THE NEWPORT TOWER.
Dark, lonely Tower, amid yon Eden-isle,
Which, as a gem, fair Narragansett wears
Upon her heaving breast, thou lift'st thy head,
A mystery and paradox, to mock
The curious throng.
Say, reared the plundering hand
Of the fierce buccaneer thy massy walls,
A treasure-fortress for his blood-stained gold?
Or wrought the beings of an earlier race
To form thy circle, while in wonder gazed
The painted Indian?
Fancy spreads her wing
Around thy time-scathed brow, and deeply tints
Her fairy-scroll, while hoar Antiquity
In silence frowns upon the aimless flight.
Thou wilt not show the secret of thy birth!
Nor do I know why we need question thee
So strictly on that point; save that the creed
Of Yankee people is, that through the toil
Of questioning, there cometh light, and gain
Of knowledge to the mind.
We see thou art
A right substantial, well-preserved old Tower,
Let that suffice us.
Some there are, who say
Thou wert an ancient wind-mill.
Be it so!
Our pilgrim-sires must have been much in love
With extra labor, thus to gather stones,
And patient rear thy Scandinavian arch,
And build thine ample chamber, and uplift
Thy shapely column, for the gadding winds
To play vagaries with.
In those hard times
I trow king Philip gave them other work,
Than to deck dancing-halls, and lure the blasts
From old Eolus' cave.
Had'st thou the power,
I think thou'dst laugh right heartily to see
The worthy farmers, with their sacks of corn,
Mistaking thy profession, as of old
Don Quixote did mistake thine ancestor:
If haply such progenitor thou hadst.
But still, grey Ruin, though they lightly speak,
I fain would honor thee, as rhymers do,
And 'neath thy shadow weave my noteless song.
I said I 'd do thee honor, if I might,
For thou art old. And whatsoever bears
The stamp of hoary time, and hath not been
The minister of evil, claims from us
Some tribute of respect.
But, most of all,
Those ancient forms that lodge a living soul,
Bearing their passport from the Almighty hand
Graved on the furrowed brow, and silver hair,—
Yes, most of all to them our hearts would yield
That tender reverence, which so well befits
Them to receive, and us with love to pay.
Newport, the garden-isle of Narragansett, received from some of the British officers, during its investment by their troops, the name of the "Eden of America." Those who have enjoyed its delightful scenery during the summer months, rode upon its beaches, and inhaled its balmy atmosphere, will scarcely deem these epithets exaggerated.
It is a spot to be remembered for years, with a fond desire of again beholding it. Thus, it is cherished by me, as a fine picture in the gallery of the mind, mellowed by time, though its minuter tints have faded, and been merged in the shadow of years.
Yet the Old Tower still stands prominently forth on memory's tablet, as when first beheld crowning its verdant eminence, and looking down upon the billowy bay. Its origin has given rise to many opinions and theories, from the matter-of-fact man, who perseveres in designating it as the "old stone wind-mill," to the erudite scholar, who discovers in it the architectural marks of the ancient Norse-men; or the child of imagination, taking for a text-book Longfellow's beautiful ballad of the "Skeleton in Armor." To a country of recent date, almost destitute of the vestiges of antiquity, and disposed to prize them in proportion to their scarcity, it is quite a gain to have any object which admits of such description. "The people have been disputing these twenty years," said Goethe, "as to who is the greatest, Schiller or myself. Let them go, and be thankful that they have such fellows to dispute about."
The discovery of our Northern Continent by the Scandinavians, about the year 964, two centuries previous to the expedition of Madoc, the Welsh prince, is matter of grave history. Irving, in his "Life of Columbus," derives proof from the Sagas, or Chronicles of the north, that, beside their settlements in Greenland, they established themselves around the river St. Lawrence, and in Newfoundland, called by them Eslotiland. That they penetrated also into Nova Scotia and New England, seems to rest on stronger foundation than conjecture.
Professor Rafin says: "Of the ancient structure at Newport, from such characteristics as remain, we can scarcely form any other inference than one, in which I am persuaded that all who are familiar with Old Northern Architecture will concur, that this building was erected at a period decidedly not later than the twelfth century. That it could not have been intended for a wind-mill, is what an architect will easily discover."
Those, however, who adhere tenaciously to the "old wind-mill" creed, may derive consolation from a somewhat pedantic passage of Sir Thomas Browne. "Oblivion," quoth he, "reclineth semi-somnous, making puzzles of Titanian erections, and turning old glories into dreams, while History sinketh down beside her. The traveller asketh of her, amazedly, who builded these? And she mumbleth something, but what it is, he heareth not."