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TO THE

CONNECTICUT COURANT,

FOR THE YEAR 1855:

CONTAINING

TALES, TRAVELS, HISTORY, BIOGRAPHY, POETRY,

AND A GREAT VARIETY OF

MISCELLANEOUS ARTICLES.

VOLUME XX.

HARTFORD:

PUBLISHED BY THOMAS M. DAY.

1855.

VOL. XX.

Poetry.

PUBLISHED EVERY OTHER WEEK AS A PART OF THE CONNECTICUT COURANT.

FOR THE COURANT.
MOUNT LAMENTATION.*

BY E. W. ROBBINS.

Blue mountain of my childhood that afar
Dost rear thy summit sunward to the sky,
How often have I gazed upon thy torm
Radiant with glittering beauty-to my eye
The boundary of my mimic Paradise,

While all beyond was heaven! A single star
Just rose above thy forehead hanging still
In motionless enjoyment glancing down
With its mild looks as loving thy grey mien.

Nor mournfully I gazed, for then as yet

I had not heard of the strange legend told
Connected with thy memory-a sad tale,

Which still in future days would make me weep.

'Tis strange-the objects of material sense Incorporate with our memories. Once more

I gain my native hill-top, and I breathe

A

purer air as from yon rocky ledge

My childhood's home, I view the landscape near.
Heavens! what a prospect bursts upon the eye,-
An ample park-Nature's magnificence
Spread lavishly around, not the wild forms

Of rougher scenery-mass piled on mass,

With avalanche terrific (though more near

Such imitation of ber guise beheld,)
But now, her softer aspect wooing fond

With her mild gentleness th' observer's gaze,

A panoramic view of hill and dale,

And distant village with its rising ground
And humble vale between, through which afar-

A thread of silver dimpling in the sun
Upon its winding course the river steals,

Fit ornament for such a back-ground rare

The mountain still its faithful sentinel,

Embosoming a landscape yet more dear.

I have a love of mountains-and my soul

Is of them as their lineaments of me!

I breathe the freer on their lofty tops,

As nearer to the Infinite o'er all!

The mountains are God's building, and their forms
The scaffolding by which we climb to heaven.

Thus do I call to mind that sacred peak

On which the ark first rested in the waste.

Of that wide deluge which o'erwhelmed the world;
Mid thunderings and lightnings on that mount,
Dread Sinai named, Jehovah gave his laws;
Moses expired on Pisgah, and the height

Of Gilboa murmurs back most plaintive strains
For that vile king 'anointed' still 'with oil':
Forms of departed worthies hallow yet
The Mount of the Transfiguration, while
On Calvary was hung the Incarnate God!

Mountain of Lamentations! on thy top
E'en now a memory lingers, and thy face
Doth gather a dark shadow as it lies
Skirted with banks of clouds. My muse recalls
That legend of old time when in these woods
Wandered erewhile a Patriot of the Past,
Roaming among these scenes, nor able yet

To venture farther or retrace his steps,

HARTFORD, SATURDAY, JANUARY 6, 1855.

Plunged in the trackless gloom. Perplexed he stands

In the uncertain path, the distant forms

Ot wife and child appearing in his sight,

And now, alas! lost in the forest depths.

It hand no help succeeds. In vain his friends y to find the wanderer pressing on,

e tradition is, that in the early settlement of the on the Connecticut River, Mr. Chester, of Weth-an ancestor of the families of that name in that town,-was lost on a mountain some twelve miles southwest from his home, whence the name Mt. tation. The accounts differ as to his fate. The credible story is, that he was at length rescued by

And startling the rude echoes with his name.
Night closes round and to the anxious flock
No tidings of the fugitive appear.
The morning dawns and with its rising light.
A fresh recruit seek to renew the search:
They call aloud-the echoes answer back!
They fire a gun-Oh! most transporting sound,
The woods send back a voice-the wanderer hears,
The dead returns to life-the lost is found!

Such is the legend of thee-such the tale
Enshrined within my memory, which now,
E'en as I gaze upon thee, thrills my soul,
Surveying thy blue outline yet once more.
Again I scan thine azure peak afar,
Just pillowing the clouds as in the time
When Life was all one careless holiday.
Still rise forever, Gilboa of the Past!
Mountain of Lamentations still lament!
Kensington, Conn.,
1847.

Original.

Dream not, but Work!

