LINES COMMUNICATED TO A CIRCLE AT DUNGEON ROCK, FEBRUARY 22d, 1856.
Far away from the voice of the rolling sea
A noble banner is waving free,
With its motto of blue on a pure white ground,
And a single stripe of scarlet around.
America’s tri-color, red, white, and blue,
Flutters softly there all the long day through.
On the high, firm rock, ’bove the grassy strand,
With its heavy brace, does the flag-staff stand;
While not far down on the rough hill’s side
Is the small, rude cot, where the workers abide.
We know, ere the cold winter flitted o’er,
That want peered in through the open door;
But hearts were willing to boldly strive,
And hope and faith kept the soul alive;
So, spite of famine’s half-looked-for shock,
The work still prospered in Dungeon Rock.
Strong hands kept picking the stone chips out,
And forcing the long, circuitous route;
Strong hearts were waiting, for well they knew
That the summer would bring them enough to do.
With curious eyes, and a curious name,
Or open purses and open fame.
But the stranger’s scorn and the stranger’s love
Were never valued true friends above.
Years pass like the hours of a summer day,
And leave no memento to mark their stay.
We have told of the faith in the Rock alive
In the year eighteen hundred and fifty-five.
Let us turn time’s current, and backward go,
And see what new wonders her book will show,
By skipping two centuries, just to derive
The knowledge of sixteen fifty-five.
There’s still a dark wood, and a winding stream,
Where the cold, bright stars, and the moon’s pale beam,
Light up a low path, by the underbrush hid,
And gild the smooth plate on the coffer’s dull lid.
There are hurrying footsteps and stifled tones
In that lonely ravine of earth and stones;
’Tis the hiding-place of a pirate band,
Who came from a distant, brilliant land,
And their burden of spoils from the broad, high seas
They have borne to that forest of woodland trees,
Where the wild wolf howls in his dismal den
Or makes his home in that pirate’s glen.
They are startled now, those men so brave,
And are taking their treasure to Dungeon Cave.
Away through the woods that once skirted the vale
They had made for themselves an invisible trail;
And, now that the night was so dark and still,
They were moving their spoils from the glen to the hill.
An iron bound box, with its shining gold,
And a limestone fossil, pure and cold,
On its soft, white cotton, was resting there,
Treasured with superstitious care.
There are noble hearts in that lonely home,
And Harris, the leader, is soon to come.
They hear him now, as they firmly tread
O’er the fallen leaves and the flowers dead:
“Halt”—the low, deep summons is soon obeyed,
And Harris moves out from the tall tree’s shade.
There’s a light in his eye, and a stern command
In the haughty wave of his ungloved hand,
As he lifts the cap from his high, white brow,
And says, “My men, be ready now.
Have you ta’en the strong box from the vessel’s hold,
And well secured it, with all its gold?
Have you counted the diamonds we stole from the berth
Of the fair Cristelle, on that night of mirth?
Have you closed my coffers? In short, my men,
Have you cleared all the trash from our silent glen?
For I have an inkling, from what I have heard,
By the foundery, to-night, that the settlers have stirred,
And will soon be for finding the men of ease,
That dare to murder on God’s high seas.”
“We have moved them all,” was the men’s reply,
As Harris gazed at the moonlit sky;
“We have moved them all; but what, your honor,
Shall we do, to-night, with our fair Madonna?
Shall we leave her alone in the glen to abide?
Will she make for Sir Wolf a fitting bride?
Or, will she tell tales when they come to look?
For I’ll risk a woman to find our nook.”
“Peace!” thundered Harris, “and no more fun;
Ye are seven in number, in purpose one.”
He added, more kindly, “But now, move on,
For to-night our labor must all be done.”
Then he quickly turned toward the lonely glen,
And left in the darkness that band of men.
We can tell no more. But the lady fair,
Ere the next day’s sunshine reached her there,
Had followed the winding, woody road,
And found on the hill-side a new abode.
At noon she saw from the high cave door,
A party of men and torches four
Creep slowly in through the tangled green,
Where the pirate robbers had last been seen.
Three times did the lady fair look down;
Three sunsets she saw on that little town;
Then she rested her fair, pale face alone,
By the cool, bright spring in the hollowed stone;
And that night, when the pirates came home from the dell,
They buried the form of proud Arabel.
