BURLINGTON MISCELLANY.                                           725


great measure, that solidity of character, that rectitude of judgment, those sensible ways of thinking and of living which we think can fairly be said to characterize them.

But enough of this self-gratulation. Pardon us, gentle reader, if we seem to dwell with too much fondness on the beauties and the more substantial amenities of our unpretending little city, and deem it only the expression of that same pride in what is one's own, which we not only pardon but commend in others, and which becomes offensive only when it becomes exclusive. Heaven has shed beauties and blessings all through our little State with such bounty and such variety, that there is no room for jealousy, and nothing invidious in comparisons. There is one beauty of the lake, and another beauty of the river; the charm of the valleys is one, the charm of the western slopes is another; and each valley and each slope has its own charm.*

Vermont has many desirable "places to live in," adapted to a great variety of tastes and preferences. If one loves to nestle down among the hills — where perhaps, the rural feeling is more complete and more delightful than in any other situation — let him build his snuggery in Montpelier, or Manchester. If the river has attractions for him — there are Windsor and Brattleboro. If he prefer the more open scenery of the lake, let him take a look at Burlington.


* Where is the painter who shall give us "bits of Vermont" to vie, as they should, with Gainsborough's "Bits of English?" or where is the artist of bolder pencil, the Salvator or the Church, who shall portray its grander scenes, its mountain views, its procession of peaks, sun­lit or cloud-capped or snow-wreathed, its bluffs, glens and gorges?














Enter the fine building on Church street called Allen's Block, ascend the stairway and pass to the extremity of the long narrow passage, where a sign points to a door on the left labelled "Studio." A. knock will admit one to a commodious, if not spacious room, prepared in all respects to receive and treat the light admitted as the skillful taste of a man whose mind is much given to the study of effects on the eye, would desire. The ceiling or sky, as the artist himself designates it, is painted a certain shade of blue; a green paper tones the walls; the floor is of the hue of near sea; and a variety of scenes are arranged to direct or intercept any chance and not wanted ray of sunshine whose glare could possibly disturb the delicate tints of what happens to occupy the easel. At once one perceives the propriety of these arrangements. The studio is an exhibition, a Heyde Gallery, where numerous works of the modern master are open for inspection, and the perfect light which falls on each is their result.

As Mr. Heyde paints that he may live, and has not the enviable independence wherein an artist may develop all that lies within him by a work whose magnificent scale and patient elaboration at ease and leisure may display his genius, — as he is thus confined in his efforts to the demands of the market, the productions of his pencil are almost exclusively small cabinet pictures, local views selected mainly from the exhaustless resources of Vermont rivers, mountains and lakes. This immediate neighborhood has busied his hand not a little, and the familiar and beautiful outlines of Mansfield and Camel's Hump fill the distance of many of his paintings, with varied foregrounds chosen with excellent taste from the numerous picturesque falls and grand river-bendings through green intervals, in which abound the waters which meander down the slopes of the Green Mountain range. Other studies are from beauty spots along the shores of Champlain — one of great merit as a careful and true rendering of nature in her happiest smiles from a lovely nook on Lone Rock Point, known as Eagle Bay, and near the Episcopal Institute. The objects embraced in the view are a bold point of rocks clothed with dark evergreens and, mingled with these, a variety of foliage, the fresh growth of spring, while as it were, through rents in the garment, the bare rocks may be seen, like glimpses of the shoulders and limbs of a dusky Indian maid among the folds of her raiment. Nor is that rock of the cold gray which one involuntarily connects with the idea of stone. Visit the place itself, at the quiet hour, when the sun has just sunk behind the blue hills opposite; and the intervening waters heave under a still glass-like surface, and whip-poor-wills and night-hawks are beginning their strange notes. One will be delighted at the number of distinct hues discernable among the endless tints of green. There are no autumn leaves, and yet in June nature is not all green and gray. The precipice, where it peeps through an opening in the tops of the trees, is a warm pink, deepening into purple, behind a shading cluster of leaves. This the artist has faithfully transferred, and were it not for the sweet odors which float from these shores over the water, one might almost as well be in the studio as in his boat to enjoy the loveliness of Eagle Bay.

A recent visit of the artist to the wild country above Ottawa opened a new and fertile field for the exercise of his peculiar talents — the correct apprehension and truthful rendering of the characteristics of a land‑




726                         VERMONT HISTORICAL MAGAZINE.


scape. Animals, portraits, human figures he seldom attempts, unless in some diminutive lounger on a rustic bridge or saunterer along some winding mountain road. In lieu of these we have the multifarious manifestation of foliage, rock, water and mountain outline with the perfection of a life devoted to their representation and the fidelity of prolonged study and practice in the open air face to face with nature herself. The season was luckily the fall of the year, when the woods are almost as brilliant as a flower-garden in mid­summer, and the gorgeous hues of the American autumn are illustrated in his sketches of that region. Now on the easel is a view just below a point in the course of the Ottawa where its mighty volume, after a wide sweeping course, bursts through a hundred islets with as many foaming torrents and uniting below after this momentary and wrathful distraction, calmly flows off at the right through quiet elm-shaded meadows. The French Indians call these torrents Les Chats, from the resemblance in their bold fancies to white cats leaping out from the woods. If possible, one should see the hasty sketches and studies in oil made on the spot "at a single sitting," embracing individual views of the chats, the Chandlers Falls, and the scenes in the theater of the life and labors of the lumbermen. There is a charm in considering such, imperfect and unpresentable as regards finish, arising from the sense of reality and truthfulness which gives them an interest above the elaborate, completed and glazed studio picture. And so on, without end, unless an end be made here.

