Poems Sigourney 1827/On passing at Jamestown, Virginia, the Ruins of the most ancient Church in America

by Lydia Sigourney

ON PASSING AT JAMESTOWN, VIRGINIA,
THE RUINS OF THE MOST ANCIENT CHURCH IN AMERICA.

Roll on, proud river, towards the mighty main,
    And glow, gay shores, with summer's fostering smile,
Your grandeur charms, your beauties lure in vain
    The traveller's eye from yonder ancient pile.

For there in solitary state it stands,
    While sheltering boughs involve its time-worn frame,
The earliest temple rear'd by christian hands
    To teach a heathen world Jehovah's name.

Thus gleam'd the altar, where the lonely ark
    Found for the patriarch's foot a place of rest,
Ere from the wildering waste of waters dark
    The rescued planet raised its mournful breast.

Hail hallow'd dome! whence first was heard to flow
    That strain of praise which heavenly choirs repeat,
While the stern savage stay'd his quivering bow
    From echo's voice to woo that cadence sweet.—

Here, her young babe, the pensive matron brought,
    Here, the glad lover led his youthful bride,
And in thy solemn ordinance forgot
    The far cathedral, once their childhood's pride.—

Were language thine, what scenes couldst thou describe
    When the New World to meet the Old essay'd,—
The simple welcome of the wandering tribe,
    The incipient hatred, and the blood-stain'd shade.

The plumed chieftains round their council-fire,—
    The tireless hunters on the wind-swept hill,
The sober pilgrims like some patient sire,
    Guarding the infant colony from ill.—

Here, for a time, beguiled by venal dreams,
    They scorn'd the labours of a cultured soil,
To hoard the dust that paved their glittering streams
    Till meagre Famine mock'd their futile toil.

Here*^[1] too, the ebon race from Afric's plains,
    Learnt the dire import of the name of slave,

Endured its burdens, punishments and pains,
    And sank despairing, to a noteless grave.

Perchance, Powhatan here in regal pride,
    His warriors marshall'd and his banners waved,
Or Pocahontas, smit with pity, sigh'd
    For the pale victim that her valour saved.

Gone are the fathers to their mouldering bed,
    Their vision vanish'd and their duties o'er,
The forest race like gliding shadows fled,
    Throng the dark boundary of oblivion's shore:

But thou remain'st,—by ruthless Time revered,
    And spared by tempests in their wrecking rage,
To hoar antiquity a friend endear'd,
    The sacred beacon of a buried age.

So when the pomp and pageantry of earth
    Shall feed the fierceness of destruction's fire,
The meek devotion that in thee had birth
    Shall soar, unchanging, never to expire.

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1. * "In August, 1620, a Dutch man of war landed twenty negroes for sale at Jamestown,—the first slaves which were ever brought to this country."—Beverly's History of Virginia.