Poems (Dorr)/Vermont
VERMONT
(WRITTEN FOR THE VERMONT CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, AT BENNINGTON, AUGUST 15, 1877.)
I.
O woman-form, majestic, strong and fair,Sitting enthronèd where in upper airThy mountain-peaks in solemn grandeur rise,Piercing the splendor of the summer skies—Vermont! Our mighty mother, crowned to-dayIn all the glory of thy hundred years,If thou dost bid me sing, how can I but obey?What though the lips may tremble, and the verseThat fain would grandly thy grand deeds rehearseMay trip and falter, and the stammering tongueLeave all unrhymed the rhymes that should be sung?I can but do thy bidding, as is meet,Bowing in humble homage at thy feet—Thy royal feet—and if my words are weak,O crownèd One, 'twas thou didst bid me speak!
II.
Yet what is there to say, Even on this proud day, This day of days, that hath not oft been said? What song is there to sing That hath not oft been sung? What laurel can we bring That ages have not hung A thousand times above their glorious dead? What crown to crown the living Is left us for our giving, That is not shaped to other brows That wore it long ago? Our very vows but echo vows Breathed centuries ago! Earth has no choral strain, No sweet or sad refrain, No lofty pæan swelling loud and clear, That Virgil did not know, Or Danté, wandering slow In mystic trances, did not pause to hear! When gods from high Olympus came To touch old Homer's lips with flame, The/morning stars together sung To teach their raptures to his tongue. For him the lonely ocean moaned; For him the mighty winds intoned Their deep-voiced chantings, and for him Sweet flower-bells pealed in forests dim. From earth and sea and sky he caught The spell of their divinest thought, While yet it blossomed fresh and new As Eden's rosebuds wet with dew! Oh! to have lived when earth was young, With all its melodies unsung! The dome of heaven bent nearer then When gods and angels talked with men— When Song itself was newly born, The Incarnation of the Morn! But now, alas! all thought is old, All life is but a story told,
And poet-tongues are manifold; And he is bold who tries to wake, Even for God or Country's sake, In voice, or pen, or lute, or lyre, Sparks of the old Promethean fire!
III.
And yet—O Earth, thank God!—the soul of song Is as immortal as the eternal stars!O trembling heart! take courage and be strong. Hark! to a voice from yonder crystal bars:
"Did the roses blow last June? Do the stars still vise and set? And over the crests of the mountains Are the light clouds floating yet? Do the rivers run to the sea With a deep, resistless flow? Do the little birds sing north and south As the seasons come and go?
"Are the hills as fair as of old? Are the skies as blue and far? Have you lost the pomp of the sunset, Or the light of the evening star? Has the glory gone from the morning? Do the wild winds wail no move? Is there now no thunder of billows Beating the storm-lashed shore?
"Is Love a forgotten story? Is Passion a jester's theme? Has Valor thrown down its armor? Is Honor an idle dream? Is there no pure trust in woman? No conquering faith in God? Are there no feet strong to follow In the paths the martyrs trod?
"Did you find no hero graves When your violets bloomed last May Prouder than those of Marathon, Or 'old Platea's day'? When your red and white and blue On the free winds fluttered out, Were there no strong hearts and voices To receive it with a shout? Oh! let the Earth grow old! And the burning stars grow cold! And, if you will, declare man's story told! Yet, pure as faith is pure, And sure as death is sure, As long as love shall live, shall song endure!"
IV.
