# Scenes in my Native Land/Monte-Video

MONTE-VIDEO.
How fair upon the mountain's brow
To stand and mark the vales below,
Those beauteous vales that calmly sleep,
Secluded, peaceful, silent, deep;
The solemn forests' nodding crest,
The streams with fringing verdure drest,
The rural homes, remote from noise,
By distance dwindled into toys;
Or turning from this varied scene,
So mute, so lovely, so serene, Scale the steep cliff, whose ample range
Gives to the eye a bolder change,
The cultured fields, which rivers lave,
Where branches bend and harvests wave,
The village roofs, obscurely seen,
The glittering spires that gem the green, The pale blue line that meets the eye
Where mountains mingle with the sky,
The floating mist, in volumes rolled, That hovers o'er their bosoms cold,
Woods, wilds and waters, scattered free
In Nature's tireless majesty.
Mark, by soft shades, and flowers carest,
The mansion-house in beauty drest;
Above, to brave the tempest's shock,
The lonely tower, that crowns the rock;
Beneath, the lake, whose waters dark
Divide before the gliding bark,
With snowy sail and busy oar,
Moving with music to the shore:—
And say, while musing o'er the place
Where art to nature lends her grace,
The crimes that blast the fleeting span
Of erring, suffering, wandering man,
Unfeeling pride, and cold disdain,
The heart that wills another's pain,
Pale envy's glance, the chill of fear,
And war and discord come not here.
How sweet, around yon silent lake,
As friendship guides, your way to take,
And cull the plants, whose glowing heads
Bend meekly o'er their native beds,
And own the Hand that paints the flower,
That deals the sunshine and the shower,
That bears the sparrow in its fall, Is kind, and good, and just to all;
Or see the sun, with rosy beam
First gild the tower, the tree, the stream,
And moving to his nightly rest,
Press through the portal of the west,
Close wrapped within his mantle fold
Of glowing purple dipped in gold;
Or else to mark the queen of night,
Like some lone vestal, pure and bright,
Steal slowly from her silent nook,
And gild the scenes that he forsook.
And then, that deep recess to find,
Where the green boughs so close are twined;
For there, within that silent spot,
As all secluded, all forgot,
The fond enthusiast free may soar,
The sage be buried in his lore,
The poet muse, the idler sleep,
The pensive mourner bend and weep,
And fear no eye or footstep rude
Shall break that holy solitude.
Unless some viewless angel-guest,
Who guards the spirits of the just,
Might seek among the rising sighs,
To gather incense for the skies, Or hover o'er that hallowed sod, To raise the mortal thought to God.
O gentle scene, whose transient sight
So wakes my spirit to delight,
Where kindness, love, and joy unite,
That though no words the rapture speak,
The tear must tremble on the cheek,
The lay of gratitude be given,
The prayer in secret speed to heaven.
Here peace, though exiled and opprest,
By those she came to save distrest,
Might find repose from war's alarms,
And gaze on nature's treasured charms;
Beneath these mountain shades reclined,
Breathe her sad dirge o'er lost mankind,
Or on mild virtue's tranquil breast,
Close her tired eye in gentle rest,
Forget her wounds, her toil, her pain,
And dream of Paradise again.
About nine miles from the city of Hartford, Connecticut, on the summit of Talcott Mountain, is the beautiful country residence of Daniel Wadsworth, Esq., known by the name of Monte-Video. Leaving the main road, you turn northward, into one constructed by the proprietor of this extensive domain, and which conducts you, by an easy ascent, bordered on the right by towering precipitous cliffs, and on the left so overshadowed by trees, that were it not for openings, occasionally cut through their branches, revealing glances of imposing scenery, you would scarcely be conscious of the eminence you were attaining.
After a ride of a mile and a half, a gate, enclosure, and tenant's house, all in the Gothic style, strike the ​eye most agreeably, and passing them, the wild features of the scene are lost in high cultivation, and the embellishments of taste. A winding avenue, occasionally fringed with shades, among which the graceful acacia predominates, leads upward to the mansion-house, in the rear of which you look down six hundred feet into one of the most rich and glorious valleys upon which the sun ever shone.
