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Stamford, Conn. (Connecticut, United States) (search for this): chapter 3
occurrence brought something more than philosophical speculation into the minds of those who passed through it. The incident of Colonel Abraham Davenport's sturdy protest is a matter of history. in the old days (a custom laid aside With breeches and cocked hats) the people sent Their wisest men to make the public laws. And so, from a brown homestead, where the Sound Drinks the small tribute of the Mianas, Waved over by the woods of Rippowams, And hallowed by pure lives and tranquil deaths, Stamford sent up to the councils of the State Wisdom and grace in Abraham Davenport. Twas on a May-day of the far old year Seventeen hundred eighty, that there fell Over the bloom and sweet life of the Spring, Over the fresh earth and the heaven of noon, A horror of great darkness, like the night In day of which the Norland sagas tell,— The Twilight of the Gods. The low-hung sky Was black with ominous clouds, save where its rim Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs The crater's sid
Baltic Sea (search for this): chapter 3
the blindfold lad From one of Vulcan's forge-boys? —” Nay, He better sees who stands outside Than they who in procession ride, “ The Reader answered:” selectmen and squire Miss, while they make, the show that wayside folks admire. “Here is a wild tale of the North, Our travelled friend will own as one Fit for a Norland Christmas hearth And lips of Christian Andersen. They tell it in the valleys green Of the fair island he has seen, Low lying off the pleasant Swedish shore, Washed by the Baltic Sea, and watched by Elsinore.” Kallundborg Church. “Tie stille, barn min! Imorgen kommer Fin, Fa'er din, Og gi'er dig Esbern Snares öine og hjerte at lege med!” Zealand Rhyme. “build at Kallundborg by the sea A church as stately as church may be, And there shalt thou wed my daughter fair,” Said the Lord of Nesvek to Esbern Snare. And the Baron laughed. But Esbern said, ‘Though I lose my soul, I will Helva wed!’ And off he strode, in his pride of will, To
Hampton (Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3
years ago and more, A boat sailed down through the winding ways Of Hampton River to that low shore, Full of a goodly company Sailing out on the summer sea, Veering to catch the land-breeze light, With the Boar to left and the Rocks to right. In Hampton meadows, where mowers laid Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass, ‘Ah, well-a-day! our hay must be made!’ A young man sighed, who saw them pass. Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand Whetting his scythe with a listless hand, Hearingmy hat and kneel With heart, if not with knee, in prayer, For blessings on their pious care.” The Reader wiped his glasses: “Friends of mine, We'll try our home-brewed next, instead of foreign wine.” The Changeling. for the fairest maid in Hampton They needed not to search, Who saw young Anna Favor Come walking into church,— Or bringing from the meadows, At set of harvest-day, The frolic of the blackbirds, The sweetness of the hay. Now the weariest of all mothers, The saddest two-y
Fort Fisher (North Carolina, United States) (search for this): chapter 3
cret love. Be strong, young mower of the grain; That love shall overmatch disdain, Its instincts soon or late The heart shall vindicate. In blouse of gray, with fishing-rod, Half screened by leaves, a stranger trod The margin of the pond, Watching the group beyond. The supreme hours unnoted come; Unfelt the turning tides of doom; And so the maids laughed on, Nor dreamed what Fate had done,— Nor knew the step was Destiny's That rustled in the birchen trees, As, with their lives forecast, Fisher and mower passed. Erelong by lake and rivulet side The summer roses paled and died, And Autumn's fingers shed The maple's leaves of red. Through the long gold-hazed afternoon, Alone, but for the diving loon, The partridge in the brake, The black duck on the lake, Beneath the shadow of the ash Sat man and maid by Attitash; And earth and air made room For human hearts to bloom. Soft spread the carpets of the sod, And scarlet-oak and golden-rod With blushes and with smiles Lit up the forest
Bethany (West Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 3
s rim Was fringed with a dull glow, like that which climbs The crater's sides from the red hell below. Birds ceased to sing, and all the barn-yard fowls Roosted; the cattle at the pasture bars Lowed, and looked homeward; bats on leathern wings Flitted abroad; the sounds of labor died; Men prayed, and women wept; all ears grew sharp To hear the doom-blast of the trumpet shatter The black sky, that the dreadful face of Christ Might look from the rent clouds, not as he looked A loving guest at Bethany, but stern As Justice and inexorable Law. Meanwhile in the old State House, dim as ghosts, Sat the lawgivers of Connecticut, Trembling beneath their legislative robes. ‘It is the Lord's Great Day! Let us adjourn,’ Some said; and then, as if with one accord, All eyes were turned to Abraham Davenport. He rose, slow cleaving with his steady voice The intolerable hush. “This well may be The Day of Judgment which the world awaits; But be it so or not, I only know My present duty, and my Lord'<