When, one by one, the stately, silent YearsGlide like pale ghosts beyond our yearning sight,Vainly we stretch our arms to stay their flight,So soon, so swift they pass to endless night! We hardly learn to name them, To praise them or to blame them, To know their shadowy faces, Ere we see their empty places! Only once the glad Spring greets them; Only once fair Summer meets them; Only once the Autumn glory Tells for them its mystic story; Only once the Winter hoary Weaves for them its robes of light! Years leave their work half-done; like men, alas! With sheaves ungathered to their graves they pass, And are forgotten What they strive to do Lives for a while in memory of a few; Then over all Oblivion's waters flow— The Years are buried in the long ago! But when a Century dies, what room is there for tears? Rather in solemn exaltation let us come, With roll of drum (Not muffled as in woe), With blare of bugles, and the liquid flow Of silver clarions, and the long appeal Of the clear trumpets ringing peal on peal; With clash of bells, and hosts in proud array, To pay meet homage to its burial day! For its proud work is done. Its name is writ Where all the ages that come after it Shall read the eternal letters, blazoned high On the blue dome of the impartial sky. 'What ruthless fate can darken its renown, Or dim the lustre of its starry crown? On mountain-peaks of Time each Century stands alone; And each, for glory or for shame, hath reaped what it hath sown!
V.
But this—the one that gave thee birthA hundred years ago, O beauteous mother!This mighty Century had a mightier brother, Who from the watching earthPassed but last year! Twin-born indeed were they—For what are twelve months to the womb of timePregnant with ages?—Hand in hand they climbedWith clear, young eyes uplifted to the stars;With great, strong souls that never stopped for bars, Through storm and darkness up to glorious day!Each knew the other's need; each in his breastThe subtle tie of closest kin confessed;Counted the other's honor as his own;Nor feared to sit upon a separate throne;Nor loved each other less when—wondrous fate!—One gave a Nation life, and one a State!
VI.
Oh! rude the cradle in which each was rocked,The infant Nation, and the infant State!Rough nurses were the Centuries, that mockedAt mother-kisses, and for mother-armsGave their young nurslings sudden harsh alarms,Quick blows and stern rebuffs. They bade them wait,Often in cold and hunger, while the feastWas spread for others, and, though last not least,Gave them sharp swords for playthings, and the dinOf actual battle for the mimic strife That childhood glories in!Yet not the less they loved them. Spartans they,Who could not rear a weak, effeminate brood.Better the forest's awful solitude,Better the desert spaces, where the dayWanders from dawn to dusk and finds no life!
VII.
But over all the tireless years swept on, Till side by side the Centuries grew old, And the young Nation, great and strong and bold,Forgot its early struggles, in triumphs later won! It stretched its arms from East to West; It gathered to its mighty breast From every clime, from every soil, The hunted sons of want and toil; It gave to each a dwelling-place; It blent them in one common race; And over all, from sea to sea, Wide flew the banner of the free! It did not fear the wrath of kings, Nor the dread grip of deadlier things— Gaunt Famine with its ghastly horde, Dishonor sheathing its foul sword, Nor faithless friend, nor treacherous blow Struck in the dark by stealthy foe; For over all its 'wide domain, From shore to shore, from main to main, From vale to mountain-top, it saw The reign of plenty, peace, and law!
VIII.
Thus fared the Nation, prosperous, great, and free, Prophet and herald of the good to be; And on its humbler way, in calm content, The lesser State, the while, serenely went. Safe in her mountain fastnesses she dwelt, Her life's first cares forgot, its woes unfelt, And thought her bitterest tears had all been shed,For peace was in her borders, and God reigned overhead.
IX.
But suddenly over the hills there cameA cry that rent her with grief and shame—A cry from the Nation in sore distress,Stricken down in the pride of its mightiness!With passionate ardor up she sprang,And her voice like the peal of a trumpet rang— "What ho! what ho! brave sons of mine,Strong with the strength of the mountain pine!To the front of the battle, away! away!The Nation is bleeding in deadly fray,The Nation, it may be, is dying to-day!On, then, to the rescue! away! away!"
X.
Ah! how they answered let the ages tell,For they shall guard the sacred story well!Green grows the grass to-day on many a battle-field;War's dread alarms are o'er; its scars are healed;Its bitter agony has found surcease;A re-united land clasps hands in peace.But, oh! ye blessed dead, whose graves are strownFrom where our forests make perpetual moan,To those far shores where smiling Southern seasGive back soft murmurs to the fragrant breeze—Oh! ye who drained for us the bitter cup,Think ye we can forget what ye have offered up?The years will come and go, and other centuries die,And generation after generation lieDown in the dust; but, long as stars shall shine,Long as Vermont's green hills shall bear the pine,As long as Killington shall proudly liftIts lofty peak above the storm-cloud's rift,Or Mansfield hail the blue, o'erarching skies,Or fair Mount Anthony in grandeur rise,So long shall live the deeds that ye have done,So deathless be the glory ye have won!
