The Portland daily press., 1886-07-07

there is no more beautiful city than the
beautiful Portland of today. No wonder the
thoughts of the great poet were so often on
the lovely spot. of his nativity. NO wonder
the brave and famous Admiral orm-tossed
on many a sea longed to take his eternal rest
amid these bright scenes of his childhood.
Yet this longing was not born OF the memo
ry of beauty alone, Whatever fame. great
achievements may bestow; whatever honorS
the world may give, it is ever the most cher
ished hope of every seeker after fame or for
tune to be kindly remembered and lovingly
honred on the spot which gave him birth.
Frequent applause interrupted the speaker
and at the close it was loud and prolonged.
The chorus by the Haydn Association was
followed by the poem of Mrs. Abba Goold
Woolson who after being gracefully introduc'
ed proceeded to read herp reduction. The
poem was listened to with earnest attention
and many of the fine passages elected warm
applause. The poem is as follows:
MRS. wooLsoN's POEM.
Ye bid me wake, with touch unskilled and weak,
The mighty harp that elder bards have strung;
Ye bid my falltering voice essay to speak
Nor festal hymn, nor gladstone lay were mine,
should once her poets to my vision rise,
Like those rapt singers that the Florentine
Behed, with rsvereEt eyes,
And mute were 1, did venturous thought recall
That laurelled name on London's minster-wall.
Yet leaps my heart to celebrate the fame
OF that dear city which we proudly boast
Oldest and largest that our State can claim
In all her leagues of bay indented coast.
From East to West, throughout her broad
domains,
In all her lake -strewn forests, all her plains,
No spot so fair to see;
Within her far-famed bay she sits serene,
OF all Names cities the acknowledged queen.
Like posted sentinels in outer courts,
Her guards and watchmen stand on many
Steep
That she may dwell secure; three frowning forts
Train their long guns in menace DER the Deep
With call imperiOus challenging her foes
Scanning that ocean-path by night, by day,
The old red tower upon her hilltop knows
What rovers seek her bay;
While headland lights, like torches DER the foam
OF darkling waters, guide her wanderers home
Child of the sea, her eager looks are sent
Towards distant Europe, DER the rolling surge;
Behind her spreads a teeming continent,
Herself enthroned upon its eastern verge.
Yet linking her with far Pacific lands,
Speed the great engines, rushing to and fro,
Ger the straight pathway of their iron bands;
While swift her white ships so,
Like cleaning shuttles, flying DER the main,
To English ports, or shores of France and Spain.
Her rowing sailors, from their floating decks,
Descry no lands so lovely as their own!
How bright so ere the realm, it little recks
To them what splendors gild foreign zone
Anu tlUuSu u6I ouH5 may ICtti tloit iionCStCduo
well
On Southern plain and many western farm,
Where love and fortune weave their potent spell,
Yet nothing breaks the old alluring charm;
Though years may pass, and wide her children
roam
Still on her hearth stones burn the fires of home
In summers sunshine every land is fair,
But fair are her dear coasts in shade;
Nor winters sleet, nor Augustus sultry air
Can make her other than fond nature made;
Better her ocean gales, her spray-swept Shore,
Her fog-clouds driven DER the shvering land,
Her wild tempestuous breakers, and their roar,
Than alien zephyrs bland;
No storms wreck her beauty; fairer glows
Her freshened lustre, like a rain-dashed rose.
And nature loves her well; a sheltering wood
OF waving verdure canopies the town.
Still Bramhall's oaks, mighty brotherhood,
Cling to her sleeps; though pines no longer
crown
Munjoy's broad slopes, descending to the sea-
In swaying elms the wild bird builds her nest;
Across these ancient gardens still the bee
Goes murmuring on her quest;
And searching for lost springs, the dragon fly,
On wings of steely gauze, darts whilrlng by.
For man alone has not possessed this spot,
This strip of earth between encircling seas;
The tiny races whom we value not
Have danced their summer revel down the breeze,
And lightly slept within their native earth,
And still their kindred in the sunbeams dwell
We know no story of their nations birth,
OF them no records tell;
But she in her great heart may hold them DEAR
Her citizens, like those who gather here.
