USA > Vermont > Orange County > Bradford > A history of Bradford, Vermont : containing some account of the place of its first settlement in 1765, and the principal improvements made, and events which have occurred down to 1874--a period of one hundred and nine years. With various genealogical records, and biographical sketches of families and individuals, some deceased, and others still living > Part 32
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).
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27 | Part 28 | Part 29 | Part 30 | Part 31 | Part 32
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CHAPTER XXI.
Specimens of Bradford Poetry-By Thomas Ormsby, Thomas Ta- bor, Miss Lydia White, Emily R. Page, Catharine McKeen, and Rev. S. McKeen.
THE BOWER OF PRAYER.
Written by Mr. Thomas Ormsby, a praying man, in 1821, when about leaving his retired homestead, and favorite retreat for private devotion, to remove to another home, though not remote. For further notice of him, see the Ormsbys.
1. To leave my dear friends, and with neighbors to part, And move from my home, afflicts not my heart Like the thought of absenting myself, for a day, From the blessed retreat I have chosen to pray.
2. Dear bower! where the pine and the poplar have spread, And woven their branches a roof o'er my head; How often I've knelt on the evergreen there, And poured out my soul to my Saviour in prayer.
3. The early shrill notes of a loved nightingale, That dwelt in the bower, I observed as my bell To call me to duty ; while birds of the air Sang anthems of praise as I went to prayer.
4. How sweet were the zephyrs, perfumed by the pine, The ivy, the balsam, and wild eglantine! Yet, sweeter, O, sweeter, superlative were The joys I there tasted in answer to prayer.
5. For Jesus, my Saviour, oft' deigned to meet And grace with His presence my humble retreat ; Oft' filled me with rapture and blessedness there,
Inditing in Heaven's own language my prayer.
6. Dear bower! I must leave thee, and bid thee adieu,
And pay my devotions in places all new ; Well knowing my Saviour resides everywhere, And can in all places give answer to prayer.
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THE SONG OF SEVENTY YEARS; OR THE YOUNG OLD MAN. BY THOMAS TABOR.
(For some account of whom, see the Tabor Family.)
1. Though three score and ten, I am not very old, For neither of death's warnings three Have come to remind me-yet I'm fast growing old, And soon with my fathers must be.
2. No, I cannot be old, for my form is erect, Elastic and steady my tread ; Youth's rapturous emotions my heart still affect, And few of life's pleasures are fled.
3. It cannot, surely, be long since I was a child; It seems but a day, or a week, Since I joined my companions, gay, noisy, and wild In playing at "Hide and go Seek."
4. Old Time, in his swift course so light footed has sped, He's made no deep tracks in his way ; Nor yet very much frost has he strewn on my head, Nor made my affections his prey.
5. No, I am not very old, that cannot be true ; Else why are my feelings so young? My enjoyments so many, my suff'rings so few, And melody still on my tongue?
6. The sweet, pretty maiden whose undisplayed charms First kindled a fire that still burns ; It seems but yesterday she was first in my arms; I smile as the vision returns.
7. The innocent freedom she so modestly gave, I cannot begin to forget; If age blots from memory the records we save, I'm sure I'm not aged yet.
8. My grandparents, venerable, died long ago, Their children, my parents, are dead; My brothers and sisters have heads white as snow, And are half to eternity fled.
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9. Of six generations I have seen in my day, The two first are gone, every man ;
And now, me they call old! I know I'm somewhat gray, But prove that I'm old, if you can.
10. For the fancies of boyhood as bright as of yore, Still cluster round memory's shrine ; And the loves and the symp'thies felt long before, To-day are as vividly mine.
11. I see not my dear wife as she is seen by you, All toothless, and wrinkled, and gray,
But with cheeks fresh with roses, and lips moist with dew, Her December has blossoms like May.
12. She still has the maiden coyness that, in her youth, My wooings could scarce overcome ; So recalling the vows I then made her in truth, I'm sure that we both are still young.
