kindling morn, unite To blend their beauties in ethereal light ! Aurora, from the loftiest peak of dawn, Flings blossoms dew-gemmed o'er the glittering lawn ; Above the banks the elm and elder spring,
Where meadow-warblers plume their breasts and sing ; Or, heavenward rise to greet the earliest beam, That shines, reflected, in thy crystal stream ! I gaze with joy on the translucent wave, Where modest flower-de-luce and lily lave ! Where honey-suckles blush above the spring, And birds pause, humming, on ethereal wing.
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Centennial Celebration.
Where corn-crown'd hill-sides rise, on either hand, And mellow pumpkins cover all the land ; The grape and cherry ripen o'er the rill, Where sings the jay, or moans the whippoorwill. Where incense, o'er th' emblooming intervale, Fills every leaf, and spreads on every gale ; As gentle zephyr glides, at eventide, On balmy wing ! along the river-side ; Where fountains fresher than Parnassian rills, Give sweeter draughts than fabled grove distils ; Inspiring incense, which the gods might pour From golden ewers, the laureled landscape o'er ; Where laureate bards might surfeit as they sing, As bees their freightage bear on vocal wing ! Where shadowy forms float o'er the waving field, And vine-clad bowers luxuriant fruitage yield ; Where hill-tops roll in waves of ripening grain, And crimson berries cover all the plain ; The vernal maple pours nectarean draughts, And all the air delicious sweetness wafts ; Where blooming clover tufts the vestured vale, And golden harvests bid the farmer hail ! With sheaves of corn the terraced banks abound, And rising mounds of butternuts are found ! The farmer now, with shining scythe in hand, Goes thoughtful forth, with visage bronzed and bland ; To take the serried lines of wavering grass, And round the bastioned field in triumph pass ! The lad now drives the "lowing herd " away, And hastes to shake and spread the new-mown hay ; While the young robin tries his earliest strain, As Phœbus wheels his chariot up the plain ; The roving kine on flowery hill-tops graze, Or wander through the wild, entangled maze ; And bleating lambkins range the rocky pass,
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Centennial Waif.
To crop the dewy blossoms from the grass. The lad, returned, takes spreading-stick in hand, As cautious conjurers lift the wizard wand ; Spreads the green swarth with curvilinear shake, Then hastes the hill-side, (not the hay) to rake. The patient ox wheels up the towering sheaves, Where twittering swallows line the sheltering eaves ; And fingered forks unlade the banded freight, O'er topmost beam, where sportive ushers wait. The grass all spread-and stowed the garnered grain- The lad is off to " spread " (himself ) again ; With truant comrades, through the wood he strays To stone the birds and squirrels by the ways ; Up the high hill he wends his devious course, Where brooklets babble from the rocky source ; The rock he tumbles from the shelving edge, With bound concentric sweeps the trembling ledge ; He bends his way where blooming clover yields The bee's fresh treasure, o'er the balmy fields, To where the frantic bob'link tears his throat, And mounts the sky to raise one dreadful note ;. Secures the truant's seat, or laggard's stool, By wayward wandering from the way to school ! " Again you're tardy-what excuse to-day"?
" I had to do the chores, and spread the hay ! " I ran as fast as ever I could go ;
" I rather guess the sun, or-something's slow !
" The son is slow, and something must be done,
" To hurry up this lagging, truant son ;
" The offence is great-too grave for hazel-sprout- " Sit with the girls ! until the boys go out." A sorry sentence-shocking ev'ry sense, And baffling all his lore of mood and tense ; The neuter verb, " to sit," is active found- The mood, indicative-of giggling round !
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Centennial Celebration. .
The facts and Murray don't agree, and hence He thinks the perfect is th' imperfect tense.
The milkmaid, tripping at the early dawn, With well-filled pail across the dewy lawn, Blithe as the robin pours the morning strain, Where echoing groves repeat the old refrain. Anon, she turns the bright, unfreighted pail, And tells impatient ears the nursery tale ; The burnished pewter glistens in its place, Each old familiar mug has smiling face. The morning board a settle now becomes, And where it stood the whizzing flax-wheel hums. The distaff turns, like Galileo's world, As from its rim the flaxen fibres twirled,
Like Franklin's twine the electric tingle sends Along the line to burning fingers' ends ! While, in the barn, is heard the steady click- Of patient farmer's swinging swingle-stick ; Addresses paying to the stubborn flax, Whose ends must wane, that cobbler's ends may wax. Like tireless pendulum of ancient clock, His hours of toil he numbers, stroke on stroke, The floating fibres in the dressing maul'd- Form round his rounded poll, too early bald, And thus, from useful toil, at night returns, To where the hemlock backlog cracks and burns ; Sinks in the settle with a peruke big- Like English baronet in periwig.
