THE AMERICAN VILLAGE, &c.

THE AMERICAN VILLAGE , &c. WHERE yonder stream divides the fertile plain , Made fertile by the labours of the swain ; And hills and woods high tow'ring o'er the rest , Behold a village with fair plenty blest : Each year tall harvests crown the happy field ; Each year the meads their stores of fragrance yield , And ev'ry joy and ev'ry bliss is there , And healthful labour crowns the flowing year . THOUGH Goldsmith weeps in melancholy strains , Deserted Auburn and forsaken plains , And mourns his village with a patriot sigh , And in that village sees Britannia die : Yet shall this land with rising pomp divine , In it's own splendor and Britannia's shine . O muse , forget to paint her ancient woes , Her Indian battles , or her Gallic foes ; Resume the pleasures of the rural scene , Describe the village rising on the green , It's harmless people , born to small command , Lost in the bosom of this western land : So shall my verse run gentle as the floods , So answer all ye hills , and echo all ye woods ; So glide ye streams in hollow channels pent , Forever wasting , yet not ever spent . Ye clust'ring boughs by hoary thickets borne ! Ye fields high waving with eternal corn ! Ye woodland nymphs the tender tale rehearse , The fabled authors of immortal verse : Ye Dryads fair , attend the scene I love , And Heav'n shall centre in yon' blooming grove . What tho' thy woods , AMERICA , contain The howling forest , and the tiger's den , The dang'rous serpent , and the beast of prey , Men are more fierce , more terrible than they . No monster with it's vile contagious breath , No flying scorpion darting instant death ; No pois'nous adder , burning to engage , Has half the venom or has half the rage . What tho' the Turk protests to heav'n his ire , With lift up hand amidst his realms of fire ; And Russia's Empress sends her fleets afar , To aid the havock of the burning war : Their rage dismays not , and their arms in vain , In dreadful fury bathe with blood the plain ; Their terrors harmless , tho' their story heard , How this one conquer'd or was nobly spar'd : Vain is their rage , to us their anger vain , The deep Atlantic raves and roars between . To yonder village then will I descend , There spend my days , and there my ev'nings spend ; Sweet haunt of peace whose mud ' wall'd sides delight , The rural mind beyond the city bright : Their tops with hazles or with alders wove , Remurmur magic to the neighb'ring grove ; And each one lab'ring in his own employ , Comes weary home at night , but comes with joy : The soil which lay for many thousand years O'er run by woods , by thickets and by bears ; Now reft of trees , admits the chearful light , And leaves long prospects to the piercing sight ; Where once the lynx nocturnal sallies made , And the tall chesnut cast a dreadful shade : No more the panther stalks his bloody rounds , Nor bird of night her hateful note resounds ; Nor howling wolves roar to the rising moon , As pale arose she o'er yon eastern down . Some prune their trees , a larger load to bear Of fruits nectarine blooming once a year : See groaning waggons to the village come Fill'd with the apple , apricot or plumb ; And heavy beams suspended from a tree , To press their juice against the winter's day : Or see the plough torn through the new made field , Ordain'd a harvest , yet unknown to yield . The rising barn whose spacious floor receives The welcome thousands of the wheaten sheaves , And spreads it's arms to take the plenteous store , Sufficient for its master and the poor : For as Eumoeus us'd his beggar guest The great Ulysses in his tatters drest : So here fair Charity puts forth her hand , And pours her blessings o'er the greatful land : No needy wretch the rage of winter fears , Secure he sits and spends his aged years , With thankful heart to gen'rous souls and kind , That save him from the winter and the wind . A LOVELY island once adorn'd the sea , Between New-Albion and the Mexic ' Bay ; Whose sandy sides wash'd by the ocean wave , Scarce heard a murmur but what ocean gave : Small it's circumference , nor high it's coast , But shady woods the happy isle could boast ; On ev'ry side new prospects catch'd the eye , There rose blue mountains to the arched sky : Here thunder'd ocean in convulsive throws , And dash'd the island as it's waters rose : Yet peaceful all within , no tumults there , But fearless steps of the unhunted hare ; And nightly chauntings of the fearless dove , Or blackbird's note , the harbinger of love . So peaceful was this haunt that nature gave , Still as the stars , and silent as the grave ; No loud applause there rais'd the patriot breast , No shouting armies their mad joy confest , For battles gain'd , or trophies nobly won , Or nations conquer'd near the rising sun ; No clam'rous , crews , or wild nocturnal cheer , Or murd'rous russians for no men were here . On it's east end a grove of oak was seen , And