13. The roses I planted in the Spring-time of life, By temp'rance and justice, now bloom ;
And shed a sweet fragrance around me and my wife, And hide the dark gate of the tomb.
. 14. As a rock in the main, as an oak on the plain, Long battles the surge and the blast, And although they may seem to remain firm and green, Are destined to fall at the last.
15. So each year, month and day, though they seem but in play, And have failed to make me feel old, Yet I know that in the end to their force I must bend, And pass like a tale that is told.
16. As a stone that is moved from the mountain's high top, Moves slowly along in its course, And at times in its progress seems almost to stop, Near the base gains terrible force,
17. So have I been moving down life's declining way, But can't have grown old very fast, Yet I've gained an impetus, and no one can say,
. How long my course downward will last.
18. Still I cannot feel old, though I know death is near ; Death I'll view but as a sweet rest
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For this weary body, when all its labors here, Shall cease, and I be with the blest.
19. As the crawling worm dies, and a chrysalis lies, Yet wakes a winged, beautiful form, So with glorious bloom man shall wake from the tomb, As order comes out of the storm.
I CANNOT DIE.
BY LYDIA E. WHITE, Preceptress in Bradford Academy.
" I cannot die," said the maiden fair, Twisting the locks of her golden hair ; " My cheek is warm, and my eye is bright ; O, speak not to me of death to-night. Speak of the earth, and its pleasures sweet, Of the festive hall where gay ones meet, And of pleasant lands, and shady trees, And of spicy isles and sunny seas; Of music clear, on the liquid air-
O, earth is beautiful, bright and fair." Night came again with its shadows deep- The maid was wrap'd in wakeless sleep.
"I cannot die," sighed the joyous bride. She stood by the strong man, in his pride, And gazed in his dark and pleasant eye, 1
And thought 'twould be hard, O, hard, to die ; For life, like a sunny landscape fair, Without one shade of cankering care, O'erspread with a blue and cloudless sky Appeared to her bright, enchanted eye; But she dreamed not earth is full of woe,
A fleeting dream and a passing show. Spring came once more to the rose's bed ; But the bride; the bride; ah! she was dead!
" I cannot die," the strong youth said,
" For the paths of science I must tread ; And I must gain me a noble name, And write it high on the roll of Fame.
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Now my life in clear prospective lies, Like pictures rare in the cloudless skies, And laurels fresh on my brow I'll wear, For honors of earth are not a snare. My head is clear, and my heart is strong. I feel that my time on earth is long."
That night he sat o'er his page of lore; But on it he gazed no more.
" I cannot die," breathed the mother pale, As she heard her first-born infant's wail. " O, I cannot die, for I am young ; And O, my babe on the cold world flung, Will be left alone to pine and weep, For who will a mother's vigils keep. The loved ones all-can I leave them here? Those who to my heart as life are dear! O, I cannot die in youth's glad prime, And leave forever the scenes of Time." Through the window-blinds the soft air stole, And gone was the mother's deathless soul.
" I cannot die," sighed the man of care, And he hurried forth to do and dare; For his soul was merged in business schemes, And his sight obscured by lofty dreams; And his plans were formed for future years. Yes, they must be wrought, though wrought in tears. His heart was bound by a magic chain To that luring hope, the hope of gain; And the thought of death he forced away, Saying " I'll listen some other day." A few months passed to the land of shade- The man of care with the dead was laid.
Mortal, whatever thy lot below, Be it light or darkness, joy or woe, So live that when thou art called to die, Thou then mayest go without one sigh, Like one who goes to a much loved home, Never again from its joys to roam ; Like one who his work hath all well done, And who with patience his race hath run.
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SOME SPECIMENS OF THE POETRY OF EMILY R. PAGE.
