USA > Vermont > Rutland County > Danby > The history and map of Danby, Vermont > Part 37
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Boast not thyself of to-morrow ! Though thou hast great riches to-day- To-morrow thou art a beggar ; Thy riches have all flown away.
Boast not thyself of to- morrow ! Nor think of the past as a dream ; The present time only is ours, The future by all is unseen.
Boast not thyseif of to-morrow ! But thank God for blessings to-day -- To-morrow may bear thee from earth ; Thy days are fast fleeting away.
OUR COUNTRY, WRITTEN IN 1855.
BY MR. A. S. NICHOLS.
Our country ! our country ! "the land of the free !" -
There is woe in thy future-a judgment for thee : For thy sins are as scarlet, and legion their name. Thon hast stooped from thy glory, to revel in shame. .
How oft the vain boasting of freedom is heard !-- How many a temple to false gods is reared ! And freedom's cry echoing from sca unto sea, Whilst the poor slave is shrieking, "No freedom for me !"'
The fetter is galling their hands and their feet, They are bartered and sold, like cattle and sheep, And scourging and whipping their portion must be, "Till death breaks their fetters, and bids them go free.
Our conutry ! our country ! thy boasting is vain ; The gallows thou'rt rearing, and victims are slain ; The war shout is ringing, on hills and in vales .- Thy sons thou art selling, like cotton in bales !
Shall sins such as these, go unpunished? Oh, no ! You surely must reap yet, of that which you sow ; With your enemies' blood, you make red the green sod. For which judgment will come, as there liveth a God.
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HISTORY OF DANBY ..
CARRYING THEM OUT.
BY MRS. H. M. CRAPO.
Carrying them out, one after the other, Laying them down in the valley to rest, Slowly and sadly cov'ring them over, Heaping the green sods over their breasts ; Carrying them out, one after the other, The youth and the aged, the grave and the gay, The husband and father, the wife and the mother. The babe in its innocence, bear them away.
Carrying them out, one after the other, From hamlet and village, from city and town, To slumber in silence, but O! not forever, They'll wake from their sleep when the trumpet shall sound. Carrying them out, one after the other, In coffin and shroud to inherit the tomb ;
To molder in silence, the worm shall devour them, Shall feed on the pale cheek where roses did bloom.
Carrying them out, one after the other, With hands meekly folded across their cold breast ; Slowly and sadly, cov'ring them over, They rest from their labors, the dead ever blessed. No more shall they wake to sorrow and sighing, Hope, love and feeling together have fled ; Where now is affection, that glowed in their bosoms, Has it perished forever? I ask is it dead ? Carrying it out, the form of the sleeper, The soul is not there, the spirit has fled, To God its Creater-the form and the feature To dust may return, but the soul is not dead.
THE WANDERER'S LAST SONG. BY MRS. H. M. CRAPO.
Green are the hills of my home in Vermout, Moss grown the roof of my father's low cot, Sweet are the roses that bloom near its door, The song of the blue-bird that flits o'er the moor.
The home of my childhood I ne'er shall see more. There kindred await me -- in vain I deplore. The fate that has left me to die here alone,
Far away from my loved ones,-my own cherished home.
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HISTORY OF DANSY.
In the land of the stranger -- kind friends will weep, For one who is sleeping far o'er the blue deep ; Oh. why did I leave them, in a strange land to roam ? A shadow will darken their once happy home,
My mother is waiting beside the bright hearth, In the cot on the hill side-my father comes forth From his fields that are waving with bright golden grain, But never, O never shall I greet them again.
Green are the hills of my home in Vermont, Moss grown the roof of my father's low cot, Sweet are the roses that bloom ne'er the door, Of the cot on the hill-side I ne'er shall see more.
THE AGED SOLDIER.
. BY MRS. H. M. CRAPO.
Loved ones ! "my noon of life is past. The brightness of my spirit flown," And should I hear the "bugle's blast," My aged feet it would not move To join the battle's din and strife ; I could not go to save my life.