Not all the ships that in its haven ride
Can take one native charm from Casco Bay;
Dark, plumy forests swing a bove the tide
On island shores, where still in careless play,
| The wild duck floats, the lonely plover calls;
| Inwaye- washed hooks, by human eye unseen,
The gstening kelp forever lifts and falls;
And silvery birches lean
| In sunny coyes above the hard, white sand,
Where glides no skif, no rover seeks the land.
When home-bound from the deep, tiny shape
On inO ftGh G
Rounding the eastern shores of that broad cape
| Named at her death for Englands mighty queen
| How welcome to his gaze each curving line
| From Scarboro's river-capes to Barberry creek
At Spurwink's mouth the long white beaches shine
Beyond, his glances seek
Richmonds lone island on whose farthest edge
Breaks the white surf DER Wattss fatal LEDGE
| Its one lone farmhouse has no tale to tell
OF vanished fleets and storehouses and pier;
| His fancy hears no pealing chapelbell,
| Nor sees young Parson Jordan saunterng near
| Joining the captains from their busy ships,
| And mistress Sarah in her London gown,
| And passing in to pray with fervent lips
| For good King Charles's crown.
Nor does his thought that earlier vision hold
| OF slaughtered trader, and his buried gold.
| Nor yet upon their towers the twin lights CLEAN
For still on Alden's Rock the sunbeams dwell;
Through Portland Roads he hurries with the stream
Past their white tower and feels the rising swell
| That rocks the skiffs in simonton's broad cove;
| From Prebles ramparts booms the sunset gun
/ Der Cushing's Point, where erst village throve
| And now the sunken sun
| Crimsons the wave, where cleaning silks GU
| blown
Once scarfed sea with priceless wreckage strewn
/ To one who sits upon the cliff afar,
/ Noting the waning splendors of the light,
/ He moves, floating speck behind the bar
OF Stanford's ledge, and vanishes from sight.
i Against the lingering radiance of the west,
With dome and slender steepies ranged arrow;
Tie tree -embowered city on her crest
| Burns in golden glow;
1 While CLEANS that through the water
| play
| Flush the far sails and mantle all the bay.
/ Like lovely Venice throned above the tide,
1 AT such an hour the glimmering city seems;
Or some rich caravan at eve deserted
Nigh to Damascus,-journeying in our dreams.
| And when the misty branches sway and glance,
We see an army,s gittering legions stand,
One signal of command,
| And the great host shall move forever by,
| Its floating banners sweeping down the sky
| leafy home by oaken branches made,
| The dryads lovesthough murmuring streets arr
| near,
| For behring's Woods within its solemn shade
Preserves a hush, spell, that kindles fear;
| AS though the bandits of good Robin Hood
Or playful fairies, trv0ped its aisleS at night
| And only hid within the listening wood
| When wanderers came in sight;
| Yet rushing trains the sturdy branches shake,
/ And chidrens laughter all the echoes wake.
| Beyond dividing waters, where the field
|
Sweet orchard glades their stern traditions yield
| Of savage conflict centuries ago.
| And westward still, with fonder memories blent,
| A furry pasture tells of strange Delights
| For there the circus held its tournament,
| And there, on gala nights,
| The fireworks magic dazed our childish eyes,
| Shooting its splendors to the startled skies.
| Munjoy still guards upon its eastern steep,
| The ancient graveyard of the little town;
| For seven generations came to sleep
| Where the tall pine tree flung its shadow down
| There lies the parson, shepherding his flock;
| And there the pine tree made its grave at last
| The captains feel no more the battles shock,
| Their rivalries all past;
| And sailors bold, that knew this winding shore
| Better than charts celestial, cruise no more.
| From old Munjoy what glimpses toward the West
Of mighty submits, cleaning in their SHOWS
| When plains are bare; of Blackstrap's needle'
From Westbrook's daisied fields how lightl
| blows
| The thistle globe upon the scented breeze,
| Threading the mazes of the wind-swept town
| To float and ride upon the summer seas!
| And there, still looking down
| In faithful vigil, stands the broad red tower,
| Waving its flags to hail this happy hour.
| On these glad festal days is toll forgot;
| Merchants and lawyers throng the crowded way
For wind and tide the sailor careth not
| His little sloop, with all her pennons gay
| Waits in the stream that he may walk in pride
| Among her sons; no farmers scythe is swung;
| No laughing children seek the country side;
But all, the old and young,
Together come, their cty's name 10 bless;
| Happier to share each others happiness.