Emily Rebecca Page was born in Bradford village, Vt., May 5th, A. D. 1834. Her father, Casper Page, by occu- pation a shoemaker, was formerly of Greensboro, Vt. His wife, her mother, Emily A. Alger, was daughter, by a former marriage, of Mrs. Eugene Baker, and died when this, her infant daughter and only child, was but two weeks of age. The dying young mother gave her child to Mrs. Baker, her own mother, who tenderly received her as her own. Emily's father died while she was under two years of age-died of consumption, while quite a young man.
Mr. Eugene Baker was toll-gatherer at Piermont bridge, across Connecticut River. His toll-house, in which Emi- ly was brought up, was at the west end of the bridge, and of course in Bradford, her native place. Her com- memoration of The Old Bridge, in general use, was there- fore perfectly natural.
Her earlier teachers, both since distinguished for abili- ty and aptness to teach, were her aunt, Maria R. Baker, and Miss Mary Belcher, under whose training she made wonderful progress. Later she attended Bradford Acad- emy, and for a term or two that at St. Johnsbury, Vt.
Emily wrote verses while yet a child, and when about a dozen years of age some of her poetic effusions found their way into the local paper, much to her regret in after years. Miss Hemmenway, Editor of the Vermont His- torical Gazetteer, speaks of Emily's poetic genius and productions in the highest terms, and says she had the honor, while living, of being one of the only two in Ver- inont admitted by Mr. Dana into his compilation of the Household Poets of the World. Several of her poems ap- pear in said Gazetteer, and also in the volume of Ver- mont Poets.
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After the death of Mr. Baker, her grandfather, Emily went with her grandmother Baker and aunt Maria to Chelsea, near Boston, where she was connected editorial- ly with one of the Boston weekly papers, and as poetical editress of Gleason's various publications. Always frail and delicate, she died at Chelsea, Mass., February 14, 1862, where she had for several years resided with her grandmother and aunt. She died in the thirty-second year of her age. Her grave is in Woodlawn cemetery, her only epitaph being her own words, "Through the darkness into light."
THE OLD BRIDGE.
BY EMILY R. PAGE.
Bowered at either arching entrance By a wilderness of leaves ; Clustering o'er the slant old gables, And the brown and mossy eaves, Is the dear old bridge, which often, Often in the olden time, Echoed to our infant footfalls, And our voice's ringing chime.
Where from out the narrow windows We have watched the day go down Till the air was full of twilight, Soft and shadowy and brown; Till the river, gliding past us, Gloom upon its bosom wore ; And the shadows, deep and deeper, Crept along the winding shore ; Till the pale young moon grew brighter, And the silver-footed night Scattered stars along the pathway Of the eve's departing flight.
Oh! the dear old bridge has echoed To the tread of many feet, Whose sweet music long has slumbered, Muffled in the winding sheet.
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Many voices, too, have sounded, Clear and soft and full of song, Like the ripple of a bird-note, All the ringing roof along.
But the silent angel hushed them Many, many years agone, Yet an echo 'mong its arches Seemeth still to linger on ; And as now within its shadow I am sitting all alone, Flows the river down beneath me With a sad and ceaseless moan, As if grieving for the lost ones- They who listened long ago, Leaning from the narrow windows To the light waves' lulling flow.
And the elm trees, swaying lightly, Let their shadowy dimness fall Far in on the frowning columns, And along the darkened wall; Like the shadows which have drifted From the death-damps of the tomb, Wrapping up my glad young spirit In the mantles of their gloom.
And the golden-fingered sunbeams Sifting through the broken roof, Weave upon the dusty flooring Here and there their shimmering woof; Seeming like the golden vista Where my hopes reposed secure, When the dew of life's young morning O'er my heart lay fresh and pure.
Now, though years have swept me onward Down the hurrying tide of time, Leaving childhood far behind me, Like a pleasant matin chime- Yet from youth's deserted gardens I am gathering up the flowers, Whose sweet fragrance floateth to me, Cheering all the languid hours.
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For again the shining pageant Of the long-forgotten past Floats before me, with no shadow O'er its sunny surface cast. I forget the many grave-mounds That lie dark and cold between, For the " silver lining " only Of the frowning cloud is seen.
