# Scenes in my Native Land/The Great Oak of Geneseo

THE GREAT OAK OF GENESEO,
TO THE CHARTER-OAK AT HARTFORD.
Friend of the rising Sun! thy words were fair,
And should ere this have claimed my answering care,
But age is tardy, and the truth to tell,
I boast no clerkly skill, like those who dwell
Where every little district hath its school,
The pen, that subtle wand of thought to rule.
Yet still I give thee thanks, for long thy name
Hath been familiar, and its annaled fame,
Thine open bosom at thy Country's need,
Thy prompt allegiance to her hero's deed, Thy staunch secretiveness, thy fair renown, The waving honors of thy verdant crown;
And should a despot's step again invade
Her peaceful counsels, or her quiet shade,
May other veterans at her summons leap, And other sacred Oaks her archives keep.
Far into times remote, my memory strays,
And with the mist of buried ages plays,
When but the unshorn forest marked the glade,
And tribes of men, who like its leaves decayed, The roving hunters' toil their food supplied,
The war their pastime, and the chase their pride.
Stern, lofty chiefs the various clans controlled,
With stony eye and brows unmoved and cold,
They raised their arm, the war-dance wheeled its round,
The unshrinking captive to the stake was bound,
Fierce torture strode, barbaric revels reigned, And orgies dire the ear of midnight pained.
Like the wild billows on some troubled bay, Rose the brief tribes and raged and sank away.
Though few the traits their barren history gave,
And fate ordained them for oblivion's grave,
Yet still, so deep, mid all the floods of time, Are notched the waymarks of our earliest prime,
That by their side, life's later traces seem
The idle pageants of a passing dream.
Yes, even as yesterday, to me in thought,
Appears the change, a pale-browed race have wrought.
They came, new blossoms sprang, new fountains flowed, O'er the blue stream the white-winged vessels rode,
To sudden birth, the frequent village strove
Like full-armed Pallas from the brain of Jove,
Fair herds and flocks o'er velvet meadows stray,
Where erst the wolf and panther prowled for prey,
While broad canals unite with giant chain
The wondering inland to the mighty main,
Lo! the poor red man, feeling in his heart
The long-drawn drama of his power depart,
Stood for a moment, in his fallen pride,
Like statued bronze, by rock or river side,
Bent o'er his fathers' graves, with sigh supprest, While speechless anguish heaved his ample breast,
Gazed till deep midnight veiled his favorite shore, Then westward journeyed, to return no more.
Friend at the East! though many a year hath sped
Light-winged and scathless o'er my towering head,
Yet now, methinks, dread Winter longer reigns, And Spring, more tardy, wakes the frost-bound plains
While through my veins a feebler current flows,
To make resistance to my stormy foes;
But this is Age, we both must own its sway,
And thou and I, like frailer man, decay.
Of them thou ask'st, who from thy native scene,
Where thy fair river flows in pride serene,
Since the last brief half-century's fleeting shade,
Became the owners of my sylvan glade. Brothers of noble name and manly prime,
An honor to their blest New England clime,
Who dauntless bore the hardships, toil and strife,
That mark the opening of colonial life.
God blessed their way,—the harvest reared its head,
And snowy flocks o'er hills and valleys spread;
God blessed their way,—and in their mansion throve
Pure hospitality, and virtuous love.
The elder parted first, the man of might,
The strong in battle, for his country's right,
Who, on her northern shore, with veteran zeal,
Endured the sharpness of the British steel;
Yet mild in peaceful age, his hoary head
Sank, full of honors, to its lowly bed.
But now, alas! the recent mourners bend,
Where sleeps in dust, the master and the friend,
Who propped my roots against the encroaching tide,
And led admiring strangers to my side,
Sweet plants of love he gathered round his breast,
And drank their fragrance, till he went to rest;
His princely wealth sustained the arts refined,
And poured rich bounties o'er the realm of mind,
For this an unborn race, with grateful prayers,
Shall bless his memory, and record his cares.
But hark! autumnal winds careering low,
Announce the coming of the wintry foe,
I bow myself, my adverse lot to take,
With such poor aid, as age and sorrow make;
Damp through my boughs the mournful breezes swell,
And sigh amid my leaves. Master and friend, farewell!
The brothers, Messrs. William and James Wadsworth, left their native Connecticut in early manhood, for Western New York. The region of Geneseo, where they decided to fix their residence, was entirely uncultivated, and their personal labors, with the contrast to the state of society and habits of life to which they had been accustomed, were great. But by firm endurance and prudent foresight, they overcame every obstacle, and laid the foundation of extensive wealth and influence, which they used for the good of others. The elder accepted a command in the service of his country, during her last war with Great Britain, and was wounded in battle. He died at an advanced age, highly respected and honored.
The death of Mr. James Wadsworth, is a recent sorrow. It took place at his beautiful mansion in the month of June, 1844. Refinement of feeling, intellectual tastes, and a noble hospitality, were among the features of his character; and hoary years brought no mental declension, and drew no shade over the ardent affections by which he was distinguished, and in whose reciprocity, was his undeclining solace. The grief of those most dear to him, is shared by many hearts, to whom his liberality in the cause of education, had rendered him a benefactor. The establishment of schools, the diffusion of books, and the best modes of culture for the unfolding mind, occupied much of his thought and effort during the later years of life. And surely, no form of munificence ​should entitle to a more grateful and lasting remembrance, than that which promotes the right education of youth; especially in a republic, where most emphatically "knowledge is power," and ignorancand vice subversive of safety.
The Great Western Tree, so celebrated for its antiquity and magnificence, is on the estate of the late Hon. James Wadsworth. It is a white oak, of massy foliage, with a trunk seventy feet in height, ere the protrusion of the branches, and thirty in circumference, so that seven persons are scarcely able to clasp it, with arms extended to their utmost length. It stands on the banks of the Geneseo, whose gently flowing waters wind their way through broad valleys, studded with fine trees, rising singly or in groups, and forming the very perfection of park scenery. In the old Maps of New York, the surrounding region bears the appellation of "Big Tree," and an Indian chieftain of the same name, formerly ruled over a tribe inhabiting that vicinity. In winter he resided on the uplands, and in summer came with his people, to cultivate some lands adjoining the "Big Tree." Beneath its dense canopy the chiefs of neighboring tribes often assembled to hold council, to see their young men contend in athletic games, to advise them to good conduct, and invoke on their nation, the blessing of the Great Spirit.
This majestic Oak is suppossed to have attained the age of at least 1000 and possibly 1500 years. Of its ​date there is neither history nor tradition, but one of similar species, and of less than a third part of its diameter, having been cut down, revealed three hundred annual circles.
The neighboring aborigines were accustomed of old to regard it with veneration, as a sort of in intelligent or tutelary being.
Among the tribes who formerly inhabited the valley of the Geneseo, was a small one, which had made such progress in civilization, as to be able to speak a little English, to read imperfectly, and to sing psalms very well. They often conducted their simple worship under the spreading branches of the "Big Tree." In the summer of 1790, Mr. William Wadsworth (afterwards the General), received the appointment of Captain, and paraded his company of fifty or sixty men, collected from a space now equal to two or three counties, in front of the log-house then tenanted by himself and his brother. The chief of the before-mentioned tribe, who was a man of mild and friendly disposition, attended to witness the spectacle. His countenance was observed to be strongly marked with sadness. Mr. James Wadsworth inquired what was the cause of his depression. Pointing to the company of soldiers, and then turning to the remnant of his own people, he said mournfully, "You are the rising sun; but we are the setting sun;" and covering his head with his mantle, wept bitterly.