Centennial poem

The last day of the hundredth year Since, rising over doubt and fear, Our sires proclaimed our country free.

Now turn we back along Time's way— Look back from this to that great day— Along the Empire's westward track Go from the Mississippi back To that old Quaker city there By the calm-gliding Delaware. What means this tumult in the town? The people thronging up and down With eager words and restless pace? In the rapt look on every face The march of great events you trace. Swells the low murmur of their speech Like wave-beats on the distant beach. Adown the length of Chestnut Street And 'round the State House swell and beat The human waves; within those walls The strong men whom the country calls To council hold their high debate Whose close shall seal the land's great fate.

And here, strong leader 'mid the brave Who've chosen freedom or the grave, Stands dauntless Adams. 'Mid the clash Of stern debate his words outflash Like glowing sparks from flint and steel, Rekindling all the fear-quenched zeal Of patriot hearts less brave and stout, Reviving hope, dispelling doubt— For even here are many found Alarmed to stand on such high ground And hurl with such a lofty tone Such challenge 'gainst proud England's throne So, stubborn through the long debate, They hang, a millstone's constant weight, Upon the unbowed souls of those Who'd venture all, be 't win or lose.

Amid this clash of warring thought, Forebodings chill, exhortings hot, Is missed the tall, commanding form Of him whose hand stirred up this storm, Nor stayed to guide or quell it then. Silent his voice whose magic pen Had sketched in lines that flaming ran The Greater Charter of the Rights of Man. The mighty thoughts which crowding hung Reluctant on th' unready tongue Yet from his pen came clear and strong, Endowed to live through ages long.

'Tis done! The world-famed act is passed! The word is spoke! the die is cast! Opposing doubts and fears give way, Out rings each loud, approving "Aye!" The words defiant, high and bold Echoing around the chamber rolled. Nor could that mighty impulse long Be pent in walls, though thick and strong. E'en as electric currents run, Or light-waves rolling from the sun, So swiftly through the swaying masses From heart to heart the impulse passes. Their murmuring voices seemed before Like dying waves upon a far-off shore; But instant now the tumult grows, As when the sudden tempest blows, And breakers thunder wild and high And screaming sea-birds o'er them fly. And soon the clamor of the bells The joyous tumult grandly swells, And yet a deeper, stronger note Comes from the cannon's iron throat. Nor is the jubilee at all Checked by the night's descending pall. From street and home, from hut and hall, The bonfires bright, the tapers' light, Flash out defiance to the night And wrap in one broad, ruddy glare The earth beneath, the upper air, The waters of the Delaware.

This scene, so joyous and so bright, Was but a transient gleam of light, That, while the storm-clouds gathered black, Through one small rift a moment shone, And then the murky folds swept back, Thrice blacker and more threat'ning grown. Above the dark, foul fens of wrong The storm of wrath had gathered long. The waiting nations saw the flash, World-wide and age-long rolled the crash Of that first bolt at Lexington. Then smoked to heaven the blood of seven, Too few for fight, too proud for flight— Heroes and martyrs every one. But soon for every dying moan Their foes by scores in blood atone. Down burst the gathered hate of years Upon the cowering grenadiers, From copse and wall the rifle ball Aimed fair and true, vindictive flew; The uniforms of gaudy hue, Prone on the roadside or the plain, Of blood and dust bore darker stain.

But blacker grew the war-storm's frown. From Mystic's slope to Bunker's crown Stretched long, low mounds of earth and hay; Behind the Yankee farmers lay. The foemen's lines were long and fair, 'Mid golden lace and scarlet there, Flashed bayonet and sword-blade bare. With steady sweep they onward came— A sudden burst of sulphurous flame. Fringed the low works with livid glow And laid the bristling red ranks low, As August's flame-winged hurricane Sweeps down the ranked and bladed grain. Thrice upward came the rallying foe, Thrice blazed that fierce and deadly glow. Then o'er the shot-torn parapets Swarmed British swords and bayonets. The farmers backward fighting went, To them defeat and victory blent. Driven out from Boston with defeat, Then southward sailed the British fleet. At Charleston through the long June day Was barred the bellowing squadron's way The war-ships bayed like baffled dogs Before the tough palmetto logs Vainly and long; then they withdrew With many a shattered hull and crew.

'T was such successive triumphs gained Which courage roused and hope sustained. Dull were the patriot's heart and eye Who could not in these things descry That on his cause the hand divine Had set its bright, approving sign. Deep need had every heart and hand In that immortal little band, The sponsors of the newborn land, For all the zeal that triumph fired And all the strength success inspired; High need for an auspicious hour To challenge England's wrath and power.

Well for the infant nation then, And well for Freedom and for men, That the die was cast beyond recall Ere was revealed what should befall; For almost while the ink was wet Upon the famous parchment yet, Came swift disaster and disgrace— The shameful flight, the ruthless chase, The clanging horse-guards smiting swords From Beford's pass to Brooklyn's fords, The savage Hessian's bayonet In the blood of many a captive wet.

And then came White Plains' bloody day, The patriots ever giving way, Surrender here and ther defeat, O'er Jersey's hills the long retreat, The quailing hearts and routed line And panic flight at Brandywine, The Carolinas overrun By Tarleton fierce and Ferguson. Humiliation deeper yet Came when the red cross-flag was set Above old Independence Hall, And British troops, with feast and ball, A gay life in the city led From which the patriot Congress fled, While clad in rags and scantly fed, The bleak hillside their cheerless bed, When skies and fates both darkly frown, At Valley Forge or Morristown The remnants of the rebel band, Still faithful to their down-trod land, Shared in their leader's faith sublime, Still hopeful for a better time.