With the sunlight round about me Bright and glad as long ago, . And the river down beneath me, With its soft, continuous flow, With the old familiar places, All about me everywhere, Come again the pleasant faces That made earth so bright and fair ; And, as then, each passing cloudlet Seems to wear a golden edge, As I muse within the shadow Falling from the dear old bridge.
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BE NOT WEARY.
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BY EMILY R. PAGE.
Laughing, down the misty valleys, Where the morning faintly falls, Go the sowers, in life's Spring-time, Scattering where the spirit calls. But, while yet the dew is weeping From the flowers along the way, They are pausing-spent with labor, Ere the noon-tide of the day. Be not weary, Spring-time sowers Through the valleys' level sweep,- If ye be but faithful doers, In the Autumn ye shall reap.
When the heaven ward lark uprising On the air her matin leaves, In life's field swart hands are busy, Binding up the golden sheaves.
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Up and up the sun is climbing, And the day grows faint with heat, And along the harvest meadows Faltering fall the reapers' feet. Be not weary, sturdy gatherers Of the full and golden store ; In the season that is coming Ye can sow nor reap no more. .
Ye who keep on Zion's mountain Watch, to tell us of the night; Who, in Truth's victorious army, Battle bravely for the right; Ye who stand on life's proud summit, Whence your way lies down and down, 'Mong the shadows of the valley Where Earth's empty echoes drown ; Ye who struggle,-ye who suffer, Be not weary doing good; Ye shall wear the shining garments That are fitting angelhood.
IN MEMORY OF MRS. ELIZABETH PRICHARD,
Wife of Deacon George W. Prichard, who Died at Bradford, Vt., March 5, 1853, aged Sixty-one Years.
-- BY MISS EMILY R. PAGE.
She is sleeping-lowly laid To her last and dreamless rest; With the heart so pure and meek, Stifled within her throbless breast.
Raise ye, with the hand of love, Sculptured marble o'er her head ; Let the graven tablet tell Of the virtues of the dead.
Yet in many a lowly heart, Laden with its weight of care, Is her proudest monument, Cherished with a blessing there.
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Hers have been the pleasant paths That the blessed Master trod ; Hers has been the sweet reward Of the faithful unto God.
And her memory, like a gem Set in Glory's coronal, Still shall be, undimmed and bright, Fadeless in the hearts of all.
Ye who weep above her dust, Grieving for the gentle gone, Let your high and holy trust In the Father bear you on.
For, though Death's relentless hand Tender ties hath sternly riven, God hath called her from our hearts To her happier home in heaven.
ONLY WAITING.
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BY MISS EMILY R. PAGE.
A very aged Christian, who was so poor as to be in an almshouse, was asked what he was doing there ? , He replied "Only Waiting."
Only waiting till the shadows, Are a little longer grown; Only waiting till the glimmer Of the days last beam is flown ; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart once full of day ; Till the stars of heaven are breaking Through the twilight, soft and gray.
Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate; For which full long I have lingered, Weary, poor and desolate. Even now I hear their footsteps, And their voices far away. If they call me I am waiting. Only waiting to obey.
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Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home ; For the Summer time is faded, And autumn winds are come. Quickly reapers, gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart ; For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.
Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown ; Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown :- Then from out the gathered darkness Holy, deathless stars shall rise, By whose light my soul shall gladly Tread its pathway to the skies.
The following pieces, signed C. McK .. were written by Miss Catharine McKeen, Associate Principal of Mount Holyoke Seminary, who died at the home of her uncle and aunt Atkinson, Mount Leon, Virginia West, July 20, 1858. They need no commendation. For further notice of the author, see the preceding chapter.
The first of these articles is an extract from a poetical effusion of her heart, on the day of the death of her beloved sister Marianne, March 24, 1845.
And art thou gone, my angel love, So soon to heav'n thy home above? Oh! wherefore haste thee thus away? Wast weary with so brief a stay ?- Some call this earth a desert drear ; But, sister, thou wast happy here ; And here were friends thou lovedst well ; How loved thyself, no words can tell.