There is great danger in some youthful minds, of
spending life in a dreamy state of inactivity, with-
out feeling the obligation resting upon every man
to work. This is particularly true of those for
whom fortune has already so scattered her profuse
gifts as not to goad them on by necessity in the
path of labor. To such, our motto speaks a word
in season that should be heeded-"Dream not, but
work!" There is a world of sin, of misery, before
you that requires your efforts. There is work
enough for every hand and for every head among
God's subjects. This work is a duty-is a requisi-
tion of your Maker. You cannot escape the respon-
sibility of labor in this world. You cannot escape
the penalty of its neglect in another. You are need-
ed to teach the world its duties-to instruct the ig-
norant, to lift up the bowed down, to strengthen the
weak, to encourage the timid, to succor the needy.
"Dream not, then, but Work."

"Dream not, but work! Be bold! be brave!
Let not a coward spirit crave

Escape from tasks allotted!
Thankful for toil and danger be;
Duty's high call will make thee flee
The vicious-the besotted."

How many young men there are that need this
exhortation, who are passing listlessly through life,
dreaming as they move, with an intuitive shrinking
from all labor-floating down the stream of time,
engaged only in the sleepy observation of the bub-
bles on the current! How many young women
spend their hours in the same dreamy state of mere
amusement, doing no good in the world in which
God has placed them! How many there are among
us, whose whole life is spent

"In dropping buckets into empty wells,
And growing old in drawing nothing up."
"What shall I do?" Ah! that querulous tone
does not indicate that the dream is yet shaken off!
Do? Young man! •

Wage ceaseless war 'gainst lawless might,
Speak out the truth-act out the right-
Shield the defenceless.

Be firm-be strong-improve the time-
Pity the sinner-but for crime,
Crush it relentless!

Young woman!

Forget thy self, but bear in mind
The claims of suffering human kind;
So shall the welcome night
Unseen o'ertake thee, and thy soul,
Sinking in slumber at the goal,
Wake in eternal light!

NO. 1.

There is enough to do. The world is full of wrong that requires bold, brave, wakeful men to crush; it is full of suffering that calls for kind, tender, affectionate women to alleviate. Will you do nothing but dream? Will you be the drones of the great hive of humanity, feeding upon others' labor, and adding nothing yourselves to the stock of honey? You have a place and a station in the world for other and better purposes, for higher and holier objects. "Dream not then, but work!"

The exigencies of the world require your assistance. There never was a time when energy and systematic labor for the good of community was so much needed.

Arise! for the day is passing,

While you lie dreaming on;
Your brothers are cased in armor,
And forth to the fight have gone;
Your place in the ranks awaits you;
Each man has a part to play;

The past and the future are nothing
In the face of the stern to-day.

Action is what is needed. The day of idle con
templation has passed-poetic reveries are but
dreams. The times demand sober realities, power-
ful exertions, benevolent sacrifices.
"Dream not,
then, but work."

FOR THE COURANT.

Scenes Here and There. The scenes and parties of the chapters of experience hereafter sketched, are familiar to many of your readers. The light-house keeper, spoken of in the last, has been mentioned in your columns before, and is well known to our sea-shore visitors. It was from his own lips that the story was derived.

In a humble house an old man was lying. His withered frame had long withstood the assaults of disease, and his eye still glistened brightly, as in the dew of youth or the heyday of manhood. Scarcely a relative was left him. No wife or child bent o'er him to relieve suffering nature. The faithful nurse and the attendant physician were at his side. The power of sickness was now struggling with his enduring body, and the angel of death was waiting to shout victory over another of its myriads slain. He had long loved and worshipped money. While others, perhaps no less greedy of the precious dust, had carefully invested their gains in stocks and bonds, he had deposited his earnings in a strong chest, which now lay closely locked beneath his bed. Never had he laid his head upon a pillow that did not cover that key. And now, as he felt a deeper sleep settling upon him than he had known before, his treasure seemed doubly precious. Alike unconscious of his physician's words and attentions, his mind still trembles for the safety of his chest. But death's couvulsions are mastering him. nervous paroxysm he thrusts out his arm wildly from the bed. His heart ceases to beat, and his lips have stopped quivering, but his long bony fingers still clasp the key, and the last sign of life passes away, as that hand relaxes silently, and the heavy key drops. The temptations of life and the calls of humanity had never been able to unloose that hold, and it was only the stern mastery of death which had conquered, but not persuaded.

In

It was a rough March day. The ice-fields once broken, were sealed again, as if winter, once departed, had returned to bid farewell to the earth