Burlington, June 1, 1863










I know not how Rome stands or looks;—

Old Rome, that hath a glorious sound,

And a noble page in classic books;

A name reverberating the whole round

Of earth, where intellect is found.


A name that thrills the devotee of Art,

The Mecca of the student painter, who

Yearns to behold what he has felt at heart,

And dream'd upon his long day's labor through,

And vow'd (with heaven's help) some day he'd view.


A name, a single word, that fires the soul

With imageries immortal of the mind,

That did the Hand inspirit and control,

And, leagued with it, did execute and bind

Spirits to earth, and deathless fame design'd.


How floats it like sweet music from afar,

Or like the deep bass-thunder rolling vast,

Or like the organ's sou1-vibrating jar,

Solemn and beautiful, and born to last,

If reverence and love can bind it fast.


And "Venice, with her drowsy atmosphere,

Of soft luxuriance and dear romance—

Or Florence, sounding sweetly distant where

Methinks Art gave her kindliest winning glance,

Or other lands, illustrious perchance.


Burlington, I know thee, rising fair

On green declivities up from the Lake,

Luxurious bathing in the purest air,

That ever curl'd the smoke, or tost the flake,

Or the old hills with tempest's power did shake;


Or bland, in June, when Summer birds do fly,

Circling in sunny rays, the ether through,

When flowers their pray'rs, in fragrance, breathe on high,

And hills and vales are emerald in hue,

And the vast woods their deeper shades pursue.


Lovely, on either side, or boldly grand,

Spreads the broad Lake, a mirror at thy feet,

Wherein the western peaks look grave or bland,

And shores their images reflecting greet,

And heaven its perfect beauty doth repeat.


But most I love thee when the morning's breath

Woos me to while upon some grassy knoll,

When nature all its primal freshness hath,

And the dews softly rest upon my soul,

And sweet tranquility pervades the whole.


Thou hast no record of a blighted past,

In bold, barbaric, desolated tower,

Or ruined walls, in mortal grandeur cast,

Or broken images of sculptural power,

Or mould'ring shrines left to the lone wild flower.


But here the breeze invigorates the blood,

Freshens the cheek, reanimates the eye,

And to the mind imparts heroic food,

Thoughts, inspirations breathing high,

Born of the free air, and the free blue sky.


Old summits, far-surrounding vales beneath,

Of fruitful culture; undulating shores,—

Wave of the coolest depth and purest breath,

O'er which the eagle from his eyrie soars,

And, above all, man's lifted soul adores.





    *    *    *     The eye along this shore,

May gaze entranced, nor covet more ;

The beautiful, true carve, the beach,

The lucid waves that toward it reach,

Returning purely as it bore

Their limpid waters from the shore;

And here though no Italian skies

Tones the bold landscape with its dyes,

Nor vine clad hills to match the Rhine,

Nor Alps give loftier design.

Not far remote are mountains grand

That scarcely stoop to Switzerland;

And, when along the beaming west

The sun declines with radiant seat,

And sinks behind those mountains dan,

And you bold cliffs, whose ridges run

Far out, dark topt with ragged pines,

And graceful birch, and tangled vines;

When every Wavelet is at rest,

And every. cloud an image blest,



* Also from the pen or pencil of C. L. HEYDE artist of Burlington. — Ed.]




                                     BURLINGTON MISCELLANY.                                           727


When like an opal, or the rose,

Or crimson'd as the shadows close,

The sky seems like a page unfurl'd,

Of glories of another world;

A revelation stamped by Heaven

In flames upon the brow of even—

When every shade the mountain wears

The mirror'd water faithful bears,

And every burning tint above

Is true below, as love to love.

Then match me hues of Italy,

The splendors of this northern sky;

Or gleaming Rhine, with luscious stores,

The beauty of these northern shores.

Or Switzerland, with Alpine grand

The grandeur of this northern land;

Rave of those vaunted climes again,

Bard, tourist, sage, beyond the main,

Here gaze but once, and learn how vain.

                                                      C. L. H.









From my window, looking westward,

O'er the earth, the wave, the air,

I behold a lovely landscape

Blooming in the sunset fair;

Far to north and south extending,

Stretch the mountain chains away,

And as far as eye can trace them

Crystal waters flow and play—

Throwing back with kindly gleaming

Kindling glances of the sun,

Lingering there above the hill tops

Now his daily work is done.


Peaceful islands, water gemming,

Rest in beauty on the waves

And a tide of softened sunshine

Lake and island freely laves.