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Yet Jesus called; and thou hast flown To join thy kindred round the throne.
Oh! what a rapt, ecstatic thrill, Did thy whole soul and being fill, When first on thy unclouded eyes Burst all the glories of the skies! How didst thou view the vision bright? Till ev'ry doubt was lost in sight;
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Then lightly tread the golden street, To bow before thy Saviour's feet; While thousands and ten thousands raise High anthems of enraptured praise, And sound through all the heavenly plain Hosannahs, to the Lamb, once slain.
C. McK.
TO HER MOTHER IN HEAVEN.
Mother dearest, I am kneeling Close beside thee, as before ; But I cannot see thee- Ah! the bitter Nevermore!
Precious mother I am waiting For thy hand upon my head -- Oh, my mother, vainly waiting For a blessing from the dead.
Oft upon thy gladsome birth-days How I blessed my God for thee- For thy spirit's light, so holy, Ever beaming down on me.
And to-day my anguished spirit, With a deeper, chastened love, Blesses God I have a mother For my angel guard above.
C. McK.
Written June 17, 1849, on her beloved mother's birth-day, and at her grave.
The following beautiful and affecting lines were written by Miss C. Mc Keen, more than a year preceding her decease, but immediately after an attack of bleeding from the lungs, when she was expecting to go soon :
GOING HOME.
Going Home! Going Home! To my Father's own embrace ; Home, to see my Saviour's face ! Weary pilgrim, for my feet -
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Waits at Home a blest retreat, Wrought for me with skill divine Ere the stars began to shine! Homeward from the whitened field, Where the harvests richly yield, Slowly with repentant grief, Must I bear my meagre sheaf ;-- But when at the door I stand, Christ will take it in His hand, And, for His dear sake forgiv'n, Bid me welcome Home to heav'n. Then, with joyful welcoming Shall all harps and voices ring To the high celestial dome, For a wandering child come Home.
Going Home! Going Home To the blessed land above ; Children of one Father's love ;- Many I have loved below, Many I have longed to know ;. Blessed union, sweet and strong, Binding all that countless throng ! O, the joy of loving there, Purely, fully, without fear ; Not a loved one e'er shall die, Naught can bring one tear or sigh ; Richest fellowship of mind Shall my longing spirit find. List'ning from some humble place, I shall catch the words of grace
Which from Israel's Psalmist fall, Or the eloquence of Paul ; See the great in faith and love Great in all that's great above; And the music I shall hear Never fell on human ear; Sweetest theme of thought and song, Kindling all the raptured throng, Shall be Christ, the Lord, once slain ; Christ, the Lord, now ris'n again.
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Going Home! Going Home! There from all unrest to be Sweetly and forever free ;- Free from weariness and pain, Free from cares that vex in vain, Free from sin; the conflict o'er, Pure in heart forevermore. O, the blissful, wondrous change! Shall I know myself, so strange? But a richer joy than rest Is employ among the blest; Thought so clear and strong and free, Tireless, through eternity Roaming with intense delight, Where the vision feels no night; Beauty shall the spirit fill; Wondering joy its being thrill !
Yet that spirit ne'er shall know Linking fetters, felt below ; A" my soul, with growing pow'r, Serving God from hour to hour, Shall its highest pleasure win In the deepest love to Him.
I am going-going Home! Father, when thy call I hear, Let me neither shrink or fear ; Gladly would I come to Thee, Painful though the way may be ; All thy children, gath'ring fast, Shall encircle Thee at last; All at Home! Yes, all at Home! Never, never, thence to roam!
C. McK.
ELEGY.
[On a sister's favorite Canary Bird, which had died at night, alone in its cage ; by MISS CATHERINE MCKEEN, then in failing health.]
Wert thou lonely, Darling Birdie, In the dark and solemn night, When cold Death came creeping round thee,
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And put out thy Spirit's light? Thou wert not alone, sweet Birdie ; Gentle hands received thy breath ; For the God who made and loved thee Willed and watched His Birdie's death.
