Lundy’s Lane — 1814-1914 (July 25) by T. E. Moberly

moberly
In Lundy‘s Lane the robins sing,
‡‡And blackbirds pipe their merry lay,
The sparrow flits on restless wing,
‡‡The air is sweet with new mown hay.

O‘er the grassy mound by the old church wall
‡‡The summer breezes gently stray,
They stir the leaves of the maples tall,
‡‡And mingle with the sunbeams‘ play.

‘Tis a scene of peace and beauty fair,
‡‡That greets the happy passer-by,
As he breathes the balmy summer air,
‡‡And gladly looks on earth and sky.

But o‘er this fair and peaceful scene
‡‡One hundred years have come and gone,
And where the grass grows rich and green
‡‡The dead lay thick with faces wan.

Up from the mighty river‘s gorge
‡‡In serried ranks the foeman came,
The air grew murky as a forge,
‡‡With cannon smoke and musket flame.

Outnumbered nearly two to one,
‡‡The gallant Drummond stood at bay,
Undaunted he — and with him none —
‡‡Unworthy of that glorious day.

For loyal sons of loyal sires,
‡‡They fought for home and motherland;
No purer love the heart inspires
‡‡Than glow‘d within that patriot band.

Now hast‘ning up the river bank,
‡‡Cheered on by Scott at Brown‘s command,
The foemen form, and rank on rank,
‡‡A threatening army they expand.

The word is given — then, on they rush,
‡‡‘Mid cannon roar and musket flame,
Like avalanche‘s fearful crush,
‡‡Ah! What can balk their deadly aim?

But hark! a rousing British cheer!
‡‡Cheer such as thrill‘d at Waterloo —
The cheer of men who know no fear
‡‡Save to be recreant or untrue. Continue reading “Lundy’s Lane — 1814-1914 (July 25) by T. E. Moberly” →

Niagara by Anonymous

porter goat 2

Great Fall, all hail:
Canst thou unveil
The secrets of thy birth;
Unfold the page
Of each dark age,
And tell the tales of earth?

When I was born
The stars of morn
Together sang — ’twas day:’
The sun unrolled
His garb of gold
And took his upward way.

He mounted high
The eastern sky
And then looked down on earth;
And she was there,
Young, fresh, and fair,
And I, and all, had birth.

The word of power
Was spoke that hour:
Dark chaos felt the shock;
Forth sprung the light,
Burst day from night,
Up leaped the living rock.

Back fell the sea
The land was free,
And mountain, hill, and plain
Stood forth to view,
In emerald hue,—
Then sang the stars amain.

And I —oh thou:
Who taught me how
To hymn thy wondrous love
Deign to be near
And calm my fear,
O Holy one above.

I caught the word
Creation heard,
And by thy power arose;
His goodness gave
The swelling wave
That ever onward flows.

By his command
The rainbow spanned
My forehead and his will
Evoked the cloud
My feet to shroud,
And taught my voice to trill.

And who is he
That questions me ?
From whom hast thou thy form,
Thy life, thy soul ?
My waters roll
Through day, night, sunshine, storm.

In grateful praise
To him, I raise
A never ceasing song
To that dread one,
To whom stars, sun,
Earth, ocean, all belong.

Thou too adore
Him ever more
Who gave thou all thou hast;
Let time gone by
In darkness die
Deep buried in the past.

And be thy mind
To him inclined
Who made earth, ‘heaven and thee—
Thy every thought
To worship wrought,—
This lesson learn of me.

Source: Peter Augustus Porter. Goat Island, 1900

The Battle of Lundy’s Lane by Caleb Stark

Written after a moonlight ramble on Drummond’s Hill, U.C., the scene of that bloody action, fought July 25, 1814, where New Hampshire valor shone conspicuously.

In other days yon fatal hill,
Glittered with arms and waved with plumes,
When the sad sunset on their steel,
Flashed its last splendors; even’s glooms
Rang with the bugles’s martial breath
That called the brave to deeds of death.

Then the dismal cry of slaughter
      Broke on midnight’s slumbering hour;
And the parched ground drank blood like water,
      As beneath a deadly shower
Of musket and artillery,
With motto calm yet bold, “I’LL TRY,”
      The bristling ranks move on,
Mid deafening thunder, sulphurous flash,
And shouts, and groans, and forests’ crash,
Till hark! the sharp, clear bayonet’s clash,
      Tells that the work is done.