And they sparkle and they quiver

In this gorgeous evening hour,

As the streaming rays fall o'er them,

Flooding with a golden shower

Soft embankments, fringed with verdure,

Sweeping from this eastern shore,

In and out and deeply curving

Many devious ways explore,

And the fringes and their shadows

In the water softly blend,

Till we see not where the substance

Or the shadow hath its end.


And beyond these waves those mountains

Stand like armies placed around,

Clothed in azure, many-banded,

Spreading wide along the ground.

So they ever stand like guardians,

Those ranges — as they are,

In truth, sublime old guardians,

Ever waiting, watching there;

And intervening, just between

This water and those bases,

Lie fertile farm-lands, orchard-groves;

And here and there in places

Hamlets nestle in the shelter

Of those shaggy mountain sides,


Listening ever to the murmur

Of the flowing inland tides.

While upon this hither shore, which lies

Leaning to the lake adown,

Spreads the humming, thickly-peopled,

Many-mansioned, busy town,

Rising gradual from the water

To the distant heights away,

Shades and gardens, spires and casements

Glitter in the sunset ray.

Overlooking all this beauty

Fleecy, winged creatures hover

Up above us, with soft motion

Which I look long to discover,

And they float away so gently,

In their vapor-robes of light,

That all tumult of emotion

Hushes calmly at the sight.

As I gaze, (while sinking slowly

Goes the sun adown to rest,

And the yellow, golden glory

Lingers on the glowing west,

And I stand enrapt admiring,)

All this gorgeous flame-work fades,

And surprised I see around me

Soon but sober evening shades;

And the clouds sink low in masses,

Thick and leaden; over all

The crystal gleaming of the sky

The darkening shadows fall,

And their wings seem heavy laden

As they lie so quiet there,

And so solemn on the surface

Of this tideless evening air;

But this silence is so holy,

And these shades are so sublime

That I notice not the motion

Of the rapid wing of Time,

Till the vision fades entirely

From my half-abstracted sight,

And the lovely scene is covered

By the somber hues of night.










The following little POEM was written under an appointment for the Commencement of 1808, in the V. V. M., which terminated my Junior year. I was between 15 and 16 years of age. The appointment came upon me like a thunder-clap! I was a boy—had never written any poetry, though I had made some rhymes as "compositions." To think of writing and delivering a POEM on Commencement Day — why, it was awful! — farewell frolicking, farewell ball-playing — gone were all amusements. I was protected from their otherwise overpowering seductions as an alkali is carried through an acid by galvanism!




728                         VERMONT HISTORICAL MAGAZINE.


I at once took a lower vacant back room on the north side of the projection of the college, with nothing but an old writing chair, some paper, pen and ink, and "Rogers' Pleasures of Memory;" and thus began the process of extracting — not teeth! — lines that would rhyme from a dull pate. O it was pumping an exhausted receiver! and these 84 lines cost more than as many hours in parturition!

When I got so that I could "see through" — see that I could accomplish lines enough to pass muster, I felt relieved and actually concocted and committed to paper as many as six lines in a day! — and, like a convalescent patient, began to return to my former appetites and amusements. It was done! — ­and submitted to Dr. Sanders, the president, for examination and correction, with a sort of satisfaction that I had done it; but with little of hope, apprehension or thought as to results. After several days the class was called together, and their several parts for Commencement re-delivered, with such remarks and suggestions as the president and faculty saw fit to make; mine came last — and if I was thunder-struck at the appoint­ment, what think you were my sensations when, wrought up by the delay, as I was, the Doctor, with evident emotion and emphasis, said, "as for Pomeroy's poem, it required but trifling verbal corrections and Pope him­self would not be ashamed of it!"

It will be evident that this extravagant compliment was rather illustrative of the character of the Doctor than due to the mer­its of the poem — but I was dumfounded with glory!





When gentle music swells the evening breeze,

And Sol's last rays just tip the lofty trees,

When the tall mountains ting'd with golden hue,

And clouds with beauty check th' etherial blue;

'Tis then mankind from busy labors cease,

T' enjoy the pleasures of approaching peace;

The landscape then its beauties all unfold,

When through the wood 'tis pleasing to behold

The lowly cot, around whose porch is seen,

In life' s gay morn, youths sporting on the green—

Near sits the aged sire, whose words engage

The pliant feelings of their tender age—

All, all are silent while his lips disclose

His former joys and all his later woes—

Ah, happy youth! while in the bloom of life,

Free from all cares and free from every strife —

No anxious thoughts your tender minds employ,

But all is sunshine in the midst of joy,

When gentle Spring her verdant curtains spread

O'er the broad lawn and up mountain head

When tuneful songsters in the distant grove

Fill the soft air with ecstasy and love;

When the bright Moon her silvery beams extend,

And glittering dew from heaven in show'rs descend—

'Tis then the hermit by his cave reclin'd,

To hear soft carols floating on the wind,

To mark the gentle lustres as they play

O'er the red couch of long-departed day,

While thus he sits in pensive solitude

None on his rights or happiness intrude:

Observe his ivied porch, his shady dome,

And say who boasts a more contented home.

Around his cell perpetual music flows,

And choicest odors float from every rose—

The little riv'let hastening down the steep

Soothes his pure breast, hope rocks his mind to sleep.