New England (United States) (search for this): chapter 3
re she died, unattended. When her death was discovered, she was hastily covered up in the earth near by, and a stake driven through her body, to exorcise the evil spirit. Rev. Stephen Bachiler or Batchelder was one of the ablest of the early New England preachers. His marriage late in life to a woman regarded by his church as disreputable induced him to return to England, where he enjoyed the esteem and favor of Oliver Cromwell during the Protectorate. Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see, By d sidelong moral squint Our friend objects to, which has grown, I fear, a habit of my own. Twas written when the Asian plague drew near, And the land held its breath and paled with sudden fear. “ Abraham Davenport. The famous Dark Day of New England, May 19, 1780, was a physical puzzle for many years to our ancestors, but its occurrence brought something more than philosophical speculation into the minds of those who passed through it. The incident of Colonel Abraham Davenport's sturdy pr
Nottingham, N. H. (New Hampshire, United States) (search for this): chapter 3
yme: I hardly dare To venture on its theme worn out; What seems so sweet by Doon and Ayr Sounds simply silly hereabout; And pipes by lips Arcadian blown Are only tin horns at our own. Yet still the muse of pastoral walks with us, While Hosea Biglow sings, our new Theocritus.” The Maids of Attitash. Attitash, an Indian word signifying huckleberry, is the name of a large and beautiful lake in the northern part of Amesbury. in sky and wave the white clouds swam, And the blue hills of Nottingham Through gaps of leafy green Across the lake were seen, When, in the shadow of the ash That dreams its dream in Attitash, In the warm summer weather, Two maidens sat together. They sat and watched in idle mood The gleam and shade of lake and wood; The beach the keen light smote, The white sail of a boat; Swan flocks of lilies shoreward lying, In sweetness, not in music, dying; Hardhack, and virgin's-bower, And white-spiked clethra-flower. With careless ears they heard the plash And bre
Lake Winnipesaukee (New Hampshire, United States) (search for this): chapter 3
my old-time lay Mingled in peace like the night and day! ‘Well!’ said the Man of Books, “your story Is really not ill told in verse. As the Celt said of purgatory, One might go farther and fare worse.” The Reader smiled; and once again With steadier voice took up his strain, While the fair singer from the neighboring tent Drew near, and at his side a graceful listener bent. 1864. The grave by the Lake. At the mouth of the Melvin River, which empties into Moultonboro Bay in Lake Winnipesaukee, is a great mound. The Ossipee Indians had their home in the neighborhood of the bay, which is plentifully stocked with fish, and many relies of their occupation have been found. where the Great Lake's sunny smiles Dimple round its hundred isles, And the mountain's granite ledge Cleaves the water like a wedge, Ringed about with smooth, gray stones, Rest the giant's mighty bones. Close beside, in shade and gleam, Laughs and ripples Melvin stream; Melvin water, mountain-born, All fai
Gennesaret (Israel) (search for this): chapter 3
he thunder of the wrath of God Break from the hollow trumpet of the cloud. And there he stands in memory to this day, Erect, self-poised, a rugged face, half seen Against the background of unnatural dark, A witness to the ages as they pass, That simple duty hath no place for fear. 1866. He ceased: just then the ocean seemed To lift a half-faced moon in sight; And, shore-ward, o'er the waters gleamed, From crest to crest, a line of light, Such as of old, with solemn awe, The fishers by Gennesaret saw, When dry-shod o'er it walked the Son of God, Tracking the waves with light where'er his sandals trod. Silently for a space each eye Upon that sudden glory turned: Cool from the land the breeze blew by, The tent-ropes flapped, the long beach churned Its waves to foam; on either hand Stretched, far as sight, the hills of sand; With bays of marsh, and capes of bush and tree, The wood's black shore-line loomed beyond the meadowy sea. The lady rose to leave. “One song, Or hymn,” they ur
Lake City (Florida, United States) (search for this): chapter 3
fills? Forest-kaiser, lord oa the hills? Knight who on the birchen tree Carved his savage heraldry? Priest oa the pine-wood temples dim, Prophet, sage, or wizard grim? Rugged type of primal man, Grim utilitarian, Loving woods for hunt and prowl, Lake and hill for fish and fowl, As the brown bear blind and dull To the grand and beautiful: Not for him the lesson drawn From the mountains smit with dawn. Star-rise, moon-rise, flowers of May, Sunset's purple bloom of day,— Took his life no hue froemocracy. Part thy blue lips, Northern lake! Moss-grown rocks, your silence break! Tell the tale, thou ancient tree! Thou, too, slide-worn Ossipee! Speak, and tell us how and when Lived and died this king of men! Wordless moans the ancient pine; Lake and mountain give no sign; Vain to trace this ring of stones; Vain the search of crumbling bones: Deepest of all mysteries, And the saddest, silence is. Nameless, noteless, clay with clay Mingles slowly day by day; But somewhere, for good or ill,
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