# Scenes in my Native Land/Moonlight at Sachem's Wood

MOONLIGHT AT SACHEM'S WOOD.
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT.
Oh, Moon at Sachem's Wood! Whoe'er hath seen
Thy liquid lustre through yon lofty oaks,
Broad-armed and beautiful, floating serene
O'er copse, and lawn, and hedge, and snowy dome,
Will never lose the picture from his heart.
Beyond, are sacred spires, and clustering roofs,
And on the horizon's edge, yon rude, grey rocks,
Like two time-tried and trusty sentinels,
Which toward the orient and the setting sun
Keep watch and ward.
 How oft beneath these shades
Where now the moonbeam trembles o'er the turf,
A hoary-headed and a bright eyed man
Walked with a younger one, in converse sweet.
Heart knit to heart. The poet and the sage,
The father and the son.
 Slow Time had made
No chasm between them, since those brighter days,
When ardent manhood smiled on infancy,
Save that blest change which deepened love doth bring
To grave experience. Sweet it was to see
Communion so entire.
 The elder laid,
Just ere the snows of fourscore winters fell,
His patriot head beneath yon hallowed mound,
And slept as good men do.
 But where is he,
Whose filial virtues taught that heart of age
A second spring? whose tuneful numbers charmed
His listening country's ear?
 From his fair home, From these loved trees, whence poured the nesting birds
Their mellow descant, suddenly he went
A lonely journey, to return no more.
Yet there were deeper melodies, than those
Of warblers mid the summer boughs, that well
He knew to wake:—songs of the heart, and thrills
Of fond affection, with the dulcet tones
Of husband and of sire.
 They died with him.
Words may not tell the silence and the void,
Beside his hearth-stone, nor the bitter grief
That long around his cherished image wept.
Yet well it is to be remembered thus,
Poet and friend.
 Without it, fame were poor,
Even though her clarion swelled from pole to pole.
Without the virtues that do bring the tear
Into the loving eye, when life is o'er,
That life itself were but a gift abused.
Among the ornaments of the beautiful city of New-Haven, is the residence bearing the name of Sachem's Wood. It is situated on an eminence, terminating a broad avenue of stately elms, adorned by pleasant and tasteful habitations. It is a spacious edifice, distinguished by classic elegance, and studiously adapted to internal comfort. It commands an extensive prospect, and is surrounded by a large domain, in whose arrangement the simple and grand features of nature have been carefully preserved. It is characterized by the fine wood in its rear, and the magnificent forest trees by which it is overshadowed, especially by its noble oaks, some of which bear the antiquity of centuries.
It was erected by the late James A. Hillhouse, on a portion of his paternal inheritance. Seldom has it been the lot of a poet to dwell in such an abode. He has thus simply described it, and also expressed his attachment to the scenes of his nativity, in the poem entitled "Sachem's Wood."
"Here, from this bench, the gazer sees
Towers, and white steeples o'er the trees,
Mansions that peep from leafy bowers,
And villas, blooming close by ours.
Seldom a rural scene you see
So full of sweet variety,—
The gentle objects near at hand,
The distant, flowing, bold, and grand;
I've seen the world, from side to side, Walked in the ways of human pride,
Moved in the palaces of kings, And know what wealth to grandeur brings;
The spot for me, of all the earth, Is this, the dear one of my birth."
In this mansion the father of the poet, the Hon. James Hillhouse, closed a life of usefulness and piety. He possessed a strong and original mind, an untiring industry, with that uprightness and tenderness of heart, which won the confidence of the public, and the love of those with whom he intimately associated. He was the oldest member of the Senate of the United States, when he resigned the seat which he had filled for sixteen years; and when he left the financial management of the School fund, it was found that it had more than doubled its value, while under his superintendence. The city of his residence, whose fair greens and waving trees render it in summer, especially during the leafy month of June, one of the most picturesque spots in New England, owes much to his public spirit and personal labor. The lofty elms, planted by his own hand, are among his monuments. Age did not impair his mental powers, or chill his purposes of philanthropy. In the language of his son,
"None saw his spirit in decay,
None saw his vigor ebb away."