He must be happy then whose years are spent

Free from the cares of poisonous discontent—

All that could add t' the happiness of his life

Would be the fond affections of a wife!


Methinks I see a still far distant sail

Swelling beneath the pressure of the gale,

Laden with slaves from Afric's desert shore,

Where cruel tyrants drench the land with gore;

The helpless victims bend beneath the rod,

And lift their eyes in agony to God—

Compell'd to leave their native, dearest soil,

And doom'd to bondage, suffering and to toil.

Unhappy mortals! oft we've lent an ear,

For you we've dropp'd the sympathetic tear.

Freedom compared to Slavery's horrid chain

Bids the swoll'n heart with rapture to exclaim,

O Liberty, what joys dost thou possess,

Thou only guide to human happiness!

Sweet are the joys which from thy teachings flow,

Pure as the whiteness of celestial snow,

The hope of thee bears up the prisoner's soul

When rack'd by cares and rul'd by harsh control.


'Twas when Britains claim'd this Western land,

And sought to rule it with tyrannic hand,

Columbia's sons, roused on that fearful day,

Soon from her coasts dispelled the dread array.

The sun of Freedom then his course began

"To haste the triumph of the rights of Man."

Since then Columbia reaps the fruits of peace,

While friendship rules and dire contentions cease,

Where once the desert struck the hopeful eye

And sable forests mingled with the sky,

Where the red savage trod his native wood,

To seek his game and catch his daily food,

There splendid cities rear their spires sublime,

And their, fair names resound thro' every clime,

And commerce, proud, unfurls her prosperous sails,

Her lofty ships ride safe before the gales.

View her fair, shores, where temp'rate climate reigns,

Where torrid suns scorch not the verdant plains,

Where wandering rivers nourish ev'ry vale,

And woodland fragrance fills the gentle gale—

Hail, fair Columbia! hail, thrice happy land

Not ruled by monarchs nor by tyrant's hand.


But why should man, of weak and changeful mind,

Attempt on earth true happiness to end?

Vain are the joys which flutter o'er this sod,

Compar'd with joys in presence of our God!




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O'er Adirondack's northern verge

The Sun has cast his parting ray,

His noonbeams gild Pacific's surge

And morning breaks o'er Himmelay.

His gorgeous pathway in the west—

Radiant with beams of crimson light—

To somber hues now fades; and drese'd

In softened shadows, comes the night.

Bold Jupiter, in southern sky

Summons the starry hosts of heav'n,

Arcturus answers, and on high

Are lit the twinkling lamps of ev'n.

The modest Moon o'er yonder Lake

Her beauteous crescent shows, and laves

As if in sportive dalliance

Her image in its sparkling waves.

Around the North star wheels the Bear,—

Sweeps with his tail the polar snows,

And Borealis high in air

In fitful streams electric glows.

And hear'st not, on the eastern breeze

Borne trembling to our raptured ears,

From Orion and Pleiades,

The mystic chorus of the spheres.

They greet perchance their recent guest

Bright Saturn, who from realms untold

Comes, and o'er Mansfield's somber crest

Hangs like a burnished link of gold.

Athwart the arc of heaven, behold

'The Way' — with countless stars made bright—

Nay, paved with suns ! HIS path of old,

Who walks the boundless realms of light


Enough, — where'er we turn — around,

Above, the pageant we explore

Of Starry worlds ! with awe profound

We gaze and wonder and adore !

                                               J. N. POMEROY.










To the native mountaineer no prospect could well appear more dreary than that of a country altogether uninhabited by high mountains. It was in daily communion with their mighty forms that he was reared. His home was hedged in by them. Whenever he looked away into the blue of the far sky his vision was bounded by them. All the lessons of grandeur or sublimity which it was ever his fortune to have addressed to him were read to him and indelibly impressed upon his nature by those grand old piles,


"Unwasting, deathless, sublime."


It is, indeed, a matter of no surprise to me, that those who have been thus nurtured among mountains; who, so to speak, have become personally acquainted with every peak visible from the old home, should feel a strong attachment to them, and not only so, but should experience among high hills any where more of a homelike feeling than on the boundless level plain. Then, again, their quietness, immovability, and gigantic proportions give one a feeling of rest, of security, of strength. Their rocky ramparts, piled high in ponderous strata, like courses of Cyclopean masonry, on every side, rise as impregnable barriers about him, to constitute, as it were, his cot a fastness, and defend him against all outstanding harm.