Ye slumberers there in nameless graves Upon Potomac's pleasant shore, My heart goes out unto you braves. Unto our martial days of yore ; Your fame, your deeds are known to men, Recorded all by "History's" pen.
Soon shall I leave this earthly shore, To join you comrades over there, Shall we recount our battles o'er, Our marches long, our soldier fare ; Should we forget the Lord to praise, We would not talk of war like days.
"The eyes that hailed your spirita frame, Still kindle" when I do recount The deeds that made you great with fame, I'm young again, comrades I shout To arms ! to arms ! the rebels come, Your knapsacks leave, and seize your gaas."
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HISTORY OF DANBY.
The n thoughts come o'er me of the dead, The blood flows sluggish in my veins ; I seek once more my curtained bed With tottering feet and trembling frame. Yes, I have nearly run my race, Unto the grave I soon must haste,
To join my comrades, "mighty dead," O ! shall I grasp them by the hand, When my freed spirit shall have fled Unto the pleasant summer land? Death cannot fright my soldier heart, I long to go-from earth depart.
These feet no more shall chase the foe, My chung righi aim is gone . I've mourned the loss-a fearful woe I deemed my lost right arm, Loved ones, ye have been very kind To me while here in life's decline.
Sons of the brave ! bear me away, The spirits of my comrades call : ""T'is but one pang and all is o'er," E'en now I hear their kindly call To join them on the "other shore," Loved ones I go-my life is o'er !
THE QUAKER GIRL.
BY MRS. H. M. CRAPO.
She is both good and sensible, No modern belle is she, She scorneth affectation, And that right heartily.
She does not change her manner, When gentlemen are by, She does not blush and simper. And downward cast her eye,
And look so sentimental ; And soon as they're away, Lay by her pleasing manner, And to her brother say,-
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TTISTORY OF DANBY.
How did I look this evening ? And did you hear them say That I was very charming In my fashionable array ?
Was my attitude most graceful? And did I look romantic ? I fear I blushed beneath my rouge, (That is'nt good cosmetic.)
:She is not of that fashion, She combs her hair quite plain, She's not the least assuming, Haughty, proud, nor vain.
She wears no gandy colors, Her dress is plain and neat She wears no trails or flounces To sweep and dust the street.
"Says "thee," and "thou" so sweetly, I know you all would love her, If you could know Ruth Halliday, The Quaker's ouly daughter.
ORIGIN OF THE RED ROSE. BY CHAS. H. CONGDON.
. "Tis said that on Earth, once a Paradise smiled. Resplendant with beauty, and grandeur so wild. And if we the Poets, one half would believe. The half of its beauty, we ne'er could conceive.
Tall cedars and pines, majestic here grew, The Egiautine. Cypress and beautiful yew, The birch with its blossoms, that scented the gale -- The poplar. the balm. with the aspen to wail.
Each plant and each shrub. rare blossoms revealed. The lilac, the lily and tulip genteel, They grew here in nature, voluptuous and bright, No hand here to rear them, no eye to delight.
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Till Providence smil'd on this fit haunt of God's,
And ordained that by woman, those arbors be trod- She listen'd delighted. enraptured she gazed,
As she saw the fine fountains and the flowers they laved.
'Twas here while she gazed on the prospect so bright, Far off she discovered the angel of light, Who fallen from virtue, was cast out of Heaven, To Paradise wandered, at the hour of even'.
Disguised as a serpent, he approached nature's queen. And whispered transgression, to her it would seem - On a bright shining morning, with nature all new, She prepared to leave Eden, and bid it adieu.
A tear she bestowed. on the life on fair.
A branch from the olive, she entwined in her hair, The fragrance of flowers, for the last time she breathed. For her bosom, at parting, convulsively heaved.
The last flower she embalmed, was a snowy white rose, And now she had sought it, the last scene to close, To her lips then she pressed it, with ardor so true, That the rose, ever after wore a vermiel hue.