Rigid lies thy little body, In its golden, downy nest :- Where is that which woke to motion, Which should break this peaceful rest? Where is that which danced and sparkled In thy cunning ebon eyes? Stirred thy wings to mount and flutter Free and joyous, toward the skies?
Where is now the fount of music Welling once from out thy throat,
Softly trembling, richly swelling, In triumphant, liquid note? Where the consciousness that answered To thy lady's voice and sight, Gave thee joy, anon, and sorrow, Thinking, feeling little sprite?
Strange and solemn is the silence Wrapped around thy spirit now ; God has never told us, Birdie, Where he treasures such as thou. Soon my form will lie, sweet Birdie, Tenantless and still as thine ; But I know, for God has told me, I shall spring to life divine!\
C. McK.
Mount Leon, Va., March, 1858.
THE SPECTRE HORSE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF THIS BOOK.
The following poetic effusion, first published in the Christian Mirror at Portland, Maine, was occasioned by an eloquent temperance address by a Universalist minister, who graphically described intemperance as a mighty steed, rushing with his great car loaded with drunkards, down a steep de-
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clivity into a rapid river, or deep gulf, below; and pathetically called his hearers to the rescue of their fellow mortals who were in such fearful peril. This call I forthwith, in this manner, attempted to obey. Whatever in the piece is contrary to the idea that such a load of drunkards would not in their first plunge into the dark waters of Death find themselves infinitely better off than they would have been if stopped in their downward course, must be ascribed to the writer, and not to the orator, who stayed not at all to settle that question. The representation of Satan as driver of the Spectre Horse, with his drunkard's car, was not contained in the original picture ; but no one can dispute his title to that position.
THE SPECTRE HORSE.
A wondrous steed I saw, of size and height Which ne'er before, I ween, met human sight: His head, high raised, was in a tempest cloud ; His snorting seemed like startling thunder loud ; Right on the huge, tremendous monster dashed- From out his nostrils streams of lighthing flashed! Beneath the prancing of his ponderous feet Earth trembled, e'en to Pluto's fabled seat. With more than lurid comet's mighty force He, mad, pursued his daring, headlong course, Straight down a mountain's steep, declining side, Against whose base dashed the rolling tide- The fearful tide of death! A car he drew With wheels more high than rapt Ezekiel knew ; With body vast, arranged in such a mode As to receive some thousands at a load.
- The force of Mars, the strength of Juggernaut, Were in this strong machine together brought. A shout more loud, more dread, than shout of war Outflew this huge and quickly coming car, Whose pealing, startling sound awoke my ear, And filled my trembling heart with sudden fear. By pity moved, and nerved with vigor new, To help the wretches I determined, flew. But oh! believe who can; I quickly found That shout was not of grief, but joy, the sound ! On, on, with banners streaming high they came, Inscribed with every Alcoholic name. Amid this car a cauldron fiercely boiled, From whose infernal fumes not one recoiled ;
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But through long winding things, called worms, conveyed, The deadly liquid was in bars displayed ; To which all thronged, resolved to get their fill Of drunkard's drink fresh pouring from their still ; And while some trembling lay, some reeling stood- All all, with one consent, pronounced it good. Lewd men, with mates as lewd, both dark and fair, Dishonest men, with men of blood, were there; Dark minded, crafty men, of deeds untold, With gentlemen, lured on through love of gold, Who seldom drank, themselves, but understood How best to sponge the fools that would. And from this numerous, motley, drunken crowd. Rose execrations dire, and laughter loud ; With jests and scoffs profane, and ribald song, As down to death they gaily swept along. Stop! desperate mortals, stop! I loudly cried, See there a gulf; try not its roaring tide! Behold its treacherous service covered o'er With bodies dead of those who've jumped before! Stop! madmen, stop! turn back! or I foretell You'll quickly plunge into the gulf of hell! Avaunt! cried some; to man the lot is given To drive through hell to seats of bliss in heaven. The mighty driver of that wondrous steed Then cracked the whip and urged his headlong speed ; And while at me a fi'ry dart he threw, Most fondly said to his confiding crew : " Fear not; no hell there is, why trouble buy?