One can hardly have been a close and accurate observer of all the influences which operate as conservative of morals without having discovered the favorable tendency of mountain scenery in its effects upon the heart and life. Its influence is unquestionably to develop and foster the virtues — particularly sentiments of a domestic or patriotic nature. It is true that the necessity of incessant toil, and the vigor of the climate to which the inhabitants of our mountain districts are subjected, as well as their remoteness from the seductive influences of "fashionable life," may, in part, account for that high type of character, in many respects, which seems so indigenous with them, Yet there is unques­tionably something about high, heaven-point­ing mountains which, by perpetually inspiring one with sentiments of veneration by aiding his aspirations to climb up to that excellence which is ever above us, and finally to scale the very mount of God itself, till he stands, as it were, in the personal presence of that great Being, awakens in his soul the instinct of moral responsibility, and with this all the elements of a true manhood — conscientiousness, self-respect, love of country, and love of home. Thus a mountain-land has ever been proverbial as a nursing-spot of freedom, because it is so of those virtues in which freedom must have its basis, and from which it must derive its strength. The bandit and the brigand may, it is true, lurk for a season, or take temporary refuge among its wild glens, but it were extremely doubtful whether they can ever feel at home, much less thrive there. I am sure that everything they see, not less than every sound they hear, from the "cathedral music" of the storm to the stillest voice that whispers through those solemn recesses, must remind them that they are interlopers — unwelcome intruders. Difficult, indeed, must it be for a rascal, a villian, one whose heart is in no way in harmony with the mind and laws of the Creator, to enjoy the society of the hills, to become fairly acclimated to them, or naturalized in their midst. For my own part, indeed, I am fully of the opinion that for a dissolute and licen­tious people to become intrenched among the mountains were quite impossible, simply because quite unnatural. The history of the race, in all its varieties, attests that a rugged virtue, tireless energy, an unconquerable love of country, kindred, and home, are quite uniformly the characteristics of the hardy mountaineer. He may have, it is true, to sing,




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"Tis a rough land of rock, and stone, and tree,"


circumstances which must necessarily shut him out to a great extent, from the liberalizing influences and elevating tendencies of literature and art, yet cannot he with conscious pride say,


"Here breathes no castled lord, or cabined slave,

But thoughts, and hands, and tongues are free?"


How finely is that instinct, so universal in the human breast; that instinct which prompts us to look up to mountains as the great conservators of freedom — as the sentinels of liberty, standing grim and steadfast through all the ages; keepers whose mighty adamantine hearts throb in sympathy with humanity, brought out in the following passage from Montgomery, wherein the returning wanderer is represented as hailing with rapture and exultant joy his native mountains:


"Ye crags and peaks, I'm with you once again;

I hold to you the hands you first beheld,

To show they still are free. Methinks I hear

A spirit in your echoes answer me,

And bid your tenant welcome to his home.

Again, O sacred forms! how proud you look!

How high you lift your heads into the sky!

Ye are the things that tower, that shine, whose smile

Makes glad, whose frown is terrible, whose forms,

Robed or winked, do all the impress wear

Of awe divine. Ye guards of liberty,

I call to you, I hold my hands to you,

I rush to you as though I could embrace you,"


Once more. Of all natural objects mountains are the finest symbols of generous attainment. By virtue of some secret provision of our nature the grandest exercise of our faculties seems to be that of looking upward. Hence, by the common consent of all languages, what is noblest and best is placed above us. Excellence is a height. Greatness is figured as an elevation. Virtues in character are measured according to their loftiness. Prayer we say goes up. When we improve, we ascend. Heaven is arched over our heads. In a word, the divinest motions of our spirits are aspiration and veneration — both looking upward. Those objects, then, obviously which most impel us to look away from our own plane, above, beyond it, are the best incentives to high moral endeavor and all generous attainment. What can be better calculated to answer this purpose than lofty mountains? What truly lofty soul or thoughtful mind — in a word, what man, whose spiritual state is right, but will find his largest satisfaction, not simply in surveying the hills themselves, however great, but in letting the kindled and devout imagination travel up their glorious peaks into that infinitude and mystery beyond them whither their summits point?

Finally, gentle reader, it may some time be your fortune to place your foot on the crown of some "tall cliff," whose


"Awful form

Swells from the vale and midway leaves the storm."


You will doubtless richly enjoy sending the eye arrogantly down into the conquered plains, looking off alone over the vast billows of rock and forest that stretch, like a stiffened sea below, or yet up into the sky, which seems no nearer but infinitely more immeas­urable. Yet let me say to you, if you are prepared to experience only a certain vague, esthetic, and transient stimulus of the finer sentiments; if you carry with you to that august and impressive ritual none of the hallowing associations connected with the religion of Jesus — a faith in Christ; if, in a word, your exalted stand-point seem to bring you no nearer to God, you must miss, after all, the grandest lesson your circumstances was calculated to teach, the more exalted sentiments and profitable reflections the occasion was calculated to inspire. Only when you shall have felt your heart touched by the finger of Him at whose command the rooted mountains forever stood fast; when you shall have received the great idea of redemption as your theory of the universe, as well as the principle of practical ethics, will the works of God possess for you their grandest significance, by serving to exercise the mind upon some of the grandest conceptions that have ever occupied the mind of man. Then will those torn rocks and ragged heights — evidences of the convulsive agony of nature at some primitive period — naturally carry your mind, not only away from the sublime scene about you to the tides of human life rolling far off their dark elements of remorse for sin, of pain, of grief, and penitence, and hopeless love, and sighing slaves, and baffled aspira­tion tides which, though indeed sending no sound up into that cold solitude, the mortal breast you have brought with you tells you are still chafing and surging on; but especial­ly up to that Christ who looks down with pitying eye on all this, and then forward to that day when this hardened humanity shall give way to one redeemed and washed in the blood of the Lamb. Yes, then will those upheaved and tangled rifts of rocks, plowed only by volcanic revolutions and the wearing weather, remind you how the whole creation groaneth together for the manifestation of the sons of God; then will all the broken pillars of the hills become so many prophets of the second coming of the Son of man; then from every jagged monument of ancient change may Christian hope run forward to "Christ's new heavens and new earth, wherein dwelleth righteousness."









