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The Sylvan Cabin - A Centenary Ode On The Birth Of Lincoln

by Edward Smyth Jones

O, fairest Dame of sylvan glades,

We come to pay thee homage due,

Embrace thee softly and to kiss

Thy lovely, long-forsaken cheeks;

To smooth thy flowing silver locks

And bind about thy snowy neck

A necklace golden studded full

With rarest gems and shining pearls.

Our eyes, though sometimes dimmed with tears,

In purer lustre sparkle forth

Whene'er they fall agaze on thee!

Our ears attuned to thy sweet lay

Catch every flowing, cadent note

And bear it ever safe within

Our rapturous hearts, which gladly leap

Whene'er thy name is called!

Deep in our souls the quenchless fire

Of love full brightly burns upon

The sacred altar, set apart

For sprite commune and sacrifice;

Whose high-priest tends with loving care,

And unto thee sweet incense burns.

Our tongues most gladly sing thy praise,

And from it ne'er shall cease - till all

The land be free!

A century lonely hast thou stood

Here all forsaken and forgot!

All men failed thee to visit save

Some idle lover of sylvan haunts

Who trod, perchance, this hallowed spot,

And cast a pensive eye upon

This lovely glade, thy sole abode

(Full lost in these continuous woods),

And brooding o'er thy lowly lot,

Oft thus did muse: "This cabin lone

Here stands to tell the tale of him,

Back-woodsman brave, who having scaled

The mystic mountains ne'er returned

To them, though loved yet left behind;

But here he chose his last abode,

These gloomy woods whose blackness stands

Up hard against horizon's slope;

Grim, spectral, dreaded, and untrod

Save monsters great of savage mien,

That prowled, or crouched upon their prey;

Sent forth a vicious roar that fairly shook

Old Sylvia far and near, from vale

Through crag to mountain peak!

Upon this spot the redskin oft

Has danced his 'War dance' and his 'Feast,'

His face a reddish hue aglow -

Long locks with eaglets' plumes bedecked;

His bow and never-failing dart,

And scalper dangling at his side.

More brightly gleamed his wary eye,

As braves the war-whoop loudly yelled -

A sight more like the fiery fiends

From Pluto's ghastly shore returned

Than human blood and bone!

They all have gone and left no tale

But woe which hurled them ever hence

To that shore whence no bark returns.

Old Cabin, thou, a land-mark art,

Of human progress' steady march!"

III

Of thee

Thus has time passed with naught more said;

For man in his pedantic art

Soars far in feeble flights of song

From Nature's heart, and thus he fails

With Nature's God to hold commune!

The bard has slept, dreamed many a dream,

But failed to dream one dream of thee.

High hangs his lyre on willow reed,

And sitting 'neath yon shady nook,

He fails to catch one note of thy

Immortal song that fills the air.

Awake, O bard, from sleep so deep!

Attune thy lyre; let Nature breathe

In her immortal breath of song;

Then wilt thou sing a song most sweet,

The song by Nature's vesper choir,

Through all the countless ages sung, -

And still is singing day by day.

Then all the world will join thy sweet

Refrain in praise and ardent love

Of this fair forest Dame!

The nations all their day shall have;

Yet each in turn shall rise and fall,

As falls the dark brown autumn leaf;

Or as those dread sky-kissing tides,

Which toss frail barks high upon

Some ghastly, frowning storm-beat shore, -

Though slowly, yet quite surely ebb away.

- Aye! Egypt fair once spread the Nile,

And green-bay-tree-like proudly flourished;

Her snowy sails sea-ports bedecked,

And deeply ploughed the rolling main,

Or clave the placid lakes, as does

The gentle swan, when some soft breeze

The bulrush stirs, flings its perfume

Upon the rippling silver waves!

Fair cities dotted here and there

Her vast domain. Her royal line

Of Pharaohs held the sceptre gold

Upon her all-emblazoned throne.

Now Egypt fair is wreck and ruin.

For, as fled on the flight of years,

The unrelenting Hand of time

Wiped her sweet visage off the globe!

Naught save the grim, grey pyramid,

Sublimest work of man, yet stands

To greet the rosy morn, with proud

Uplifted head, expanded chest -

A death defiant scoff at time!

Yet hoary Time in his wild rage

Of wreck and ruin, like Jove shall hurl

His fiery bolts upon the head

Of pyramid with ire, and crush

And raze it to its base with scorn!

Next Greece, the fairest nymph that trod

This belted globe upon, once shone

As shines the Morning Orb, long ere

The Dawn the rosy East has kissed;

High reared her sacred temples in

Olympia's shady groves, and built

There sacred altars to her gods.

Old Zeus and Phoebus oft here sat

In council with their fellow gods.

And Homer, fiery bard, was first

To smite the chords of nature's lyre;

Sweet sang he till the earth was filled

With rarest strains of rapturous song!

Then art and letters blew and blushed,

The fairest flowers of ages past,

Whose essence, spilled upon the breeze,

Is wafted still forever on

The twin deft with the flight of years;

And man in calm delight inhales

The fragrance of pure classic lore!

But Greece is gone! Her statues fair

Are mingled with the dust; each god

Has flown some fairer clime to rule,

Or, subdued, walks the dark abyss.

Then Rome, the gaudy Southern Queen,

On seven rugged, rock-ribbed hills

Securely built her throne. The world

Then saw a mighty power rise

In splendor great, as does the sun

On some young, swift-winged morn of June.

A brighter dawning seemed to break;

Another life was lived, - for through

The Roman vein there coursed a blood,

A fiery burning blood of ire,

That rose and conquered all the world.

Great C'sar led her legions forth

From victory on to victory,

And hung her royal pennons high

In tower, palace-hall, and throne;

The Roman sceptre swayed the globe.

Soft music soothed her savage ear,

Fine arts and sculptor were her toys,

And glory was her "starry crown."

But now we read the "Fall of Rome,"

The doleful lay that tells the tale

Of all who thus have passed away.

VII

To thee, fair Dame, we thus relate

The things which were but are no more;

That thou mightest know the worldly way,

And knowing, have no timid fear

To ever stir thy peaceful breast.

No fate like theirs awaits for thee;

For Fortune's maid shall tend with care

Thy every nod and beck - yes, place

Upon thy queenly brow a crown,

The "starry crown" by Freedom worn!

'Tis true no flint rock ribs thy base,

No stone thy corner marks; for that

What carest thou? For boasted pride?

Thy frame is of the sturdy oak,

Inlaid with ribs of stately pine;

The Prince and Princess twain are they

Of all Columbia's giant woods.

The sylvan songsters sing thy praise

From dawn till set of sun, and then

The nightingale, the queen of song,

In praise of thee poureth forth her lay

Till every mellow silver note,

Far floating in the silent trees,

Is taken by an elfish choir,

And chanted softly to the moon.

The eagle her wee eaglets tells

Of thee, that they may freedom love;

Then soaring full beyond the clouds,

She looks with vaunted pride on thee.

So must thy spirit fill the hearts

Of all Columbia's youth, as once

It filled old "Honest Abe," thy son,

Thy pride - the first-born of thy love.

For when each lowly lad well knows

That ever upwards he may soar,

Beyond vain tyrants' galling sway

To fairer climes where Freedom reigns:

Then will the shadow of thy wing

For aye to them a shelter be!