Tien blush not fair maid, when you pluck this sweet flower, That its beauty was stolen, at the last parting hour, Hlad not her last breath been sighed on a rose,
We should ne'er had this flower to soften our woes. January 8th, 1852.
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1 THE FARMER. .
BY MRS. H. M. CRAPO.
Sun-burnt his brow and hard his hand, The tiller of the soil,
A healthy glow is on his check, The son of honest toil. Flis fields are broad and wave with grain, The kine on yonder hill, Are hasting at the sun's decline, The herdsmen's pail to fill.
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His sheep repose beneath green shades, "No blast on the shining horn" Calls back the kine and straying sheep From his fields of goldeu corn ; No primrose hedge, but gray stone wall, The farmer's field engirt That dwells secure in his cottage home. 'Mid the hills of old Vermont.
As independent as a prince, The farmer in his home ; Though it be but a cottage brown, With moss its roof o'ergrown, Beside his wood-fire he may sit, When garnered are his fields, And list unto his daughter's voice, While umo him she reads.
Or with his good wife talk about The time when they were young, While she a stocking knits for him, From yarn that she has spun. Though no high sounding words they use Or phrases literary, They're not deficient in good sense The farmer and his lady : Long may he live to till his fields (There ruin never lurks), The spine of our United States, The farmer and his works.
VERMONT.
BY MRS. H. M. CRAPO.
Land of the evergreen ; rugged thy hills, Mossy the banks of thy murmuring rills, Green are thy vallies where bright waters gleam, Tho' thou caust ne'er boast of one broad winding stream, Journeying onward towards the blue sea, By stately old castles, yet dear unto me Are the banks of old Otter where I have strayed, And on its bright bosom my fairy boat sailed.
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Land of the brave ! o'er thy vallies so fair, Green mounds tell of patriots, slumbering there : O'er the tomb of the soldier, the marble gleams white .. In valley, ou hill-top, they're sleeping to night. The brave sons of Mars, in their cold narrow beds, Vermont, ever true to thy patriot dead, Guard well those hillocks where mouldering lies The soldiers who gave to our country their lives.
Land of the North ; soon thy groen hills will be Swept of their verdure. by Autumu's decree. And rude winds will whistle across thy bleak hills, The snow o'er thy vallies lie heavy and chill ; But many a heart shall gather around the bright hearth .. Of many a home. in the land of the North, Thou hast sisters afar who breathe the perfume Of the magnolia fair and the paie orange bioon Who sit 'neath the shade of the palmetto tree. Gazing far off on the blue rolling sea, Weeping in vain, for her warriors so bold, Who "came down on the North like a wolf on the fold."
All hail to the Chief and the Red, White and Blue, The Green Mountain Boys and their leader so true. Who fought and who bled our Union to save. From the hand of the tyrant they've wrested the slave. The Chief and his clan on their laurels they rest, The pride of the North the East and the West.
GREEN MOUNTAINS.
BY MRS. H. M. CRAPO.
From north to south, they range throughout The State of old Vermont, A rugged scenery they presecut. But we care not for that.
Let others boast of Western plusus, Of broad and rich praries. We'd rather have our mountains green. Our hills and pleasant valleys.
HISTORY OF DANBY.
Though not as grand as Alpine heights, As towering as the Andes. Majestic as that lofty range,- The Mexican Cordilleras.
Well pleased are we for all of that, With our own Green Mountains. We'll sing their praise,-evergreen may they Remain through endless ages.
THE SOLDIER.
BY MRS. H. M. CRAPO.
Thou hast been where the cannon fiercely roared. Thou hast fought with the Southern foe, Thy cheek is scarred and thy breast is seamed With many a cruel blow.
Thou hast looked on the bloody field of strife, Thou hast viewel the ghastly slain, In ships of war thou hast fearless rode. O'er the blue and surging main.
A wild, exciting life hath been thine, Thou hast dashed o'er the ocean's foam Thou hast listed to shrieks of dying men, To their wild despairing moan.
".In thy dim eye, on thy hollow cheek," I see the death sign there ; Thou art faint and weak from fasting long. From the scanty prison fare.