shrubby hazels fill'd the space between ; Dry alders too , and aspin leaves that shook With ev'ry wind , conspir'd to shade a brook , Whose gentle stream just bubbling from the ground , Was quickly in the falter ocean drown'd . Beyond whose fount , the center of the isle , Wild plumb trees flourishe'd on the shaded soil . In the dark bosom of this sacred wood , Had fate but smil'd , some village might have stood Secluded from the world , and all it's own , Of other lands unknowing , and unknown . Here might the hunter have destroy'd his prey , Transfix'd the goat before the dawn of day ; And trudging homeward with his welcome load , The fruit of wand'rings thro' each by-way road : Thrown down his burthen with the needless sigh , And gladly feasted his small family . Small fields had shen suffic'd , and grateful they , The annual labours of his hands to pay ; And free his right to search the briny flood For fish , or slay the creatures of the wood . THUS spent his days in labour's pleasant , pain , Had liv'd and dy'd the homely shepherd swain : Had seen his children and his children's heirs , The fruit of love and memory of years To agriculture's first fair service bent , The work of mortals , and their great intent , So had the Sire his days of pleasure known , And wish'd to change no country for his own : So had he with his fair endearing wife , Pass'd the slow circle of a harmless life ; With happy ignorance divinely blest , The path , the centre and the home of rest . Long might the sun have run his bright career , And long the moon her mantled visage rear ; And long the stars their nightly vigils kept , And spheres harmonious either sung or wept : He had not dream'd of worlds besides his own , And thought them only stars , beyond the moon ; Enjoy'd himself , nor hear'd of future hell , Or heav'n , the recompence of doing well ; Had scarcely thought of an eternal-state , And left his being in the hands of fate . — O had this isle such souls sublime contain'd , And there for ages future sons remain'd , But envious time conspiring with the sea , Wash'd all it's landscapes , and it's groves away . It's trees declining , stretch'd upon the sand , No more their shadows throw across the land . It's vines no more their clust'ring beauty show , Nor sturdy oaks embrace the mountain's brow . Bare sands alone now overwhelm the coast , Lost in it's grandeur , and it's beauty lost . THUS , tho' my fav'rite isle to ruin gone , Inspires my sorrow , and demands my moon ; Yet this wide land it's place can well supply With landscapes , hills and grassy mountains high . O HUDSON ! thy fair flood shall be my theme , Thy winding river , or thy glassy stream ; On whose tall banks tremendous rocks I spy , Dread nature in primaeval majesty . Rocks , to whose summits clouds eternal cling , Or clust'ring birds in their wild wood notes sing . Hills , from whose sides the mountain echo roars , Rebounding dreadful from the distant shores ; Or vallies , where refreshing breezes blow , And rustic huts in fair confusion grow , Safe from the winds , secur'd by mountains high , That seem to hide the concave of the sky ; To whose top oft' the curious hind ascends , And wonders where the arch'd horizon bends ; Pleas'd with the distant prospects rising new , And hills o'er hills , a never ending view . Through various paths with hasty step he scours , And breathes the odours of surrounding flow'rs , Caught from their bosoms by the fragrant breath , Of western breezes , or the gale of death . South wind . Then low descending , seeks the humble dome , And centres all his pleasures in his home , 'Till day returning , brings the welcome toil , To clear the forest , or to tame the soil ; To burn the woods , or catch the tim'rous deer , To scour the thicket , or contrive the snare . SUCH was the life our great fore-fathers led , The golden season now from BRITAIN fled , E'er since dread commerce stretch'd the nimble sail , And sent her wealth with ev'ry foreign gale . — Strange fate , but yet to ev'ry county known , To love all other riches but it's own . Thus fell the mistress of the conquer'd earth , Great ROME , who ow'd to ROMULUS her birth , Fell to the monster Luxury , a prey , Who forc'd a hundred nations to obey . She whom nor mighty CARTHAGE could withstand , Nor strong JUDEA'S once thrice holy land : She all the west , and BRITAIN could subdue , While vict'ry with the ROMAN eagles flew ; She , she herself eternal years deny'd , Like ROME she conquer'd , but by ROME she dy'd : But if AMERICA , by this decay , The world itself must fall as well as she . No other regions latent yet remain , This spacious globe has been research'd in vain . Round it's whole circle oft' have navies gone , And found but sea or lands already known . When she has seen her empires , cities , kings , Time must begin to flap his weary wings ; The earth itself to brighter days aspire , And wish to feel the purifying fire . NOR think this mighty land of old contain'd The plund'ring wretch , or man of bloody mind : Renowned SACHEMS once their empires rais'd On wholesome laws ; and sacrifices blaz'd . The gen'rous soul inspir'd the honest breast , And to be free , was doubly to be blest : 'Till the east winds did here COLUMBUS blow , And wond'ring nations saw his canvas flow . 