But the dark night which 'round them lay Gleamed with some promise of the day When Burgoyne's host laid down their arms And scattered were Brant's savage swarms. Boasting of conquest, sallied forth The invaders from the distant north. Full gayly marched the scarlet ranks, And swarming on their front and flanks Danced in the breeze the plumed scalp-locks, Flashed scalping knives and tomahawks. The host swept on its conquering way, But found, as day succeeded day, Thick woods, wide swamps and brawling fords Were deadlier foes than guns and swords, And toiling through the wilderness, Full many a Briton, many a Hess, Who sank and died by the long way, Uncoffined in the dark swamp lay. Before the wasting Britons rose A host of new and eager foes. Came on New England's yeoman ranks And farmers from the Hudson's banks— From Mohawk and Oswego came Full many a borderman whose aim Failed never. On his conquering track The Briton now was driven back. O'erwhelmed and crippled by defeat, Too late he thinks him of retreat. On front and flank the rifles flash, Behind him close the cannon crash. Borne down in fight, no chance for flight, The truce-notes loud his bugles blow, And soon, their useless arms laid low And furled their banners' gaudy show, March out the humbled captive foe.

The day which showed its earliest light When closed was Saratoga's fight, At Yorktown in full splendor broke, When cleared away the battle-smoke. There proud Cornwallis, ranging free Before from mountains to the sea, Surpriséd found himself inhemmed By foes the haughty lord contemned, While roaring siege guns 'round him flashed, And blazing shells about him crashed; And closer still on every side Pressed on the 'leaguering lines allied; And day by day he saw advance The gallant sons of sunny France; New England's men were pressing near And the Virginian mountaineer Still nearer to the bastions crept And with his fire the port-holes swept. Then once again the truce-notes blew, Above the works the white flags flew. Like scarlet tide between its banks (One fair and decked with lilies gold, The other rock-bound, rough and bold), From the black ruins slowly file The captive hosts of Britain's isle, And ground the arms they nevermore Shall bear upon Columbia's shore.

'T is done! Let Freedom's sons rejoice O'er all the world with one glad voice. In deed as erst in word 't is done, And independence has been won.

We gather here to-day to celebrate A proclamation bold and true and great. Grand words were they, by grander deeds made good, By years of hardship, darkness, death and blood. Our hearts are moved by tales of that old time, Yet we, to-day, in this new age and clime, With peopled leagues and crowded years between, Can scarce connect it with the home-like scene. We here not only celebrate the word That on this day a century since was heard, But strive to link the hundred years gone by With the familiar scenes which 'round us lie.

A century since and o'er this smiling land Strode the red hunter or the warrior band; With twanging bow and whirling tomahawk, Warred the fierce Winnebago and the Sauk. The Anglo-Saxon's colonizing tide Had halted in Kentucky's forests wide, And there the woodsman's ax or rifle's sound Rang sharply o'er the Dark and Bloody Ground. True sons of Freedom were these woodsmen bold; The thunder of the distant war-storm rolled— They heard, and built another Lexington In memory of the spot where Freedom's war begun.

Not so the few rude settlers at Green Bay: Through all the war they owned the British sway. 'T was in the year that formal peace was made, When, for adventure and for Indian trade, There came some hardy Gallic pioneers, Of Empire's westward march th' advance couriers, And once more on the Prairie of the Dog Their steps the gray wolf scare; The rattlesnake starts at their tread And seeks his rocky lair. Like an invading army swarm The soldiers of the Lead Brigade, The ocher-stain their uniform, Their arms the pick and spade. On many a wild and rock-ribbed hill, In many a dark ravine, The miner's cabin, built of logs And chinked with earth, is seen. The streams which once like crystal ran Run thick with muddy stain, For, toiling through the wash-dirt flumes, The ocher's hue they gain; And creaking 'neath the heavy tub, The windlass makes its rounds, And mottling many a hillside green, Rise up the yellow mounds. Beneath its volumed, sulphurous smoke The fiery furnace roars, And from its glowing, stony throat The molten metal pours. Hemmed in by thickly pitted hills, Springs up the busy mart, And through its stony valley streets Rolls the lead-burdened cart.

But on the prairie fair and broad The wild grass still is green; No trace of human hand is there, The wild flowers bloom unseen. The delvers in the rock yet leave The prairie sod unturned; Its wealth, far passing that of mines, Is overlooked and spurned.

Decades pass on; the century's close Beholds another scene: Gone are the wild grass and the flowers; The prairie still is green, But with a wealth of diverse grain And not the wild grass sod, And scores of fleecy flocks now graze Where the lone wild deer trod. Where once coyotes dug their holes The farm-girl milks the kine, And turkeys through the barnyard strut Amid fat beeves and swine. The corn's deep files and long, straight ranks Toss all their lances green; The farmer's son, like knight of old, In triumph rides between. In gorgeous, scythe-armed chariots rode The warrior-kings of old And left in battle swaths of men Where'er their chariots rolled. And so the farmer-king now rides Adown the meadows green, The clover's red-capped legions fall Before his sickle keen. Where stretched the prairie bare we see The farm-house through the leaves; The walls shine white and flashes bright Light from beyond—perchance there lies the bright Millenium—Chaos, perchance, and night! Then let the patriot hope, and trust and pray, And labor ever to prepare the way For the good time when wrong and woe shall cease— The era of the Thousand Years of Peace. For such a future work to fit our land, Nor seek the awful vail to lift with puny hand.