Where wealth and beauty meet to-night, In glorious liberty, In festive halls where the wine goes round. I ask, will they think of thee ?
None, as they tread those princely halls. Will ever stop to say, "What of the soldier who fought for us, For us and Liberty."
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HISTORY OF DANBY.
At the price of blood they revel now ; Where would they have been to-day If the haughty south had conquered In the fierce and bloody fray?
"'And who will think when the strain is sung. Till every heart is stirred," The glorious song of Liberty, That 'twas the soldiers sword,
That saved our starry banner. And every Freeman's right, From insult and oppression ! Not one will think to-night,
Of the soldier, wasting, dying there In his home, -but his faithful wife
WILL e'er be true to her marriage vow, Thank God for the Soldier's Wife !
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MY VALLEY HOME. BY MR. A. S. NICHOLS.
My home is encircled by mountains and hills, From whose rugged sides, flow bright sparkling rills- Whose tops, by the spruce and fir tree are clothed. Beneath whose dark shadows, the wild beasts do rove, Away from the hunter, secluded they roam ; Nor dare to intrude at my sweet valey home. Sweet home in the valley, I oft dream of thee ! As when tiny boys, my dear brothers with me, Joyous and light-hearted, would wander away To the knoll in the beach-wood, on some bright day : And climb some tall sapling that grew on that mound, And when high on its top, 'twould bend to the ground- Then releasing our hold 'twould spring up again "Till too oft repeated, half bent 'twould remain. Oh ! there is not on earth another such spot, As the vale that contains my own native cot. With forest and rivers, and scenery sublime : With its broad spreading oak and tall bounding pine ! The roar of the brook, from its height tumbling down. Can ne'er be surpassed by a musical sound. Though others may boast of their homes in the west. My Green Mountain air is the purest and best ; And wherever I go, in what ever clime,
I see no such homes as the sweet home of mine.
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HISTORY OF DANBY.
THE WAY.
BY MR. A. S. NICHOLS.
I am the way, true pleasure's road ! Said Wealth, arrayed in gaudy robe ; Pleasures are mine to give- With lasting peace my subjects bless, They know not sorrow or distress, In endless joy they live.
Away with wealth ! Fame loudly cried ; With pleasure sweet, I am allied ! I bring you bliss when gained. For in whatever sphere you move, A source of pleasure I will prove, No matter how obtained.
I'm your a !!! said Worldly Pleasure, Seek me as your greatest treasure ; With gems I'll pave your way ! No future care need mar your bliss ; Another life is nought to this ; To God you need not pray.
'Tis false cried true Religion's voice . I am the way make me your choice, Religion undefiled ! I'll lead you up, from scenes of earth. From cruelty and wanton mirth ; And all your cares beguile.
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I am the way to life and love, And I will guide to Heaven above, The straight and narrow way ; Who walk therein are truly blest, When life is o'er how sweet their rest In realms of endless day.
TO A FRIEND.
BY MRS. H. M. CRAPO.
Long years have passed since last we met, My friend of other days, Of those glad times I often think, When we were young and gay.
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HISTORY OF DANBY.
The castles grand that then we built. Have vanised one by one, Our household bands are broken both, Our cherished ones are gone.
Yes many sorrows have we known, "Since we were girls at home," The stern realities of life, To each of us are come.
I often long to clasp thy hand In friendship's warm embrace, And hear once more thy kindly voice, My friend of other days.
NOT YET:
BY CHAS. H. CONGDON.
At fifteen, I was anxious very,
That time should waft me o'er the ferry, To manhood's golden gifted power, So anxious and uneasy I, My patience it did sorely try. Some spirit whispered in that -hour, Not yet !
At twenty, could not make it seem, That I knew less, than at fifteen,- And so I strove and jogged along. But then there comes with length'ning years, Which at fifteen excites no fears, That spirit speaks in accents strong, Not yet !
At twenty-five, we are not cured Of what at fifteen we endured, In almost hopeless misery. Begin to dream of something wrong, But days and weeks still speed along In slow successiou they pass by ! Not yet !