'Till her CABOT descended on the strand , And hail'd the beauties of the unknown land ; And rav'nous nations with industrious toil , Conspir'd to rob them of their native soil : Then bloody wars , and death and rage arose , And ev'ry tribe resolv'd to be our foes . Full many a feat of them I could rehearse , And actions worthy of immortal verse : Deeds ever glorious to the INDIAN name , And fit to rival GREEK or ROMAN fame . But one sad story shall my Muse relate , Full of paternal love , and full of fate ; Which when ev'n yet the northern shepherd hears , It swells his breast , and bathes his face in tears , Prompts the deep groan , and lifts the heaving sigh , Or brings soft torrents from the female eye . FAR in the arctic skies , where HUDSON'S BAY Rolls it's cold wave , and combats with the sea , A dreary region lifts it's dismal head , True sister to the regions of the dead . Here thund'ring storms continue half the year , Or deep-laid snows their joyless visage rear : Eternal rocks , from whose prodigious steep The angry tiger stuns the neighb'ring deep ; While through the wild wood , or the shrouded plain , The moose deer seeks his food , but often seeks in vain . Yet in this land , froze by inclement skies , The Indian huts in wild succession rise ; And daily hunting , when the short-liv'd spring Shoots joyous forth , th' industrious people bring Their beaver spoils beneath another sky , PORT NELSON , and each BRITISH factory : In slender boats from distant lands they sail , Their small masts bending to the inland gale , On traffic sent to gain the little store , Which keeps them plenteous , tho' it keeps them poor . Hither CAFFRARO in his slighty boat , One hapless spring his furry riches brought ; And with him came , for fail'd he not alone , His consort COLMA , and his little son . While yet from land o'er the deep wave he plough'd , And tow'rds the shore with manly prowess row'd . His barque unfaithful to it's trusted freight , Sprung the large leak , the messenger of fate ; But no lament or female cry was heard , Each for their fate most manfully prepar'd , From bubbling waves to send the parting breath To lands of shadows , and the shade of death . O FATE ! unworthy such a tender train , O day , lamented by the Indian swain ! Full oft' of it the strippling youth shall hear , And sadly mourn their fortune with a tear : The Indian maids full oft' the tale attend , And mourn their COLMA as they'd mourn a friend . Now while in waves the barque demerg'd , they strive , Dead with despair , tho' nature yet alive : Forth from the shore a friendly brother flew , In one small boat , to save the drowning crew . He came , but in his barque of trifling freight , Could save but two , and one must yield to fate . O dear CAFFRARO , said the hapless wife , O save our son , and save thy dearer life : 'Tis thou canst teach him how to hunt the doe , Transfix the buck , or tread the mountain snow . Let me the sentence of my fate receive , And to thy care my tender infant leave . He sigh'd nor answer'd , but as firm as death , Resolv'd to save her with his latest breath : And as suspended by the barque's low side , He rais'd the infant from the chilling tide , And plac'd it safe ; he forc'd his COLMA too To save herself , what more could mortal do ? But nobly scorning life , she rais'd her head From the flush'd wave , and thus divinely said : OF life regardless , I to fate resign , But thou , CAFFRARO , art forever mine . O let thy arms no future bride embrace , Remember COLMA , and her beauteous face , Which won thee youthful in thy gayest pride , With captives , trophies , victors at thy side ; Now I shall quick to blooming regions fly , A spring eternal , and a nightless sky , Far to the west , where radiant Sol descends , And wonders where the arch'd horizon ends : There shall my soul thy lov'd idea keep ; And 'till thy image comes , unceasing weep . There , tho' the tiger is but all a shade , And mighty panthers but the name they had ; And proudest hills , and lofty mountains there , Light as the wind , and yielding as the air ; Yet shall our souls their ancient feelings have , More strong , more noble than this side the grave . There lovely blossoms blow throughout the year , And airy harvests rise without our care : And all our fires and mighty ancestors , Renown'd for battles and successful wars , Behold their sons in fair succession rise , And hail them happy to serener skies . There shall I see thee too , and see with joy Thy future charge , my much lov'd Indian boy : The thoughtless infant , whom with tears I see , Once sought my breast , or hung upon my knee ; Tell him , ah tell him , when in manly years , His dauntless mind , nor death nor danger fears , Tell him , ah tell him , how thy COLMA dy'd His fondest mother , and thy youthful bride : Point to my tomb thro' yonder furzy glade , And show where thou thy much lov'd COLMA laid . O may I soon thy blest resemblance see , And my sweet infant all reviv'd in thee . 