Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ST. ALBANS; CENTENARY POEM: 1788-1888, by SARAH ANN MOONEY WATSON


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ST. ALBANS; CENTENARY POEM: 1788-1888, by                    
First Line: Along the outposts of time's stately march
Last Line: To bid us guard them well.
Subject(s): Saint Albans, Vermont


Along the outposts of Time's stately march
The turrets rise, the gloomy bastions frown;
Toil, art or silence rears triumphal arch,
Or some great deed is stamped upon the age,
And, writ in gold upon historic page,
A leaf is folded down.

The century rolls back—no more we hear
The hum of wire, the whiz of wheel and band—
The hiss of steam, the whistle shrill and clear—
The woodsman's axe rings thru the forest gloom;
We stand beside the spinning wheel and loom—
And all the craft of hand.

Familiar faces fade as in a dream,
Our broad highway shrinks to a wooded lane;
A cabin of hewn logs stands by the stream,
And wild birds brush the eaves with happy wings,
And warble with the housewife as she swings
The kettle on the crane.

The days pass on in hard and patient toil;
And in the pleasant valley by the Lake,
The clearings open up the fertile soil,—
Toil which brings blessings down to you and me.
O friends, dear lands of old beyond the sea
Were bruisèd for our sake!

Through miles of wilderness trod willing feet,
To lay a hearth or rear a cabin wall;
And there were forest idyls, strangely sweet,
And forest queens—a crown indeed she wore
Whose little children played about the door:
The Cross was under all.

And one there was who loved her garden best:
I have the memory of a placid face,
With kerchief neatly folded on her breast,—
Sweetbriar, lilac, tansy, caraway,
The scions of her roses bloom today
In all their olden grace.

"Thus far the Lord has led me on," she sang,
When the great dusk came down into the wood;
With sabbath praise the leafy arches rang.
Thus to be happy in one's lot is wealth—
She praised God for her home, her children, health,
For pinks and southernwood.

The great hearts builded better than they knew:
Who builds with God will never toil in vain;
The brookside clearing to a hamlet grew,
The happy hills shook off their royal crown
Of Hampshire Grants—in time a stately town
Rose by the blue Champlain.

O light, o'er wooded heights of morning hills,
Flashing on cross and spire, on roof and dome,
Thy joy through all the radiant landscape thrills—
Our father's God who led them all the way,
"Pillar of fire by night, of cloud by day,"
We bless Thee for this home.

O mountains, on whose peaks the happy day
Flings gold and crimson banners 'gainst the sky!
Dear Lord, "when everlasting doors give way,"
Will aught be fairer than this glowing crest
Of far blue mountains, cradled at whose breast
The isle-gemmed waters lie?

And this "fair goodly heritage" is ours!
Truly our lines in pleasant places fell:
We mark our bulwarks and we count out towers—
God and our fathers hold the sacred right,
On this great day of Freedom's morning light,
To bid us guard them well.





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