Then years passed on and another bride
Blessed the cavern home on the high hill-side;
But the pirates were traced to their home by the sea,
And, of all the seven, there escaped but three.
One of these fled to his rocky home,
And dared not away from the cave to roam.
But the merry Cathrin, the pirates bride,
Mourned out her young life, that year, and died.
And the sturdy Veale, who could ever bear
The darkest storm of both sea and air,
Became a coward, and dared not brave
The suspicious look of a lowly grave.
So he carefully laid that form of clay
On a shelving rock in the cave away;
And he flung the pure folds of her own white dress
O’er her marble brow, in that dark recess.
Then he wandered on, and lived and grew,
Like the rest of Lynn people, tied to a shoe;
For he dared not betray the gold, so bright,
Lest he should be murdered, some silent night,
But, at last, the great earth felt the earthquake’s shock,
And Veale was immured in the prison rock.
Then time fled on, and the silent life
Of nature alone by the rock was rife;
Till the baby city had a regular blow,
Which shattered the stones to their base so low,
And rattled them down till they closed the mouth
Which the earthquake had left toward the sunny south
The good effects which this blowing made
Were to use the powder, and help the trade.
Then again was the solitude deep and still,
By the pirate glen, on Dungeon Hill.
But curious minds spied the legends out,
And a new scene of labor was brought about.
A mesmeric lady, of wondrous fame,
And a band of brothers, with as wide a name,
Became interested, and tried for a while
The rocks of the Dungeons high roof to unpile.
But, though they grew faint, we believing ones say
That Jesse the talented, Jesse the gay,
The brother that shone, ere he passed from sight,
Like a trammeled star of unbounded might,
This scene of his labor has not forgot,
But is lingering still round the lonely spot,
Where the brothers shall some time again unite,
And sing for the dungeon with all their might
The good they did is, that the heavy bole
Of the flag-staff rests low in the Hutchinson hole.
Then, again, the excitement of Dungeon Rock
Forgot to be the general every-day talk;
And the forest was valued, like other land,
For the visible worth on its rocky strand.
For long, long years was the silence unbroke,
Save the owlet’s dull hoot, or the woodpecker’s stroke
But, lo! the hill-side must once and again
Be made to resound to the works of men
And a long, dark cavern tells half the fears
And all the hopes of long, weary years.
Now, onward we go, for a century more,
To tell of the change that has flitted o’er.
There are lofty mansions, and spacious domes,
And silvery fountains, and pleasant homes;
There are green, bright trees, and flowers gay,
Where now the dark forests so gloomily sway;
And, most of all, is an open cave,
And a clear, pure spring the gray rocks lave;
And the plate-glass protects, without hiding a room,
Where the relics of age and piratical gloom
Are treasured in safety, not for their worth,
But because they had rested so long in the earth;
And the brilliant oxygen light at night
Half shames the moon, with its pure, pale light.
While a painted balloon, with its rubber case,
Floats gracefully down to its proper place,
As though it were waiting the moment when
It could fly far away ’bove the homes of men,
And be guided with equal precision and ease
As far or as near as the rider may please.
And the flag-staff glows with its highland plaid,
With which the painter the bare stick clad;
While high ’bove the earth, in his own free pride,
Is old Red Jacket standing, his bow beside,
And carelessly pointing to those below
The way the wild winds in the cloud regions blow;
And the gay, pure flag, with its tri-colors bright,
Is floating now in the morning light;
But around the bright scarlet, that was once its edge,
Is a border of flowers ’bove the rocky ledge;
’Tis England’s emblem, the roses bright,
And Scotia’s thistle, pale, green, and white;
The shamrock, that Erin’s children love,
And the iris and fuchsia that droop above.
All these shall be gathered together there,
While the workers faint not on the hill-side bare;
And, at last, when the triumph is made complete,
Shall be woven together these flowers sweet;
And hundreds and thousands yet shall see
The flower-bordered banner waving free.
And now I have finished this history true
Of the present, the past, and the future, too;
And all ye great world, whether timid or brave,
Look out for the next news from Dungeon Cave.
Enesee.