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"Enjoy yourselves ; Ye shall not surely die;
"That flood at which the dastard terror feels "Can never reach the axles of our wheels;
" The sooner in, brave boys, the sooner through,
" And all beyond is joy, is heaven for you ! " Not one of you, I gospel truth declare,
" Do what you will, shall be excluded there."
A thund'ring shout of joy they quickly raised, In pæans loud, loud their loved driver praised ; On still they drank, and danced, profanely swore ; On flew the horse, and quickly reached the shore ;- In plunged the monster, with his cumbrous load, And heedless of their shrieks still onward strode ;
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Down, down went horse and car, and frighted crowd, To ocean's depths, o'erwhelmed by billows proud! I, breathless, viewed the gulf, both near and far; Up came the hated horse, with empty car! There sat the fiend! with sly, infernal leer ; He looked around, and back was seen to steer, To take of drunkards yet another freight, Consigned to dread perdition's yawning gate! All such he boldly claims, and knows full well How easy 'tis to wheel them down to hell.
THE GOD OF NATURE. AMOS, 5 : 8, 9. -
The floating clouds, the falling rain, The rolling earth, the starry plain, The good, the mighty God confess, And counsels wise to man address- Seek Him who has the Pleiads made : Orion, too,-who death's dark shade Converts to morning's welcome light, And turns the joyous day to night; Who bids the ocean vapors rise, Supply the cisterns of the skies, And thence descend in genial show'rs,
1 To clothe the earth with smiling flow'rs,- With fruits and fields of bending grain ; The Lord! The Lord's! His holy name! He aids the weak against the strong ; Praise, Praise Him, in sublimest song.
S. Mck.
THIRSTY SINNERS INVITED TO CHRIST. JOHN, 7: 37.
Originally written for the last day of a " Protracted Meeting."
1. Come now, dear friends, the Saviour calls ; On thirsty souls His notice falls ; ª From broken cisterns turn away ; Death hastens, you must not delay.
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2. Pure living water Jesus brings ; From Christ, the Living Rock, it springs; Your raging thirst it will control, And make the wounded spirit whole.
3. To all who thirst this water's free ; It's free for you, and free for me ; The offer's kind, the day is great, To see you come the angels wait.
4. No sword gleams by this water's side ; Come, say the Spirit and the Bride ; And here the blessed Jesus stands, With tearful eyes and outspread hands!
5. This day of grace may be your last; It flies !- soon. soon it will be past! The day of wrath! when that's begun, No water cools the fervid tongue.
S. M. K.
THE JUDGMENT DAY.
1. Lo it comes! the day expected! Lightnings flash, and thunder roars ; Christ his throne has now erected! Down the skies his glory pours ; Earth, affrighted, Trembles throughout all her shores!
2. Hark! the trump of God is calling Adam's race, both quick and dead ; Tombs are cleaving, towers falling ; Slumb'ring nations lift the head, And are rising, Both from earth and ocean's bed!
3. Harden'd sinners are confounded ; They have heard Him, from afar, Christ, with glories bright surrounded, Calling, Come, now, to my bar! Oh! how dreadful, To receive their sentence there!
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4. But ye Saints, who died believing, Hoping, 'mid the gloom of night- Crowns of life from Christ receiving, Crowns and robes with glory bright, Ye are destin'd, Hence to shine in realms of light.
S. M. K.
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VALEDICTION.