In his seventy-ninth year he was removed, as a sentinel from his post, without the warning of a moment, but not unprepared for the transition.
His son, James A. Hillhouse, both sustained and brightened the honors of his ancestry. The delicacy and grace which mingled with his masculine force of intellect, seemed an infusion from the mind of his mother, and he was ever proud to acknowledge that deep and sweet influence, which he repaid with the warmest filial love. His native taste for literature was fostered by education, and on the reception of his second degree at Yale College, he pronounced an Oration on the "Education of a Poet," of such finished excellence, as to attract peculiar attention.
In it, he says, "From the riches of ancient learning, to which he will first be introduced while acquiring the rudiments of a classical education, the poet will derive incalculable benefit. Amid the treasures of antiquity, he will find the productions of many a kindred spirit, and while be listens to their sweetness and majesty, the fire of genius will burn within him.
"In the earlier stages of his progress, pains should be taken to reduce their beauties to a level with his comprehension, and as he becomes skilled in antique lore, they should be his chosen companions. His daily and nightly labor should be to comprehend the force of their ideas, and the beauties of their expressions. Every ​passage distinguished for its elegance should be in his memory, and every image of peculiar felicity familiar to his thoughts. Not to remedy barrenness, or enrich his own productions by purloining from their stores, but because by incessant converse with whatever is great and noble, the soul acquires a correspondent elevation."
After speaking of the necessity of an extensive acquaintance with history, the productions of modern genius, and a close observation of the beauties of nature, he thus proceeds.
"This connection of the events of history and fiction with the scenery of Nature, begets for it an enthusiastic fondness, and enlarges its utility by causing it to excite deeper attention. To a vigorous and highly cultivated imagination the contemplation of nature seems like an intercourse with divinity. The soft luxuriance of a blooming landscape, or the rich and blended tints of an evening sky, fill it with emotions as exquisite, as they are inexpressible. And this sensibility should be strengthened by frequent indulgence as a frame of mind, strongly prompting to poetic effusion. Let not these remarks be derided as the fine-spun labors of a visionary, assiduously describing feelings which never had existence. Most probably they have been experienced by every strongly poetic mind since the hour when David, on the summit of Zion, glanced from the vallies of Judea to the skies, and smitten with their grandeur, broke forth into the rap​turous exclamation: 'The Heavens declare the glory of God!'
"But every precept which has been given, will be inefficacious in forming the mind of the Poet, unless, aloof from the world, much of his time be passed in solitude and reflection. Here alone he can examine nature, and here the seeds of education must acquire full maturity."
"Such is the outline of the education which should expand poetical genius into perfection. A rude sketch of the subject only could be given here. The poet should indeed be acquainted with all that man can know; for every art, and every science, every department of learning, and every object in nature, may subserve for the decoration of his page. But ever mindful of the awful truth that man's 'life is a vapor which continueth a little time and then vanisheth away,' all his research should tend either directly, or through the medium of reason, to the improvement of sensibility and imagination, the instruments of his great design. Thus heaven-directed genius shall enwreath the brow with laurels of immortal verdure, and enroll its name forever in the record of wisdom and the song of beauty."
This elegant composition, which still remains unpublished, gained for its young author the appointment of poet at the next anniversary of the Phi-Beta-Kappa Society. It was inferred that one, who could so accurately delineate the true nurture and aliment ​of poesy, must be able to exemplify its power. The reasoning was in this instance correct, though it has been said of more than one casuist in the realm of fancy, that, like Moses, he could point out the promised land, without the ability to enter it.
