Cofachiqui, and Other Poems/Centennial poem

by Castello Newton Holford

CENTENNIAL POEM. [Written for the Centennial Celebration at Bloomington, Wisconsin.]

A hundred years! and now completes the hand
Upon 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 more
Than one short day, with many such before.
Successive seasons are but half hours, all
Marked by the snow-flake's and the rose leaf's silent fall.

But not with Nature's calm, unvarying plan
Events recurring mark the years of man;
But ever, as successive centuries pass,
More fitfiully and faster through the glass
Of human destiny still stream the sands;
Upon the human horologe the hands
Irregularly 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 see
Full rounded up the century.
A glorious day! Well have ye come
With roar of gun and roll of drum,
To honor with high jubilee
The last day of the hundredth year
Since, 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 track
Go from the Mississippi back
To that old Quaker city there
By the calm-gliding Delaware.
What means this tumult in the town?
The people thronging up and down
With eager words and restless pace?
In the rapt look on every face
The march of great events you trace.
Swells the low murmur of their speech
Like wave-beats on the distant beach.
Adown the length of Chestnut Street
And 'round the State House swell and beat
The human waves; within those walls
The strong men whom the country calls
To council hold their high debate
Whose close shall seal the land's great fate.

And here, strong leader 'mid the brave
Who've chosen freedom or the grave,
Stands dauntless Adams. 'Mid the clash
Of stern debate his words outflash
Like glowing sparks from flint and steel,
Rekindling all the fear-quenched zeal
Of patriot hearts less brave and stout,
Reviving hope, dispelling doubt—
For even here are many found
Alarmed to stand on such high ground
And hurl with such a lofty tone
Such challenge 'gainst proud England's throne
So, stubborn through the long debate,
They hang, a millstone's constant weight,
Upon the unbowed souls of those
Who'd venture all, be 't win or lose.

Amid this clash of warring thought,
Forebodings chill, exhortings hot,
Is missed the tall, commanding form
Of him whose hand stirred up this storm,
Nor stayed to guide or quell it then.
Silent his voice whose magic pen
Had sketched in lines that flaming ran
The Greater Charter of the Rights of Man.
The mighty thoughts which crowding hung
Reluctant on th' unready tongue
Yet 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 bold
Echoing around the chamber rolled.
Nor could that mighty impulse long
Be 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 masses
From heart to heart the impulse passes.
Their murmuring voices seemed before
Like dying waves upon a far-off shore;
But instant now the tumult grows,
As when the sudden tempest blows,
And breakers thunder wild and high
And screaming sea-birds o'er them fly.
And soon the clamor of the bells
The joyous tumult grandly swells,
And yet a deeper, stronger note
Comes from the cannon's iron throat.
Nor is the jubilee at all
Checked 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 night
And wrap in one broad, ruddy glare
The 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 wrong
The 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 moan
Their foes by scores in blood atone.
Down burst the gathered hate of years
Upon the cowering grenadiers,
From copse and wall the rifle ball
Aimed 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 crown
Stretched 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 glow
And laid the bristling red ranks low,
As August's flame-winged hurricane
Sweeps 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 parapets
Swarmed 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 day
Was barred the bellowing squadron's way
The war-ships bayed like baffled dogs
Before the tough palmetto logs
Vainly and long; then they withdrew
With many a shattered hull and crew.

'T was such successive triumphs gained
Which courage roused and hope sustained.
Dull were the patriot's heart and eye
Who could not in these things descry
That on his cause the hand divine
Had set its bright, approving sign.
Deep need had every heart and hand
In that immortal little band,
The sponsors of the newborn land,
For all the zeal that triumph fired
And all the strength success inspired;
High need for an auspicious hour
To 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 recall
Ere was revealed what should befall;
For almost while the ink was wet
Upon 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 bayonet
In 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 line
And panic flight at Brandywine,
The Carolinas overrun
By Tarleton fierce and Ferguson.
Humiliation deeper yet
Came when the red cross-flag was set
Above old Independence Hall,
And British troops, with feast and ball,
A gay life in the city led
From 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 Morristown
The 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 lay
Gleamed with some promise of the day
When Burgoyne's host laid down their arms
And 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 flanks
Danced 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 fords
Were 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 rose
A host of new and eager foes.
Came on New England's yeoman ranks
And farmers from the Hudson's banks—
From Mohawk and Oswego came
Full many a borderman whose aim
Failed never. On his conquering track
The 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 low
And 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 free
Before from mountains to the sea,
Surpriséd found himself inhemmed
By foes the haughty lord contemned,
While roaring siege guns 'round him flashed,
And blazing shells about him crashed;
And closer still on every side
Pressed on the 'leaguering lines allied;
And day by day he saw advance
The gallant sons of sunny France;
New England's men were pressing near
And the Virginian mountaineer
Still nearer to the bastions crept
And 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 file
The captive hosts of Britain's isle,
And ground the arms they nevermore
Shall bear upon Columbia's shore.

'T is done! Let Freedom's sons rejoice
O'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 word
That on this day a century since was heard,
But strive to link the hundred years gone by
With the familiar scenes which 'round us lie.

A century since and o'er this smiling land
Strode 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 tide
Had halted in Kentucky's forests wide,
And there the woodsman's ax or rifle's sound
Rang 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 Lexington
In 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 sun
The 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 withdrew
And o'er the Prairie fort the starry banner flew.

Decades passed on, the soldiers' dress-parade
By none but brave and trader was surveyed.
But not by these the waiting germs were sown
Whence all these fair communities have grown.
The first half of the century passed away
Amd 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 old
And 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 show
To 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 run
With 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 bright
Millenium—Chaos, perchance, and night!
Then let the patriot hope, and trust and pray,
And labor ever to prepare the way
For 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.