My work is finished. Amid many hindrances I have done the best I could. If those for whose gratification this service was undertaken should generally be satisfied, I shall feel that I have not labored in vain. While medi- tating on, and writing of, friends and scenes long since pass- ed away, and preparing some account of our present peo- ple and affairs, for the information of those who shall come after us, I am moved to say, O, Bradford, Bradford ! field of my early and late ministerial labors ; resting place of my nearest and dearest kindred, and venerated parishion- ers ; abode of many tried and faithful friends ; endeared to me by ten thousand fond and tender recollections !. So long as the beautiful Connecticut shall flow by thy side, and the lofty mountains which skirt thy horizon shall stand as monuments of the great Creator's power and im- mutability, and thy charming scenery continue to delight the eyes and the heart of every lover of the beautiful, inay Heaven's blessing rest upon thy sons and daughters ; vice and crime find no place among them; but intelligence, and virtue, good order, and, above all, true religion, with all its attending and consequent benefits, be their inher- itance and pre-eminent glory.
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ERRATA AND OMISSIONS.
Page 2, for conaining read containing ; and for reasonable, seasona- ble.
13, line 13, for seventy-six, sixty-six.
17, line 26, insert inhabitants of before said Township.
20, line 10, for six month, six months from the date.
27, lines 20, 21, for reversions and remissions, reversion and rever- sions.
28, line 2 from the bottom, for written, read within.
31, for eke, execute.
37, for forty-two, forty.
49, for stock-yard, stack-yard.
61, for Englishmen, Englishman.
68, for June, January.
74, after 1867 supply and.
75, for Rev. Wm., Rev. Mr.
120, for ghostly, ghastly.
121, for Peckles, Pickles.
125, line 12, for through, thorough.
127, line 6, for bearing, learning ; line 11, for Bernslee, Bemslec.
141, line 7, for genalogy, genealogy ; in the foot note for Benjamin F., Benjamin P.
147, line 7, for criminal, dismal.
150, for Epapros, Epaphras.
153, line 11, for at, to.
226, omit the comma after Mary.
227, for Shum, Shumway.
235, for including, indicating.
243,-5,-6, for Dake, Doke.
260, atter Their Children omit were, and for 1767 read 1777.
270, line 23, for twenty-first read twenty-fourth.
271, Elzina, Elsina.
278, line 8, for 1796, 1799.
285, last line, for Burnet, Barnet.
298, for Hemstead, Hampstead.
305, line 8, for Monson, Manson ; line 11, after Martha omit the comma.
331, line 17, for June 20, 1813, read June 22, 1791.
372, line 17, for 1828 read 1808 ; line 19, for 1830, 1810 ; line 21, for 18-, 1831.
395, line 18, for father, pastor.
405, for Homopathic, Homeopathic ; and on page 406, for Homœpa- thy, Homeopathy.
407, line 19, for 18-, read 1790.
411, for Nutpelee, Nutfield.
415, for Gratius, Grotius.
418, line 6, for three, their.
419, line 9, for friends, fireside.
419, line 18, for restrained, sustained. 436, for Mrs., Mr.
443, line 18, for general use, read graceful verse.
455, line 19, for service, surface ; line 20, for jumped, plunged.
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In chapter V the following should have appeared, immediately after "Charles May Killed in a Duel :"
BRADFORD BRASS BAND.
This company of musicians, incorporated by act of the Legislature, have a commodious hall for their social gath- erings, and an elegant stand in a central part of the vil- lage, from which, under their accomplished leader, Capt. R. E. Whitcomb, they occasionally, on pleasant evenings, discourse sweet music, to the high gratification of numer- ous listeners. They are also accustomed to favor the public with their performances in this and other towns, on various occasions. Their leader was a distinguished bugler in a cavalry regiment during the late war for the suppression of the rebellion.
At the close of Chapter XVIII should have been printed the follow- ing :
An important Drug and Medicine store has been here kept for several years by H. G. Day.
Books and Stationery by Mrs. J. D. Clark.
Hardware, Iron, Steel, Coal, Nails, Cutlery, Glass, Farmers' Tools, etc., etc., wholesale and retail, by Eaton & Co.
Various other stores not here particularly mentioned.
Bradford village is a center of trade for a populous surrounding community.
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