Here it was proved, that there was indeed no interdict. Yet it is perhaps an unparalleled fact in the history of mind, that one altogether unpractised in metrical composition should produce, as a first effort, a poem of such lofty imagery, so polished in diction, and sublime in spirit, as "The Judgment." His knowledge of the secret springs of poetic impulse, and the innate and versatile powers of his own language, here burst forth with Miltonic energy. That he should go on in the career of excellence, and win for himself, on both sides of the Atlantic, a high place in the temple of fame, might have been expected.
Several years of the early part of his life were devoted to mercantile business. In this his heart had no share. But the diligence and self-denial with which he subjected strong, native tastes to what he considered his duty, proved the correct balance and healthful state of his moral powers. During this period he visited Europe, where his attainments did not fail of their appreciation. There was about him that uprightness, nobleness, and courtesy, indicative of what some writer has styled the "old, unfaded English mind."
After his congenial and happy marriage, the greater ​part of nearly twenty years, that still remained to him, was spent in his native city, between those intellectual pursuits and rural occupations, which relieve and dignify each other. An edition of such of his works, both in prose and poetry, as he thought proper to select, was given to the public during the last year of his life, and ranks among the best specimens of American literature. It was then little thought that this gift to his country would prove a valedictory. Yet while his intercourse with the external world was but slightly changed, there were those nearest his heart who anxiously marked the "fading brow, the sinking eye." After a brief illness, which gave, until the point of fatal termination, no distinct announcement of danger, he passed away, just at the opening of the year 1841.
The intelligence of an event which afflicted so many friends, awoke the following effusion from one absent in a foreign clime:
A troubled sound upon thy heaving breast
 Thou bear'st, old ocean, from my native strand
A sound of wo! And art thou gone to rest,
 Thou of the noble soul, and tuneful band?
I saw thee last within thy pleasant dome,
 Thy fair, ancestral oaks, in glory spreading,
While every blest affection round thy home,  And through thy heart a genial warmth was shedding.
Yet now, while sullen sounds the wintry wind,
 I sadly mourn thee, on this Gallic shore,
Ordained amid mine own loved land to find
 One friend the less, and one cold tomb-stone more;
But thou, for whom such bitter tears are shed,
Thy glowing strains shall live, when Friendship's self is dead.
His brother, for many years a resident in Europe, remarks to a member of the family: "His compositions, in prose and verse, are before the American people, to whom it pertains to stamp his reputation as an author, and to assign his rank in the rising literature of our country. Competent judges have already pronounced, that it has never produced a writer of more refined and cultivated taste, or more graceful and polished style. To his relatives and intimate friends, who alone could fully appreciate his virtues, it belongs to do justice to his moral worth, by declaring that few persons acted under a deeper and more habitual sense of duty, or labored more faithfully for their own improvement; one great part of the allotted task of man."
An author well qualified to know and to express what fraternal love thus left unsaid, the Rev. William I. Kip, has permitted us to use the following just tribute.
"Of the loss of Mr. Hillhouse, as a man, none can fitly speak but those who, like the writer of this brief sketch, knew him well and loved him much. It ​was crushing an object, around which were clustering the fond affections of many hearts. It was quenching the light, which shed its rays over a wide circle. In his beautiful residence, the same little group has gathered, as of old, but he who formed its life and soul is gone. They behold from the windows the same bright landscape, stretching out in its beauty, yet the eyes which once dwelt with so much pleasure on the view, and which could behold so readily 'a glory in the grass, and a splendor in the flower,' are closed forever. The 'old ancestral oaks' wave their branches, and their leaves rustle to the breeze, but that ear, to which the sound once came as music, listens to them no longer. He is sleeping with his fathers in the still and quiet churchyard, yet resting there, we trust, 'in the sure and certain hope of a glorious resurrection.' His virtues are enbalmed in the hearts of his friends, for to them he can now only be united by the chain of memory running back to what he once was, and the aspirings of faith, stretching forward to what he now is. But his works belong to the literature of his country, and will ever secure to him a lofty station among the poets of America."