At thirty we would fain look back, Upon the well known beaten track, And wish t'were straighter, better trod. But business now our thoughts engage. For what may stare us in old age, And I a begging way might plod, Not.yet !
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HISTORY OF DANBY.
But thirty-five soon hastens on, New years come-but soon are gone, As gone so many have before ; Yet scarce we heed how swift they pass, Until we're booked as old at last, That spirit whispers as of yore, Not yet !
Ah ! forty did you say-in truth I feel as young as in my youth ; You say I'm getting-yes I'm old- But then, three score and ten long years, 'Allotted is to man,-who fears When only forty has been told, Not yet !
Then since I'm writing up my time, Nay putting it in uncouth rhyme, Why should I need a gentle hint That at forty-five, the scales may turn, As less'ning fires more dimly burn. Now must I think my powers to stint? Not yet !
To day I'm fifty I declare ! My face is wrinkled, gray my hair ! At fifteen-thirty -- did not dream. But life would pass without a ripple, Now I'm Rheumatic, almost a cripple. Is life a burden as it seems ? Not yet ! Not yet ! Danby, Oct. 6th, 1870.
'TIS MANLY THEN TO SHED A TEAR.
BY CHAS. H. CONGDON.
When in afflictions path we tread : · When gathering storms do fast appear ; When all our pleasing hopes are fled ; 'Tis manly then to shed a tear.
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HISTORY OF DANBY.
When our last friends prove false untrue ; When all are gone, that once were dear ; When lone and sad, the world we view ; "T'is manly then to shed a tear.
When at the grave of some dear friend, We stand and view the silent bier ; When grief and woe enshroud the mind, "Tis manly then to shed a tear.
When friends who have been parted long ; Whose hearts have yearned, again to see, When greeting such in friendship strong, "Tis joyful then to shed a tear.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
BY CHAS. H. CONGDON.
Sweet bird of spring I welcome you, Thy kind return I hail, Since thou alone to us art true, Thy visits never fail.
Thy notes so sweet, my spirit cheer, A charm they have for me, And oft enraptured when I hear, Have wished I might be thee.
But ah ! delusions pensive mood, From me is quickly gone ; As oft at eve in the lonely wood, I've listened to thy song.
While twilight shades are gathering round, And stars are glimmering pale, I love to hear the well known sound, Song of the lovely Nightingale.
One voice there is to me more dear, One that inspires my heart, Gives promise of a bright career, A foretaste of the better part.
ـتاسه
HISTORY OF DANBY.
NATURE.
BY CHAS. H. CONGDON.
I love to roam o'er hill and dale And silent muse on nature's scenes, I love to tread the dewy vale And view the Heavenly vault serene.
I love in morn Aurora's smiles, That tells us of the coming day And ah ! I love an hour to while, Where shadows bright around me play.
I love the bright and burning noon, While in some cool recess I stray ; And oh ! I love thee silver moon, For oft thou dost, my steps betray ..
I've worshipped thee in childhood's hour ; In youth, bright dreams in thee I read, O, ever guide me by thy power, I ask but this, tis all I need.
I love to climb the dizzy height And view the distant rising storm ; And when tis past that Bow so bright Presages yet another morn.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. JOHN FOX. WHO DIED JUNE 17TH, 1853. BY A. S. BAKER. ..
All flesh is grass the Prophet said. And so it seems to be. The old must slumber with the dead, With youth and infancy.
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HISTORY OF DANBY.
Lo on the silent breeze is borne, A tale of grief and dread, An honored one has just past on, 'Is numbered with the dead.
Those friends who held him all so dear, May well in anguish mourn, That cherished one to them so dear, Has passed away and gone.
Yet not alone to grief will bend, Those of his kindred clan, The healing art has lost a friend, The world an honored man.
Amid the scenes of pain and death, A neoful life he led, He soothed the weak and feeble breath, And smoothed the dying bed.