'Till then I'll haunt the bow'r or lonely shade , Or airy hills for contemplation made , And think I see thee in each ghostly shoal , And think I clasp thee to my weary soul . Oft , oft thy form to my expecting eye , Shall come in dreams with gentle majesty ; Then shall I joy to find my bliss began To love an angel , whom I lov'd a man ! She said , and downward in the hoary deep Plung'd her far form to everlasting sleep ; Her parting soul it's latest struggle gave , And her last breath came bubbling thro' the wave . THEN sad CAFFRARO all his grief declares , And swells the torrent of the gulph with tears ; And senseless stupid to the shore is borne In death-like slumbers , 'till the rising morn , Then sorrowing , to the sea his course he bent Full sad , but knew not for what cause he went , 'Till , sight distressing , from the lonely strand , He saw dead COLMA wafting to the land . Then in a stupid agony of pray'r , He rent his mantle , and he tore his hair ; Sigh'd to the stars , and shook his honour'd head , And only wish'd a place among the dead ! O had the winds been sensible of grief , Or whisp'ring angels come to his relief ; Then had the rocks not echo'd to his pain , Nor hollow mountains answer'd him again : Then had the floods their peaceful courses kept , Nor the sad pine in all it's murmurs wept ; Nor pensive deer stray'd through the lonely grove , Nor sadly wept the sympathising dove . — Thus far'd the fire through his long days of pain , Or with his offspring rov'd the silent plain ; 'Till years approaching , bow'd his sacred head Deep in the dust , and sent him to the dead : Where now perhaps in some strange fancy'd land , He grasps the airy bow , and flies across the strand ; Or with his COLMA shares the fragrant grove , It's vernal blessings , and the bliss of love . FAREWELL lamented paid , and whate'er state Now clasps you round , and sinks you deep in fate ; Whether the firey kingdom of the sun , Or the slow wave of silent Acheron , Or Christian's heaven , or planetary sphere , Or the third region of the cloudless air ; Or if return'd to dread nihility , You'll still be happy , for you will not be . Now fairest village of the fertile plain , Made fertile by the labours of the swain ; Who first my drowsy spirit did inspire , To sing of woods , and strike the rural lyre : Who last shou'd see me wand'ring from thy cells , And groves of oak where contemplation dwells . Wou'd fate but raise me o'er the smaller cares , Of Life unwelcome and distressful years , Pedantic labours and a hateful ease , Which scarce the hoary wrinkled sage cou'd please . Hence springs each grief , each long reflective sigh , And not one comfort left but poetry . Long , long ago with her I could have stray'd , To woods , to thickets or the mountain shade ; Unfit for cities and the noisy throng , The drunken revel and the midnight song ; The gilded beau and scenes of empty joy , Which please a moment and forever die . Here then shall center ev'ry wish , and all The tempting beauties of this spacious ball : No thought ambitious , and no bold design , But heaven born contemplation shall be mine . In yonder village shall my fancy stray , Nor rove beyond the confines of to-day ; The aged volumes of some plain divine , In broken order round my hut shou'd shine ; Whose solemn lines should soften all my cares , And sound devotion to th' eternal stars : And if one fin my rigid breast did stain , Thou poetry shou'dst be the darling sin ; Which heav'n without repentance might forgive , And which an angel might commit and live : And where yon' wave of silent water falls , O'er the smooth rock or Adamantine walls : The summer morns and vernal eves should see , MILTON , immortal bard my company ; Or SHAKESPEARE , DRYDEN , each high sounding name , The pride of BRITAIN , and one half her fame : Or him who wak'd the fairy muse of old , And pleasing tales of lands inchanted told . Still in my hand , he his soft verse shou'd find His verse , the picture of the poets mind : Or heav'nly POPS , who now harmonious mourns , " Like the rapt seraph that adores and burns . " Then in sharp satire , with a giant's might , Forbids the blockhead and the fool to write : And in the centre of the bards be shown The deathless lines of godlike ADDISON ; Who , bard thrice glorious , all delightful flows , And wrapt the soul of poetry in prose . NOW cease , O muse , thy tender tale to chaunt , The smiling village , or the rural haunt ; New scenes invite me , and no more I rove , To tell of shepherds , or the vernal grove .