Cofachiqui, and Other Poems/Centennial poem
CENTENNIAL POEM.[Written for the Centennial Celebration at Bloomington, Wisconsin.]
A hundred years! and now completes the handUpon the world's great clock a cycle grand,Marked with great deeds; yet in the ages' flight,A tale that's told—a brief watch in the night.In Nature's endless round it is no moreThan one short day, with many such before.Successive seasons are but half hours, allMarked by the snow-flake's and the rose leaf's silent fall.
But not with Nature's calm, unvarying planEvents recurring mark the years of man;But ever, as successive centuries pass,More fitfiully and faster through the glassOf human destiny still stream the sands;Upon the human horologe the handsIrregularly but still faster run.Marking each era closed or each begun,More frequent still and still with louder clang,Peal forth the 'larum bells that in Life's watch-towers hang.
A hundred years! to-day we seeFull rounded up the century.A glorious day! Well have ye comeWith roar of gun and roll of drum,To honor with high jubilee The last day of the hundredth yearSince, rising over doubt and fear,Our sires proclaimed our country free.
Now turn we back along Time's way—Look back from this to that great day—Along the Empire's westward trackGo from the Mississippi backTo that old Quaker city thereBy the calm-gliding Delaware.What means this tumult in the town?The people thronging up and downWith eager words and restless pace?In the rapt look on every faceThe march of great events you trace.Swells the low murmur of their speechLike wave-beats on the distant beach.Adown the length of Chestnut StreetAnd 'round the State House swell and beatThe human waves; within those wallsThe strong men whom the country callsTo council hold their high debateWhose close shall seal the land's great fate.
And here, strong leader 'mid the braveWho've chosen freedom or the grave,Stands dauntless Adams. 'Mid the clashOf stern debate his words outflashLike glowing sparks from flint and steel,Rekindling all the fear-quenched zealOf patriot hearts less brave and stout,Reviving hope, dispelling doubt— For even here are many foundAlarmed to stand on such high groundAnd hurl with such a lofty toneSuch challenge 'gainst proud England's throneSo, stubborn through the long debate,They hang, a millstone's constant weight,Upon the unbowed souls of thoseWho'd venture all, be 't win or lose.
Amid this clash of warring thought,Forebodings chill, exhortings hot,Is missed the tall, commanding formOf him whose hand stirred up this storm,Nor stayed to guide or quell it then.Silent his voice whose magic penHad sketched in lines that flaming ranThe Greater Charter of the Rights of Man.The mighty thoughts which crowding hungReluctant on th' unready tongueYet from his pen came clear and strong,Endowed to live through ages long.
'Tis done! The world-famed act is passed!The word is spoke! the die is cast!Opposing doubts and fears give way,Out rings each loud, approving "Aye!"The words defiant, high and boldEchoing around the chamber rolled.Nor could that mighty impulse longBe pent in walls, though thick and strong.E'en as electric currents run,Or light-waves rolling from the sun, So swiftly through the swaying massesFrom heart to heart the impulse passes.Their murmuring voices seemed beforeLike dying waves upon a far-off shore;But instant now the tumult grows,As when the sudden tempest blows,And breakers thunder wild and highAnd screaming sea-birds o'er them fly.And soon the clamor of the bellsThe joyous tumult grandly swells,And yet a deeper, stronger noteComes from the cannon's iron throat.Nor is the jubilee at allChecked by the night's descending pall.From street and home, from hut and hall,The bonfires bright, the tapers' light,Flash out defiance to the nightAnd wrap in one broad, ruddy glareThe earth beneath, the upper air,The waters of the Delaware.
This scene, so joyous and so bright,Was but a transient gleam of light,That, while the storm-clouds gathered black,Through one small rift a moment shone,And then the murky folds swept back,Thrice blacker and more threat'ning grown.Above the dark, foul fens of wrongThe storm of wrath had gathered long.The waiting nations saw the flash,World-wide and age-long rolled the crash Of that first bolt at Lexington. Then smoked to heaven the blood of seven,Too few for fight, too proud for flight— Heroes and martyrs every one.But soon for every dying moanTheir foes by scores in blood atone.Down burst the gathered hate of yearsUpon the cowering grenadiers,From copse and wall the rifle ballAimed fair and true, vindictive flew;The uniforms of gaudy hue,Prone on the roadside or the plain,Of blood and dust bore darker stain.