Ye mountains whose summits appear

In the distance in grandeur sublime.

I hail ye! to me ye are dear,

And the pride of my own native clime,


The pride and the boast of the land

Which bears your own glorious name—

Our mountains our monuments stand

Of freedom and honor and fame.


Ye grand old magnificent piles,

I delight on your summits to gaze,




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Where the pine in its verdure

O'er the home of my boyhood's bright days,


In solemn, magnificence rest,

The conflicts of ages defy;

While ye lift up your cloud-covered crest

To the vault of etherial sky.


While time shall continue his flight,

Your hills and your valleys shall be

The dwelling of justice and right,

The home of the happy and free.





Go, my lovely little flower,

Nipt and withered in a day;

Short and fleeting was thy hour;

Go, thou'rt called from earth away.

Sweet, thy spirit takes its flight,

Mid the glad Spring's early flowers,

To the world of love and light,

To the home in Eden bowers.













To live forever! Glorious sound!

Wide rings the shout of praise around!

The laureled meed of conquest, won

By deeds of valor, bravely done,—

Ambition's highest, noblest throne—

A nation's hearts are all my own,

And History's muse inscribes my name

On earth's proud roll of deathless fame!





To live forever! Glorious sound!

Wide spreads the voice of fame around,

The palm of eloquence is mine,

In fields of high debate I shine;

I shake the Senate! Empires feel

My patriot fire — my public zeal,

And tribes unborn shall bless my sway,

When blood's foul praise has passed away





To live forever! Glorious sound!

Wide swells the note of fame around

Apollo hears his suppliant's vow,

The poet's garland binds my brow

Fast shall the warrior's laurels fly,

The statesman's honors droop and die,

While age to age shall still prolong

The triumphs of the son of song!





To live forever! Ah, in vain

Would earthly hope such bliss attain:

The world may praise, but who shall hear,

When death has closed the listening ear!

When all life's fitful, feverish scene

Shall be as if it ne'er had been!

When all its pomp and pride are o'er,

And glory's phantoms lure no more!


To live forever ! Oh 'tis giv'n

To him alone who lives for heav'n!

Earth's honors, when they brightest bloom,

Must wither in the silent tomb;

But he who lifts his soul on high,

Who looks to Truth with faithful eve,

And treads the path his Saviour trod,

Shall live forever with his God!









From Burlington — a graduate of the Vermont University, now Editor of the Church Journal, New York City.


[The following Hymn is written for the grand old Chorale, ES IST DAS HEIL UNS KOMMEN HER. It is not a translation, but rather an amplification of only the first line of original by Paul Speratus.]


Salvation comes; O Saviour dear,

Heaven sang when Mary bore Thee;

That song of joy true Shepherds hear,

They seek Thee and adore Thee,

Thy star when Eastern kings behold,

They haste with incense, myrrh, and gold,

To worship Thee forever.


Salvation comes: O spotless Lamb,

Upon Thine altar lying,—

Thou God of God, Thou great I AM,

Thou Victim, bleeding, dying,—

For us Thy cross of shame and woe,

For us the Blood and Water flow;

A make us Thine forever!


Salvation comes; O burst the bands

Of death and hell in sunder!

The sealed stone, lo! angel hands

Roll back with earthquake-thunder;

The rising God comes forth again,

He rises, whom our sins had slain,—

To die no more forever,


Salvation comes: O clouds of heav'n,

Receive your Lord ascending?

To Him alone all power is given,

And thrones and crowns unending.

O JESU, reign through earth and sky;

Thy royal banner lift on high,

And be our King forever,

Salvation comes: O rushing Wind,

O cloven Tongues descending,—

Our blinded sight, our darkened mind,

Enlightening and defending,—

O Comforter and Fire of Love,

Thou Gift of grace, Thou heavenly Dove,

Abide with us forever!

To Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

All glory be outpouring;

All praise from heav'n's triumphant host,

And saints on earth adoring:

All praise resound eternally,

As was, and is, and yet shall be

Forever and forever.






The Sun hath laid him down to rest,

All wrapped In robes of gold;

The little bird hath sought his nest,

The bleating sheep his fold:

Kine lowing,

While going

Along the homeward trail;




732                         VERMONT HISTORICAL MAGAZINE.


Where merrily

And cheerily

The milk-maid fills her pail.

Now from afar the evening star

Peers out with trembling light,

And wild and shrill, the whip-poor-will

Repeats his loud "Good-Night"

Good Night!

Good Night!




Our evening hours have flown along,

And glided swift away,

With music's charm and cheerful song,

And converse glad and gay.