There deeds of deathless praise proclaim,
How rolled War’s tide when RIPLEY’s name
Swelled the wild shout of victory;
And dauntless Miller and McNeil
Led foremost, in the strife of steel,
The flower of northern chivalry;
While Scott from British brows then tore
The laurels dyed in Gallic gore.

But these terrific scenes are past;
The peasants’ slumbers, the wild blast
      Alone shall break them,
And those proud bannered hosts are gone,
Where the shrill trumpet’s charging tone
      No more may wake them.
Time in his flight has swept away,
Each vestige of the battle fray,
Save that the traveller views around,
The shattered oak — the grass-grown mound
      That shrines a hero’s ashes!

Peace to the brave! around their stone
Shall Freedom twine her rosy wreath,
And, though with moss of year’s o’ergrown,
Fame shall applaud their glorious death,
Long as Niagara dashes!

Source: Charles James Fox, ed. The New Hampshire Book, Being Specimens of the Literature of the Granite State. Nashville: C.T. Gill, 1844.

Caleb Stark was born in Dumbarton, New Hampshire on November 21, 1804 and took up residence in his birthplace. Stark was a lawyer, historian, and member of the New Hampshire State Senate, and died in 1864.

The Hermit of the Falls by Lydia Huntley Sigourney

sigourney hermit — Hut on Goat Island Used By Francis Abbott. the Hermit of Niagara, from 1829-1831. Sketch by C. Breckinridge Porter

It was the leafy month of June,
And joyous Nature, all in tune,
‡‡With wreathing buds was drest,
As toward Niagara‘s fearful side
‡‡A youthful stranger prest;
His ruddy cheek was blanched with awe
And scarce he seemed his breath to draw,
‡‡While bending o‘er its brim,
He marked its strong, unfathomed tide,
‡‡And heard its thunder-hymn.

His measured week too quickly fled,
Another, and another sped,
And soon the summer rose decayed,
The moon of autumn sank in shade;
Years filled their circle, brief and fair,
Yet still the enthusiast lingered there,
‡‡Till winter hurled its dart:
For deeper round his soul was wove
A mystic chain of quenchless love,
That would not let him part. Continue reading “The Hermit of the Falls by Lydia Huntley Sigourney” →

Farewell to Niagara by Lydia Huntley Sigourney

sigourney farewell — The Horse-shoe Falls (From the Canadian Side) by W. H. Bartlett, 1842. Courtesy of Niagara Falls Public Library

My spirit grieves to say, Farewell to thee,
Oh beautiful and glorious!
                                  Thou dost robe
Thyself in mantle of the coloured mist,
Most lightly tinged, and exquisite as thought,
Decking thy forehead with a crown of gems
Woven by God‘s right hand.
                                  Hadst thou but wrapped
Thy brow in clouds, and swept the blinding mist
In showers upon us, it had been less hard
To part from thee.    But there thou art, sublime
In noon-day splendour, gathering all thy rays
Unto their climax, green, and fleecy white,
And changeful tinture, for which words of man
Have neither sign nor sound, until to breathe
Farewell in agony.    For we have roamed
Beside thee, at our will, and drawn thy voice
Into our secret soul, and felt how good
Thus to be here, until we half implored,
While long in wildering ecstasy we gazed,
To build us tabernacles, and behold
Always thy majesty.
                                  Fain would we dwell
Here at thy feet, and be thy worshipper,
And from the weariness and dust of earth
Steal evermore away.   Yea, were it not
That many a care doth bind us here below,
And in each care, a duty, like a flower,
Thorn-hedged, perchance, yet fed with dews of heaven,
And in each duty, an enclosed joy,
Which like a honey-searching bee doth sing, —
And were it not, that ever in our path
Spring up our planted seeds of love and grief,
Which we must watch, and bring their perfect fruit
Into our Master‘s garner, it were sweet
To linger here, and be thy worshipper,
Until death‘s footstep broke this dream of life.

Source: Sigourney, Lydia H. Scenes In My Native Land. London: W. Tweedie, 1844. p. 236-237.

Author: Andrew Porteus

Lundy’s Lane — 1814-1914 (July 25) by T. E. Moberly

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