But blacker grew the war-storm's frown.From Mystic's slope to Bunker's crownStretched long, low mounds of earth and hay;Behind the Yankee farmers lay.The foemen's lines were long and fair,'Mid golden lace and scarlet there,Flashed bayonet and sword-blade bare.With steady sweep they onward came—A sudden burst of sulphurous flame.Fringed the low works with livid glowAnd laid the bristling red ranks low,As August's flame-winged hurricaneSweeps down the ranked and bladed grain.Thrice upward came the rallying foe,Thrice blazed that fierce and deadly glow.Then o'er the shot-torn parapetsSwarmed British swords and bayonets.The farmers backward fighting went,To them defeat and victory blent. Driven out from Boston with defeat,Then southward sailed the British fleet.At Charleston through the long June dayWas barred the bellowing squadron's wayThe war-ships bayed like baffled dogsBefore the tough palmetto logsVainly and long; then they withdrewWith many a shattered hull and crew.
'T was such successive triumphs gainedWhich courage roused and hope sustained.Dull were the patriot's heart and eyeWho could not in these things descryThat on his cause the hand divineHad set its bright, approving sign.Deep need had every heart and handIn that immortal little band,The sponsors of the newborn land,For all the zeal that triumph firedAnd all the strength success inspired;High need for an auspicious hourTo challenge England's wrath and power.
Well for the infant nation then,And well for Freedom and for men,That the die was cast beyond recallEre was revealed what should befall;For almost while the ink was wetUpon the famous parchment yet,Came swift disaster and disgrace—The shameful flight, the ruthless chase,The clanging horse-guards smiting swords From Beford's pass to Brooklyn's fords,The savage Hessian's bayonetIn the blood of many a captive wet.
And then came White Plains' bloody day,The patriots ever giving way,Surrender here and ther defeat,O'er Jersey's hills the long retreat,The quailing hearts and routed lineAnd panic flight at Brandywine,The Carolinas overrunBy Tarleton fierce and Ferguson.Humiliation deeper yetCame when the red cross-flag was setAbove old Independence Hall,And British troops, with feast and ball,A gay life in the city ledFrom which the patriot Congress fled,While clad in rags and scantly fed,The bleak hillside their cheerless bed,When skies and fates both darkly frown,At Valley Forge or MorristownThe remnants of the rebel band,Still faithful to their down-trod land,Shared in their leader's faith sublime,Still hopeful for a better time.
But the dark night which 'round them layGleamed with some promise of the dayWhen Burgoyne's host laid down their armsAnd scattered were Brant's savage swarms.Boasting of conquest, sallied forth The invaders from the distant north.Full gayly marched the scarlet ranks,And swarming on their front and flanksDanced in the breeze the plumed scalp-locks,Flashed scalping knives and tomahawks.The host swept on its conquering way,But found, as day succeeded day,Thick woods, wide swamps and brawling fordsWere deadlier foes than guns and swords,And toiling through the wilderness,Full many a Briton, many a Hess,Who sank and died by the long way,Uncoffined in the dark swamp lay.Before the wasting Britons roseA host of new and eager foes.Came on New England's yeoman ranksAnd farmers from the Hudson's banks—From Mohawk and Oswego cameFull many a borderman whose aimFailed never. On his conquering trackThe Briton now was driven back.O'erwhelmed and crippled by defeat,Too late he thinks him of retreat.On front and flank the rifles flash,Behind him close the cannon crash.Borne down in fight, no chance for flight,The truce-notes loud his bugles blow,And soon, their useless arms laid lowAnd furled their banners' gaudy show,March out the humbled captive foe.
The day which showed its earliest light When closed was Saratoga's fight,At Yorktown in full splendor broke,When cleared away the battle-smoke.There proud Cornwallis, ranging freeBefore from mountains to the sea,Surpriséd found himself inhemmedBy foes the haughty lord contemned,While roaring siege guns 'round him flashed,And blazing shells about him crashed;And closer still on every sidePressed on the 'leaguering lines allied;And day by day he saw advanceThe gallant sons of sunny France;New England's men were pressing nearAnd the Virginian mountaineerStill nearer to the bastions creptAnd with his fire the port-holes swept.Then once again the truce-notes blew,Above the works the white flags flew.Like scarlet tide between its banks(One fair and decked with lilies gold,The other rock-bound, rough and bold),From the black ruins slowly fileThe captive hosts of Britain's isle,And ground the arms they nevermoreShall bear upon Columbia's shore.
'T is done! Let Freedom's sons rejoiceO'er all the world with one glad voice.In deed as erst in word 't is done,And independence has been won.
We gather here to-day to celebrate A proclamation bold and true and great.Grand words were they, by grander deeds made good,By years of hardship, darkness, death and blood.Our hearts are moved by tales of that old time,Yet we, to-day, in this new age and clime,With peopled leagues and crowded years between,Can scarce connect it with the home-like scene.We here not only celebrate the wordThat on this day a century since was heard,But strive to link the hundred years gone byWith the familiar scenes which 'round us lie.