Now long will suffering mortals wait, For his return again, He's passed beyond the royal gate, They'll wait for him in vain. (Written June 18th, 1853.)
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ONWARD EVER. BY A. S. BAKER.
Let not misfortunes damp thy zeal, Or stop thy onward race, But through oppression's ranks reveal, A bright and shining face.
When oppositions cross thy way, Intent thy zeal to sever, Be progress still thy mental sway, Thy watchword,."Onward Ever.'
Set high thy. mark, set high thy name, Then strive that ye may reach it, Remembering that the height of fame, Is'nt gained unless ye scek it.
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STORY OF DANBY.
And when'ye court dame fortune's smiles, Be as ardent then as ever, Set on thy banner's folds the while, Success, and 'Onward Ever.' 1855.
RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL SON.
BY A. S. BAKER.
While yet afar, the Father saw The Repentant erring son, His bowels yearned with love for him, That welcome his return ; Though all besmeared with mire and filth, His substance spent and gone, A 'Father's' love watched over him, To guide his footsteps home.
He kissed the wan and fevered cheek, And blessed his erring son,- "My father, I have grossly sinned, "And evil have I done, "No longer worthy to be called "By that endearing name, "A servant in my father's house, Is all that I can claim."
The father bade bring forth a robe, His habit to complete, And bade a ring put on his hand, And shoes upon his feet, And let with speed all be prepared, The fatted calf be slain, For this my son was surely dead, But is alive again.
With joy and mirth the mansion rings, The Timbrel, Harp and Lute, Awakes the hearts of revelers, With notes of music sweet ; While gladness swells the father's breast, And joy his lips bestir, The household all with merry zest, Welcome home the wanderer. 1848.
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HISTORY OF DANEY.
MY MOUNTAIN HOME.
BY A. S. BAKER.
My home, my home, my mountain home, I love its quiet scene, Its hills and vales, its sparkling suns. And all its fields of green ; I Jove its snow-clad hills and dales, Its bleak winds whistling free
And e'en the rude blast's chilling wail, Is music sweet to me.
I love my home though other lands, May boast of fairer fields ; I love my home though India's strands The fragrant spicies yield ; My mountain home is dearer still, Though mid the forest trees, For sweetly flows the dancing rill, And healthful is the breeze.
Let others praise the beauties of The smiling far off west, I'm not ashamed to own I love My native land the best ; For fairer suns have never shone, On any land or clime, Than shines above my own dear home, This mountain home of mine.
When summer's suns have decked the glade, In Flora's garb serene ; Or winter's frosts have nipped the blade, Upon the velvet green ; I love my home then all the same, Its woodland, dell and plain, I know when spring sends forth the rain, 1 . These beauties come again.
Let others roam in search of fickls, More charming to the eye, But I'm content to view the scenes That 'mong the mountain's lic ;
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The breeze is pure the sky serene, The woodlands fair to view, The summer robes the fields in green, The people all are truc. 1853
ARCTIC ROSES.
BY MRS. S. A. NICHOLS.
("Two of their children went to God, they said, last year, of the scurvy.") Lichtenfels ; Dr. Kane's Arctic Explorations
When the mild south wind was blowing, When the melted ice was flowing, When our summer sky was glowing, Free from night or cloud ; Then our Arctic roses faded, And with choicest perfumes laded, In one little garland braided, They went up to their God.
Dreary is our snow-clad dwelling, Where the merry laugh up welling, From pure guiltless hearts was telling, Of the young life's joy ; And the baby kayak lying In the boat house shrinking, drying. And the little sledge for sliding, And the old dog all are crying, For our girl and boy.
Far from human consolation, Girded round by desolation, Swells to Heaven the lamentation Drops the anguished tear ; But we know though death is round us, Though the frozen north enshroud us, Though no band of friends surround us, God is ever near.
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HISTORY OF DANBY.
And our roses, nip't in flowering In the groves of Heaven embowering Where the dew of life is showering, Never feel this cold ; There in the green fields af Heaven, Bloom the flowers God's love had given, And in greater love hath riven From our tender hold.
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