The annual "Trainings " of the time gone by, Reviewed, old friend, by us-when you and I Met on the muster-ground just by yon hill, Will " march along " in pleasant mem'ry still ! The great Militia-Floodwood-Infantry,
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Centennial Waif.
Light Infantry, and crazy Cavalry, Came marching, riding, limping to the squeak- I hear even now the fife and bugle speak ! "Tis well, ye Wellingtons of Campton plain, That your Napoleons lived to fight again ! When Yankee, Yankee met in mortal fray, Both armies whipped ; each gained the glorious day ! When " in they went"-then came of war the tug- Crack ! went decanter-bang ! went broken jug- Even feather'd Generals shared the general joy, With banner'd regiment, and barefoot boy ! The " Raising " was a time uproarious, not To be ignored, neglected, or forgot ; The old house must be razed, and raised the " new "- One falls to earth, the other springs to view- Up, up, it goes-a hundred-shoulder tug, Down, down, it flows-from flask, decanter, jug : All in good spirits to their homes repair, Their castles bracing in the bracing air. A little getting up, and getting down Of spirits, mark the growth of man and town ; And if a man may ever (once) carouse, It should be when he rears a dwelling-house ! The " Husking," "Paring bee," and such as that Behold-the youth pared off, in quiet chat ; The red ears found, the ominous seeds declared, The corn-acknowledged-and the lovers paired !
I note the old brown school-house, on the hill- (Roll back those school-boy days-let these stand still) I mark the hollow, where the high bridge stood Rock-braced, against the roaring, raging flood Whose surging tides in bursting torrents tear The riven gorge, through which it rages there. Fit emblem thou, of man, O restless stream-
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Centennial Celebration.
Above thy falls the limpid waters gleam- Above the falls, man seldom stops to think How soon the life-boat strikes the cataract's brink ; But, rave ye waters-stand ye flinty rock ! The centuries old have felt thy throbbing shock ; Steer well, O boatman-gird ye for the leap,- Hold fast the oar, and skim the vortex deep ! The raging stream whose angry torrents bound, In whirling surges to the level ground ; Goes singing through the meadow to the main, Its music mingling with the soul's refrain. How like th' unguided youth's impetuous course- It glides, then dashes from the placid source ; Now, far meandering through the mazy glen ; Now, backward turning to th' abodes of men ; The widening current of this pulsing life, Winds through broad fields of duty-joy and strife- Till run its course, (if well), in conscious pride Shakes hands with Time, and mingles with the Tide ! Thus ever, ever, ever, on like thee,
Man, moved or moving, passes to the sea ; O, may my falls, like thine, precede the flow Of tranquil waters through the vale below ! So may we all, on Time's impetuous stream, Sail for that port whose crystal waters gleam ; And bear, at last, the fruitage of life's plain, On stronger current to the boundless main.
Stand on yon hill where the old school house stood Like bastion'd fortress, high above the flood ; Look down within the awful gorge -- behold The cave, where silver (sought,) sank farm and gold, That riven rock the primal ages saw At time's first dawning, without seam or flaw ; But, touch'd by speculation's wizard wand,
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Centennial Waif.
It belch'd forth fossils, fire and yellow sand. Not sand Pactolian-with the " nuggets " fraught, Not that for which the awful cave was wrought ; There speculation bored, through farm and flint, A sinuous hole-and sank the farm within't. You well remember how, on quivering foot, The hopeful mortals sought the shining " root ". And how, alas ! we saw the " opening" close, O'er all their hopes-but not o'er all their woes. This much, lest superstitious eyes behold The awful labyrinth, of which I've told, And think it pierced old primeval rock And never felt the speculation shock ! A haunt for ghouls or fays from time untold, And not a cave where Fortune hid her gold. No subterranean sprite or goblin grim Shall loiter there upon the rivers brim ; Shake not ye tremulous wights that venture there, No monetary wizard-bull or bear- Will greet you in that Wall street under ground- Go in-explore-there's something to be found ! There is, for some bold youth, an opening still ; The yellow dirt exists in that great till ; And if you find (secure from waste or harm,) The old deposits safe-you'll find a farm ! I well remember how the money flew, In quarts, (not granite quartz) and you, Old friend, who rose with me to read and spell, Remember how its issues rose and fell ! I kept no record of the rise or fall, Or circulation ; but opine that Wall Or even State Street, in their blasting way, Not more than equals, in this greenback day. Thus, speculations run into the ground- The " root," more seldom than the evil's found-
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