A century since and o'er this smiling landStrode the red hunter or the warrior band;With twanging bow and whirling tomahawk,Warred the fierce Winnebago and the Sauk.The Anglo-Saxon's colonizing tideHad halted in Kentucky's forests wide,And there the woodsman's ax or rifle's soundRang sharply o'er the Dark and Bloody Ground.True sons of Freedom were these woodsmen bold;The thunder of the distant war-storm rolled—They heard, and built another LexingtonIn memory of the spot where Freedom's war begun.
Not so the few rude settlers at Green Bay:Through all the war they owned the British sway.'T was in the year that formal peace was made,When, for adventure and for Indian trade,There came some hardy Gallic pioneers,Of Empire's westward march th' advance couriers,And once more on the Prairie of the Dog They built the cabins of the unhewn log,And each provided with a dusky spouse,And rifles, fish-lines, traps and wooden plows,Engaged in farming, hunting, Indian trade.But British soldiers manned the near stockade,And here one might have heard at set of sunThe faint, far booming of their evening gun;For five years passed from Yorktown's glorious day,Before this region passed from British sway.Then from the West the red cross-flag withdrewAnd o'er the Prairie fort the starry banner flew.
Decades passed on, the soldiers' dress-paradeBy none but brave and trader was surveyed.But not by these the waiting germs were sownWhence all these fair communities have grown.The first half of the century passed awayAmd still this region fair in native wildness lay.
But lo! the eager miners come, Equipped with pick and spade,And for the Empire at their backs The first broad highway's made.In steamboats panting o'er the lakes And struggling up the streams,In white-topped wagons o'er the land, Behind the slow ox-teams,Lured by the gleam of the dark-bright ore, The crowds come rushing in;From Pennsylvania's mines of coal And Cornwall's mines of tin;And rough Missouri's mines of lead. Their steps the gray wolf scare;The rattlesnake starts at their tread And seeks his rocky lair.Like an invading army swarm The soldiers of the Lead Brigade,The ocher-stain their uniform, Their arms the pick and spade.On many a wild and rock-ribbed hill, In many a dark ravine,The miner's cabin, built of logs And chinked with earth, is seen.The streams which once like crystal ran Run thick with muddy stain,For, toiling through the wash-dirt flumes, The ocher's hue they gain;And creaking 'neath the heavy tub, The windlass makes its rounds,And mottling many a hillside green, Rise up the yellow mounds.Beneath its volumed, sulphurous smoke The fiery furnace roars,And from its glowing, stony throat The molten metal pours.Hemmed in by thickly pitted hills, Springs up the busy mart,And through its stony valley streets Rolls the lead-burdened cart.
But on the prairie fair and broad The wild grass still is green;No trace of human hand is there, The wild flowers bloom unseen. The delvers in the rock yet leave The prairie sod unturned;Its wealth, far passing that of mines, Is overlooked and spurned.
Decades pass on; the century's close Beholds another scene:Gone are the wild grass and the flowers; The prairie still is green,But with a wealth of diverse grain And not the wild grass sod,And scores of fleecy flocks now graze Where the lone wild deer trod.Where once coyotes dug their holes The farm-girl milks the kine,And turkeys through the barnyard strut Amid fat beeves and swine.The corn's deep files and long, straight ranks Toss all their lances green;The farmer's son, like knight of old, In triumph rides between.In gorgeous, scythe-armed chariots rode The warrior-kings of oldAnd left in battle swaths of men Where'er their chariots rolled.And so the farmer-king now rides Adown the meadows green,The clover's red-capped legions fall Before his sickle keen.Where stretched the prairie bare we see The farm-house through the leaves;The walls shine white and flashes bright The rain-spout on the eaves.We see the village steeples rise Amid embowering trees;We hear the anvil's faint, far clang Borne on the summer breeze.We hear the distant engine's rush Along the quivering rails,Bringing the wares of every land And bringing too the mails.It swiftly brings within our reach The daily sheet, yet damp,Adown whose columns all life's forms In long procession tramp,We read it by the radiance bright Of burning kerosene;Surpassing the wax taper's light In palace old, I ween.The match with which we light this lamp Would seem a conjurer's showTo Franklin with his lightning-kite A hundred years ago.Vain might I write page after page And tire your patience too.To tell the wonders of this age No summer day will do.
Events march on in mass, not one by one;And still the clanging wheels of progress runWith ever-gaining speed. How near the end?And what and where the goal to which we tend?O awful mystery of our land's to-morrow!The past we know, but vainly strive to borrow Light from beyond—perchance there lies the brightMillenium—Chaos, perchance, and night!Then let the patriot hope, and trust and pray,And labor ever to prepare the wayFor the good time when wrong and woe shall cease—The era of the Thousand Years of Peace.For such a future work to fit our land,Nor seek the awful vail to lift with puny hand.