From the portico in front, you gaze upon a still more surprising object. Stretching at your feet, on the brow of this beautiful mountain, is a lake, more than a mile in circumference, deep, cold, crystalline, and bordered with trees. The white bathing-house on its margin, and the pleasure-boat on its bosom, with bright streamers, and graceful gliding motion, are pleasing points in the landscape. The utmost pinnacle of the mountain, which rises northward of the lake, is surrounded by a hexagonal tower, sixty feet in height, seeming to spring from the dark, grey rock, which in color it resembles. From its summit, to which access is rendered as easy as possible, and which commands an elevation of nearly a thousand feet above the level of Connecticut river, you have a glorious view of the surrounding country, and into the adjoining States of Massachusetts and New York; the whole surrounded by an empurpled outline of mountains. The Connecticut is seen sweeping onward like a king, through its fair domain, amid the spires of numerous towns and villages, while, by the ​aid of a glass, the sails of the vessels in the port of Hartford, and the movements in the streets, are distinctly visible.
The prospect from the South Rock, in the vicinity of the farm-house, though of less extent, is one of extreme beauty, and presents, as in a vivid, glowing picture, the grouping of the objects more immediately beneath you,—lake, copse, villa, cultivated lawn, and crowning tower.
Professor Silliman, in his eloquent description of this remarkable region, says: "The peculiarities of the beautiful and grand scenery of Monte-Video, make it, with its surrounding objects, quite without a parallel in America, and probably with few in the world.
"To advert again, briefly, to a few of its leading peculiarities. It stands upon the very top of one of the highest of the green-stone ridges of Connecticut, at an elevation of more than one thousand two hundred feet above the sea, and of nearly seven hundred above the contiguous valley. The villa is almost upon the brow of the precipice, and a traveller in the Farmington valley sees it, a solitary edifice, and in a place apparently both comfortless and inaccessible, standing upon the giddy summit, ready, he would almost imagine, to be swept away by the first blast from the mountain. The beautiful crystal lake is on the top of the same lofty green-stone ridge, and within a few yards of the house; it pours its superfluous waters in a limpid stream down the mountain's side, and affords ​in winter, the most pellucid ice that can be imagined. Arrived on the top of the mountain, and confining his attention to the scene at his feet, the traveller scarcely realizes that he is elevated above the common surface. The lake, the Gothic villa, farm-house and offices, the gardens, orchards, and serpentine walks, conducting through all the varieties of mountain shade, and to the most interesting points of view, indicate a beautiful and peaceful scene; but, if he lifts his eyes, he sees still above him on the north, bold precipices of naked rock, frowning like ancient battlements, and on one of the highest peaks, the tall tower, rising above the trees, and bidding defiance to the storms. If he ascend to its top, he contemplates an extent of country that might constitute a kingdom—populous and beautiful, with villages, turrets, and towns; at one time, he sees the massy magnificence of condensed vapor, which reposes in a vast extent of fog and mist, on the Farmington and Connecticut rivers, and defines, with perfect exactness, all their windings; at another, the clouds roll beneath him in wild grandeur, and should a thunder-storm occur at evening, (an incident which every season presents,) he would view with delight, chastened by awe, the illuminated hills, and corresponding hollows, which everywhere fill the great vale west of Talcott Mountain, and alternately appear and disappear with the flashes of lightning."
Those who have tasted the heart-felt hospitality of Monte-Video, when every summer it was tenanted by ​its proprietor, his excellent lady, and their delighted guests, have a sense of enchantment, connected with this lovely spot, which no description can convey, and no casual visitant realize. Blessings are still breathed on that benevolence which though prevented by ill health, and declining years, from a permanent residence in this delightful domain, is still prompted to keep it in perfect order for the benefit of strangers, and gratification of the community.