Thus lightly

And brightly

Our tide of Time hath rolled;

While laughter

Rang after

Each merry tale well told.

But in the sky the Moon rides high,

And, from the belfry's height,

The midnight chime now tolls the time

When we must bid "Good Night."

Good Night!

Good Night!




May no sad thought nor carking care

Invade your tranquil rest;

Nor nightmare grim, nor goblin, dare

Tramp o'er your slumbering breast.


And soundly

May Peace your eyelids close;

Safe keeping,

While sleeping,

Your heart from waking woes.

May Angels stand, a guardian band,

Around you fair and bright;

While near you move, in dreams of Love,

Sweet forms that breathe "Good Night."

"Good Night!"

"Good Night!"

J. H. H. JR.







Extracts from Wolf of the Wold and other Poems.




[Written while a resident at Burlington, and published by Charles Scribner, New York.]


Years passed, full many a wharf had bowed before the tyrant flood,

And still unharmed by wind or wave that sanctuary stood,—

Yet, ah, such changes time had wrought among the shifting downs,

That in a foe till now unfeared, a sure destruction frowns.


In vain with tireless zeal they strive to avert the stern decree,

Onward the mighty sand-wave rolls, resistless as the sea,

Slowly it creepeth up the walls, it gathers round the door,

Sifts through the casement's guarded seams, and thickly strows the floor.


Long did they clear from week to week the swelling heap away,

Meeting within those hallowed courts each blessed sabbath day,—

But ever higher rose the sand, defying human strength,

It reached the seats, the pastor's desk, and choked the door at length.


To a new entrance thus enforced a window they transform;

Still is the shelter of the roof more welcome than the storm.

There at the patient pastor's feet gathered the little band

Of tried and faithful worshipers, no cushion but the sand;

There lifted they their hearts to Him who once in meekness made

Himself the Son of Man, and had not where to lay his head.


O, child of wealth, the portals high of a cathedral pile

Stand wide for thee, and thou dost sweep through the long pillered aisle,

With dainty foot and jeweled hand, in raiment rich and rare,

To rest on swelling velvet soft through a brief hour of prayer;

Yet to have faith like one of these, if thou but knew its worth

Thou'dst gladly give thy place for his upon the dusty earth.





As watch the steady my life's flame

Hath burned amid the battle game;

Yet never parent-bird I see

Feeding its young caressingly,

Never upon a fair child look

Playing with flowers beside the brook.

But sudden, war's attractions cease,

And in my soul sweet thoughts of peace

Arise, with groves and golden grain,

And laughing children in her train;

And by a quiet cottage door,

The rosy twilight glowing o'er

Her face, a maiden stands — the same

That oft has blessed my childhood's dreams.

Of late these images of rest

My soul unceasing hath possessed:

I close my eyelids, — they appear

Only more lifelike and more clear,

And she who crowneth every scene—

Maria! thou art still that queen!









The warm sunlight of a July morn

Streamed in at the cottage door,

And brightened the face of the tall house clock

And checkered the snowy floor;

And the child at play at his mother's feet.

Clutched, with his dimpled hand

The golden rays as they crossed his path

In many a braided strand.


But the mother heeded not the glee,

That rang in her baby's voice;

Nor the glowing beams of the summer sun,

Bidding her heart rejoice,

For her eyes were fixed on that sadd'ning list

Of wounded, lost, and slain;

And she only saw the fearful words,

"Missing, Lawrence Mayne."


"Missing!" She might not ever know

If he moaned on the bloody plain;




                                                  CHARLOTTE.                                                       733


Or whether he pined in a Southern cell,

Or slept with the valiant slain,

And she caught to her breast the wondering boy,

Kissing him oft and again,

For the look that shone in his deep dark eyes,

Was the look of Lawrence Mayne.


And the sweet child strove with fond caress

And gleeful tone to chase

The look of wild despairing woe,

From her pallid stricken face.

Let her hold him close to her widowed heart,

For never, never again,

Will she welcome back to her lowly home,

The trooper Lawrence Mayne.


She can never know that far away,

Where a brook winds 'neath a hill,

With a saber gash on his broad low brow,

He is lying white and still,

His clenched hand grasps his broken blade,

His good steed at his side;

And near, two foemen's lifeless forms

Tell how the soldier died.


The day will dawn when for her child

She will wear a smile again;

And Time with soothing hand will lift

From her heart the weight of pain.

But ever, and ever, while life shall last,

She will hear but this refrain,

It will haunt her dreams, and her waking hours

"Missing, Lawrence Mayne."

From the Free Press

August, 1883.








From the "Liberty Herald — Extra." In prose and poetry: Written and published by Dr Cobb, of Burlington, POET LAUREATE. Montpelier, Oct. 1845.


[The author composed the following Song when the Congressmen were going to take their seats, in 1844. Tune — "Bonaparte's March over the Alps."]


They are going to the fair they all do say,

We find by their budgets they are bound that way:

Clay he carries the tariff in his hands,

And thinks by that to please his friends.

Polk goes with a full stuffed sack,

And carrying Texas upon his back.

