The Poetical Works of Jonathan E. Hoag/Amid Inspiring Scenes

by Jonathan E. Hoag

Amid Inspiring Scenes
(Near Greenwich, N. Y.)

Prologue
By H. P. L.

I.

The western sun, whose warm, rubescent rays
Touch the green slope with soul-awak'ning blaze,
A thoughtful bard reveals, whose polish'd flights
Spring from the scene on Dillon's pleasant heights.
An ancient boulder is the poet's seat,
A verdant vista fronts the blest retreat;
From distant banks there comes th' elusive gleam
That speaks the Hudson's silent, stately stream.
Here, ere the birth of man, a granite train
In speechless splendor rul'd the rising main;
In later days an Indian horde decreed
The varying fortunes of the fragrant mead.
Here Dutchmen trod, till Albion's stronger sway
Carv'd out the nation that we know to-day;
'Twas here th' insurgent swain his King defied,
And rural rebels broke Burgoyne's bold pride.
Such is the scene, with shades historic rife,
That Hoag, in numbers, gives eternal life.

Glacial Boulders
II.

"Tell, ancient giants, granite boulders gray,
Ye mute survivors of a distant day,
Whence came ye here, and why? Pray let me know
Your age-kept mysteries of long ago.
Relate at last the story yet untold;
Your tale I'll honor, and your secret hold!"
Thus plead the sage, and as the boulders heard,,
Their hoary patriarch spake the answering word,
"Our rugged paths o'er distant hillsides trace;
Our footprints measure on the mountain's face;
Mark where a glacial sea our masses led,
And left us strewn along its ancient bed;
Learn how our way o'er crags and granite hills
We wrought in splendor with our diamond drills!
Though born in silences of Arctic snow,
The frozen flood constrained us soon to go,
Like birdlings from the nest maternal thrown,
To find new havens in the lands unknown;
Through strange domains we creep, 'till milder air
Greets our last pause, in fragrant fields and fair."

The Coming of Night
III.

Here, seated on a boulder gray and old,
At ease I scan the distant hills of gold,
Ere coming dusk reveals the night's first star,
And Philomela wakes the grove afar.
Hark! from a neighb'ring hedge the whippoorwill
Delights the air with glad, melodious thrill;
Soft singing o'er the downy sylvan nest,
He lulls his mate and birdlings fair to rest.
Wood-thrushes now with songs from darkening vale
The falling shades of evening sweetly hail;
O time so peaceful! Till the breeze-blest morn
Shall rouse the sleeping fields of tasseled corn!
'Midst rolling hills beyond the shadowy lea,
The orb of day sinks down in vaporous sea;
The gorgeous sky a thousand tints displays,
Whilst friendly clouds set off th' effulgent rays.
Watch young Selene's slender silvern string,
Whose crescent beams an hundred beauties bring;
Light poised o'er western moors, her argent glow
Bathes the proud mountain and the vale below.
Her burnished horns, with blaze benign and bright,
Proclaim to earth the coming of the night.

The Burgoyne Monument
IV.

Yon grassy plain, so verdant now to view,
Once reek'd with martial combat's crimson hue;
Proud Bemis Heights contending legions bore,
Whilst fellow Saxons shed their kindred's gore.
Where now yon granite shaft looks calmly down
On peaceful meads of verdure ting'd with brown,
To conquering hosts, with might and numbers brave,
His honored sword a noble Briton gave.
Thus England's sons, proud o'er each alien foe,
Defeat from England's grandsons only know.
On yonder mount, that towers not far away,
A spirit brave rose from its mortal clay;
His lips are silent, and his sightless eyes
Behold no more his native, starlit skies.
He sleeps at last, by Hudson's verdant shore,
While stars and stripes his sepulchre float o'er;
Here, where forever rests his honored head,
"Old Glory guards the bivouac of the dead!"

1919