XI.
Not with exultant joy And pride without alloy,Did the twin Centuries rejoice when all was o'er. What though the Nation rose Triumphant o'er its foes? What though the State had gained The meed of faith unstained?Their mighty hearts remembered the dead that came no more! Remembered all the losses, The weary, weary crosses,Remembered earth was poorer for the blood that had been shed,And knew that it was sadder for the story it had read! So, clasping hands with somewhat saddened mien, And eyes uplifted to the Great Unseen That rules alike o'er Centuries and men, Onward they walked serenely toward—the End!
XII.
One reached it last year. Ye remember well—The wondrous tale there is no need to tell—How the whole world bowed down beside its bier;How all the Nations came, from far or near,Heaping their treasures on its mighty pall—Never had kingliest king such funeral!Old Asia rose, and, girding her in haste,Swept in her jewelled robes across the waste,And called to Egypt lying prone and hidWhere waits the Sphinx beside the pyramid;Fair Europe came with overflowing hands,Bearing the riches of her many lands;Dark Afric, laden with her virgin gold,Yet laden deeper with her woes untold;Japan and China in grotesque array,And all the enchanted islands of Cathay!
XIII.
To-day the other dies. It walked in humbler guise,Nor stood where all men's eyes Were fixed upon it.Earth may not pause to lay A wreath upon its bier,Nor the world heed to-day Our dead that lieth here!
Yet we'll they loved each other— It and its greater brother. To loftiest stature grown, Each earned its own renown; Each sought of Time a crown, And each has won it;
XIV.
But what to us are Centuries dead, And rolling Years forever fled, Compared with thee, O grand and fair Vermont—our Goddess-mother?Strong with the strength of thy verdant hills,Fresh with the freshness of mountain-rills,Pure as the breath of the fragant pine,Glad with the gladness of youth divine,Serenely thou sittest throned to-dayWhere the free winds that round thee playRejoice in thy waves of sun-bright hair, O thou, our glorious mother!Rejoice in thy beautiful strength and say Earth holds not such another! Thou art not old with thy hundred years,Nor worn with toil, or care, or tears:But all the glow of the summer-timeIs thine to-day in thy glorious prime!Thy brow is fair as the winter-snows,With a stately calm in its still repose;While the breath of the rose the wild bee sips,Half-mad with joy, cannot eclipseThe marvellous sweetness of thy lips;And the deepest blue of the laughing skiesHides in the depths of thy fearless eyes,Gazing afar over land and seaWherever thy wandering children be! Fold on fold,Over thy form of grandest mouldFloweth thy robe of forest green,Now light, now dark, in its emerald sheen.,Its broidered hem is of wild flowers rare,With feathery fern-fronds light as airFringing its borders. In thy hairSprays of the pink arbutus twine,And the curling rings of the wild grape vine.Thy girdle is woven of silver streams;Its clasp with the opaline lustre gleamsOf a lake asleep in the sunset beams; And, half concealing And half revealing,Floats over all a veil of mistPale-tinted with rose and amethyst!
XV.
Arise, O noble mother of great sons,Worthy to rank among earth's mightiest ones,And daughters fair and beautiful and good,Yet wise and strong in loftiest womanhood— Rise from thy throne, and, standing far and highOutlined against the blue, adoring sky,Lift up thy voice, and stretch thy loving handsIn benediction o'er the waiting lands!Take thou our fealty! at thy feet we bow,Glad to renew each oft-repeated vow!No costly gifts we bring to thee to-day;No votive wreaths upon thy shrine we lay;Take thou our hearts, then!—hearts that fain would beFrom this day forth, O goddess, worthier thee!