SUNRISE AT NEW LONDON.
The welkin glows! what floods of purple light,
Announce the coming of the King of Day—
The streaming rays that every moment grow
More tremulously bright, in haste uplift
The diamond-pointed spear, and swiftly run
Before his chariot. Lo! with dazzling pomp
The gates of morning burst, and forth he comes
In light ineffable, and strength supreme,
Best image of the God that rules the world.
Hill-top, and sacred spire, and monument,
Receive him first, with princely reverence,
And blushing, point him to the vales below.
The sea doth greet him, flecked with gliding sails,
That catch his radiance on their breast of snow,
While joyously the little islands touch
Their waving coronets, in loyalty.
Up go the aspiring rays, and reddening fall
On dome, and spreading tree, and cheerful haunt
Of peace and plenty. Here our fathers dwelt,
Simply in ancient times, the scattered huts
Of the dark Indian, mingling with their own.
Methinks even now, amid yon garden-shades,
Or on the margin of his lilied lake,
Sage Winthrop walks, our old colonial sire,
Musing how best to advance his country's weal.
On his broad forehead sits the conscious thought
Of power unmixed with pride, and that pure warmth
Of patriotism, which nerved him to endure
Toil and privation, for the infant State
That well his wisdom ruled.
See, rosy beams
Kindle around the pleasant home, where dwelt
The saintly Huntington, in danger tried,
The firm in battle, and the fond of peace.
High in the friendship of Mount Vernon's chief,
He walked in meekness, on to life's decline,
Seeking that honor which from God doth come,
And hath its crown above the starry skies.
But ah! the slant rays tint a lowly grave,
Where rests the tuneful bard, by nature loved.
Brainard! the echoes of thy spirit-lyre
Do warn us hither, and we fain would sit
Beside thy pillow, and commune with thee.
O, gentle friend! the autumnal dews are chill
Upon thy grassy bed, and the frail flowers,
Whose saddened hearts are ominous of ill,
Cling closely there, as if they knew that thou,
Like them, didst feel an early frost and die.
Tet art thou of that band that cannot die.
Thou hast a dwelling with us, and thy words
Are sweetly on our lips, at close of day,
At lamp-light, by the hearth-stone. Unforgot
Shalt thou remain, for the sweet germs of song
Do flourish, when the gauds of wealth and pomp
Sink in oblivion.
Lo! the risen sun
Stays not his course, but o'er the horizon sends
The Maker's message. On he goes, to wake
The self-same joys and sorrows, that have trod
Beside him, from Creation. In his track
Spring up the chronicles of days that were,
And legends, that the hoary-headed keep
In memory's treasure-house, when pitiless war
And Arnold's treason, woke the fires that made
A people homeless. See, on yonder spot,
Where the white column marks the buried brave,
Came the poor widow, and the orphan band,
Searching mid piles of carnage, for the forms
More dear than life.
But sure, yon kingly orb,
Mid all the zones through which his chariot rolls,
Beholds no realm more favored than our own,
Here, in this broad green West. So may he find
Hands knit in brotherhood, and hearts inspired
With love to Him, from whom all blessings flow.
New London, in Connecticut, is pleasantly situated a short distance from the junction of the Thames with Long Island Sound. Nature has conferred upon it important advantages of position and defence. She scooped a noble basin just within the mouth of the Thames, on the west side of which she spread an uneven rocky projection in the form of a crescent. On this spot the city is built. The hills of Groton, and the low sands of Waterford, extend on either hand like outstretched arms around the harbor. Fisher's Island stands back as an additional embankment on the east. Other small islands of the Sound recede into dark specks upon its bosom, and the narrow line of Long Island, lying like the edge of a slender cloud upon the limits of the horizon, vary the prospect with the elements of beauty and grandeur.
Fort Trumbull occupies an eligible situation for the protection of the harbor and town. The old fortress has been entirely demolished, and a costly structure, planned with ability, and so far as it has yet advanced, executed in a solid and symmetrical style, is now rising upon its ruins. Opposite, on the east side of the river, is Fort Griswold, the site of one of the most barbarous massacres which occurred during the revolutionary war. This also has been repaired, and an additional battery erected for an outpost, but the main fortification remains the same.
A monumental column of granite, erected to commemorate the fatal action of Groton Fort on the sixth of September, 1781, forms a conspicuous ornament of this height. It is built of hewn stone, taken from a quarry not far distant. It is 125 feet high, and the hill on which it stands 129 feet above the level of the ocean. The ascent is by 168 stone steps, rising spirally on the inside. But the prospect amply repays all the toil of the ascent. The landscape, though not so rich and luxuriant as many others, is perhaps as varied and interesting as any in New England. On the south, you have the Sound with its winding shores, its gliding sails and lovely islands, and on the north, the river Thames, retiring behind the hills towards Norwich. Those hills themselves, once the residence of the Mohegan tribe of Indians, suggest numerous associations connected with that fast-decaying tribe; and their highest summit is crowned with a small white picturesque church, erected some few years since for their benefit. On the west, and apparently beneath your feet, lies New London with its streets and dwellings conspicuously displayed, its spires and masts, its rising forts, and its spacious and well-defined harbor.
On the south front of the monument, a marble entablature is fitted into the walls, containing the names of the eighty-one persons who perished in the fort. Only a few of these fell at the taking of the fort. By far the greater part were slain after the surrender with the sword and bayonet, when they had thrown down their arms and were supplicating mercy. The British landed in two divisions. That which assailed the fort, was commanded by Lt. Col. Eyre, and Majors Montgomery and Bloomfield. The western division was commanded by Arnold the traitor, who planned the expedition, and was its leader and guide. He landed below Fort Trumbull, marched directly to New London, and the town and shipping were soon enveloped in flames. Arnold was born in Norwich, only fourteen miles from the place which he so wantonly destroyed. The beautiful place of his birth is ashamed of his memory.