Tuddle-lum-tum-dum, Tuddle-lade-um,



Webster carries the Bank along,

And that attracts a mighty throng;

Of Congressmen 'twill please them all,

And on the Bank they'll often call.



Old Dick carries along Tecumseh's ghost,

Of warriors he was himself a host;

Though the chair of state he could not gain,

Yet the old man does not complain.



Adams goes on the African's friend,

And carrying the smut mill in his hand;

The right to petition he does boldly claim,

And among the freemen raise his fame.



Calhoun leads negroes with a rope,

Freedom from him they can never hope;

Of slaves he holds a large estate,

And likes to trade in woolly pate.










Charlotte is situated in tho S. W. corner of Chittenden Co., bounded N. by Shelburne, E. by Hinesburgh, S. by Ferrisburgh and Monkton in Addison Co., and W. by Lake Champlain. The name was sometimes written in early records Charlotta.

The charter was granted June 24th, 1762, by Benning Wentworth, Governor of New Hampshire, to Benjamin Ferris and 64 oth­ers.* All meetings of the proprietors before


* [We hereby credit Henry Stevens, antiquarian, for the following list of grantees of Charlotte — Ed.]


Benjamin Ferris, Jonathan Aiken, Benj. Ferris, Jr., Josiah Akin, Daniel Wing, Lot Tripp, David Akin, Jr., Tim Dakin, John Cromwell, John Hoag Meriti, John Hoag the 2d, John Wing, Reed Ferris, Zebulon Ferris, Wing Kelley, Nehemiah Merrit, Abraham Thomas, Anthony Tripp, Elias Palmer, David Palmer, Samuel Coe, George Soule, Elijah Doty, Peter Palmer, Josiah Bull, Josiah Bull, Jr., John Hitchcock, John Brownson, Jona. Dow, Enoch Hoag, Steward Southgate, Nathaniel Porter, Jr., Jedediah Dow, Robert Southgate, John Southgate, Daniel Merritt, Nehemiah Merrit, Jr., Stephen Noble, Dobson Wheeler, Samuel Brown, Joshua Dillaplain, William Field, Isaac Martin, John Lawrence, John Burling, John Franklin, Thomas Franklin, Jr., Samuel Franklin, James Franklin, Isaac Corsa, Elijah West, Robert Caswell, Joseph Ferris, Joseph Ferris, Jr., David Ferris, Daniel Chase, Patrick Thatcher, Thomas Darling, the Hon. John Temple, Lieutenant Govenor, Theodore Atkinson, Esq., Mark Hunking Wentworth, Esq., John Nelson, Esq., George Frost, Esq.

"KNOW YE that I, Abel White of Putney in the County of Windham and State of Vermont, for the con­sideration of fifty pounds of Lawful money, received to my full satisfaction of Ethan Allen of Sunderland in the County of Bennington and State of Vermont, Do give, grant, Bargain, sell and confirm unto the said Ethan Allen, his heirs and assigns forever a certain tract or parcel of land situated, lying and being in Charlotte in the County of Addison and State of Vermont, being and containing the equal half both in quantity and quality of certain two hundred acres of land which was the first Division of the original right of Joseph Ferris, Number 24, for 50 lbs. July 10,1787."

The same, — David Aiken, jr., of Fredericksburgh, in Dutchess County, New York, original grantee, to Heman Allen of Salisbury, Connecticut, Feb., 1777, for 14 lbs. George Soule, (original grantee) of Coling's Precinct, Dutchess County, New York, to Ira Allen of Colchester, Feb. 2, 1774, for 20 lbs.

Josiah Bull Jr., of Bateman's Precinct, Dutchess Co., N. Y., to Zimry† Allen of Salisbury, Ct., Dec. 1773, for 4 lbs.

Benjamin Ferris of Quaker Hill, in Collin's Precinct, N. Y., to Ethan Allen (first granted to Robert Tripp, original grantee) Dec. 13, 1773, tor 4 lbs.

Peter Palmer of Charlotta Precinct, in Dutchess Co., N.Y,. to Zimry Allen of Salisbury, Ct., Dec. 20, 1773, for 5 lbs.

John Bronson of Kent, Ct., original grantee, to Ethan Allen, Dec. 21, 1773, for 11 lbs.

Elijah Doty of Quaker Hill, in the Precinct of Pollyon, N. Y., original grantee, to Ethan Allen, Dec. 13, 1773, for 9 lbs.

Josiah Aiken of Quaker Hill, N. Y., original grantee, to Ethan Allen, Dec. 13, 1773, for 3 lbs. 6s.

Partridge Thatcher, of New Milford, Ct., original grantee, to Ira Allen for 130 lbs. Dec, 23, 1783.

Ira Allen of Sunderland, bound unto Darius Tupper of Bennington for 90 lbs., or 100 acres of land a quit claim deed as Tupper may choose to be laid out on the original right of Thos. Darling, John Hitchcock, Joseph Ferris, John Franklin, David Aiken, Jr., Tim Darkin, and Wm. Field.

Ira Allen to Urial Parsons on Charlotte north line (touching Isaac Varnum's and Tabor's) to pay 12s. per


† Zimri.