New London was one of the earliest settled towns in the State. Its founder, John Winthrop, Esq., son to the first governor of Massachusetts, was distinguished as a scholar, patriot, and gentleman. He was born in 1605, in Groton, England, but emigrated to this country as soon as he had completed his education. He interested himself warmly in the young colony of Connecticut, and in 1648, was one of the band of forty citizens, who came with their families and commenced a settlement at New London. For many successive years he was chosen governor of the colony, and will always be numbered among its brightest ornaments. The mansion-house which he built at New London, is still one of the most elegant residences in the place. Its present proprietor, Charles A. Lewis, Esq., while he has sedulously preserved the original plan of the building, has added to its beauty and convenience, and greatly improved and embellished the grounds. The situation is fine, command-ing a view of the town and harbor, and having a beautiful, gem-like lakelet in the rear, with a romantic mill-stream by its side.
Among her distinguished men, New London reckons also, another Governor Winthrop, Fitz-John Winthrop, Esq., the son of the founder, who acquired an honorable reputation both as a military commander and by the success with which he managed a diplomatic agency in London. Likewise, another of our old colonial governors, Gurdon Saltonstall, Esq. lived and died in New London, and previous to his advancement to the highest office in the colony, was the beloved and highly revered minister of the town.
Nor should the name of Gen. Jedediah Huntington be omitted. He was long a resident of New London, though a native of Norwich, and thither, in compliance with his own request, his remains were removed and deposited in the tomb of his ancestors. He commanded a regiment as early as the year 1775, served at one time as aid to Gen. Washington, whose esteem and confidence he always retained, and before the conclusion of the war, attained the rank of a general officer. He settled in New London immediately after the war, and from that time until his death, held the office of collector of the revenue of the port. He chose for the site of his dwelling, a beautiful eminence, then in the rear of the town, though now the buildings have spread beyond it, and built a solid and convenient house, in a style which has been called the cottage ornée. It is now the property of Rev. Mr. Hurlburt. The taste and elegance of the building, the fine water prospect which it commands, its beautiful trees and grassy slopes, render it a delightful residence.
Among the buildings that escaped the conflagration of the traitor Arnold, is the house of Judge Brainard, the father of G. G. C. Brainard, the gifted poet of New London. Long will his memory be cherished among the favorite melodists of his native land. He was born and passed the greater part of his life in this place, and to his associations with its pursuits, and the influence of its scenery on his mind, we may trace some of the most original imagery of his poems. Here in the arms of fraternal affection at the early age of thirty-two, he meekly resigned life, with all its tissue of joys and sorrows. His disposition was tinged with melancholy, the world had never seemed to him radiant with sunshine, but his last days were bright with immortal hopes. He died at peace with his Maker, in the faith of the gospel, and to use his own words, "forgiving all, and praying for the salvation of all."
I roamed where Thames, old Ocean's breast doth cheer,
Pouring from crystal urn the waters sheen,
What time dim twilight's silent step was near,
And gathering dews impearled the margin green;
Yet, though mild autumn with a smile serene
Had gently fostered summer's lingering bloom,
Methought strange sadness lingered o'er the scene,
While the lone river, murmuring on in gloom.
Deplored its sweetest bard, laid early in the tomb.
His soul for friendship formed, sublime, sincere,
Of each ungenerous deed his high disdain,
Perchance the cold world scanned with eye severe;
Perchance his harp, her guerdon failed to gain;
But Nature guards his fame, for not in vain
He sang her shady dells and mountains hoar,
King Phillip's billowy bay repeats his name,
To its gray tower, and with eternal roar
Niagara bears it on, to the far-echoing shore.
Each sylvan haunt he loved, the simplest flower
That burned Heaven's incense in its bosom fair,
The crested billow, with its fitful power,
The chirping nest that claimed a mother's care,
All woke his worship, as some altar rare
Or sainted shrine doth win the pilgrim's knee;
And he hath gone to rest, where earth and air
Lavish their sweetest charms, while loud and free
Sounds forth the wind-swept harp, of his own native sea.
His country's brave defenders, few and gray,
By penury stricken, with despairing sighs,
He nobly sang, and breathed a warning lay
Lest from their graves a withering corse should rise:
But now, where pure and bright, the peaceful skies
And watching stars look down, on Groton's height,
Their monument attracts the traveller's eyes,
Whose souls unshrinking took their martyr-flight,
When Arnold's traitor-sword flashed out in fiendish might.
Youth with glad hand her frolic germs had sown,
And garlands clustered round his manly head,
Those garlands withered, and he stood alone
While on his cheek the gnawing hectic fed,
And chilling death-dews o'er his temple spread:
But on his soul a quenchless star arose,
Whose hallowed beams their brightest lustre shed
When the dimmed eye to its last pillow goes,—
He followed where it led, and found a saint's repose.
And now farewell! The rippling stream shall hear
No more the echo of thy sportive oar;
Nor the loved group, thy father's halls that cheer,
Joy in the magic of thy presence more;
Long shall their tears thy broken lyre deplore;
Yet doth thine image, warm and deathless, dwell
With those who love the minstrel's tuneful lore,
And still thy music, like a treasured spell,
Thrill deep within their souls. Lamented bard, farewell!