Hampton, New Hampshire, in Poem

Bill West created the Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge. The challenge now in its eleventh year asks participants to blog a poem about a region where an ancestor resided and to tell how it relates to the ancestor.

This poem mentions my ancestor Rev. Stephen Bachiler as "Father Bachiler." His Puritan-leaning teachings led to his arrival in Boston in 1632. He pastored in Saugus (now Lynn) and Newbury before helping establish the town of Hampton. He returned to England in 1653 and died near London in 1656.¹

The poem lacks historical accuracy. The actual wreck mentioned in this poem occurred in the autumn, rather than summer, of 1657, after Bachiler's return to England and death.² Goody Cole, also mentioned in the poem, was imprisoned in 1656.³ While the poem does not report the number aboard the vessel, Joseph Dow's town history reports the deaths of eight Hampton residents in the disaster.⁴

The Wreck of Rivermouth
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Rivermouth Rocks are fair to see,
By dawn or sunset shone across,
When the ebb of the sea has left them free,
To dry their fringes of gold-green moss
For there the river comes winding down,
From salt sea-meadows and uplands brown,
And waves on the outer rocks afoam
Shout to its waters, "Welcome home!"

And fair are the sunny isles in view
East of the grisly Head of the Boar,
And Agamenticus lifts its blue
Disk of a cloud the woodlands o'er;
And southerly, when the tide is down,
'Twixt white sea-waves and sand-hills brown,
The beach-birds dance and the gray gulls wheel
Over a floor of burnished steel.

Once, in the old Colonial days,
Two hundred years ago and more,
A boat sailed down through the winding ways
Of Hampton River to that low shore,
Full of a goodly company
Sailing out on the summer sea,
Veering to catch the land-breeze light,
With the Boar to left and the Rocks to right.

In Hampton meadows, where mowers laid
Their scythes to the swaths of salted grass,
"Ah, well-a-day! our hay must be made!"
A young man sighed, who saw them pass.
Loud laughed his fellows to see him stand
Whetting his scythe with a listless hand,
Hearing a voice in a far-off song,
Watching a white hand beckoning long.

"Fie on the witch!" cried a merry girl,
As they rounded the point where Goody Cole
Sat by her door with her wheel atwirl,
A bent and blear-eyed poor old soul.
"Oho!" she muttered, "ye 're brave to-day!
But I hear the little waves laugh and say,
'The broth will be cold that waits at home;
For it 's one to go, but another to come!'"

"She's cursed," said the skipper; "speak her fair:
I'm scary always to see her shake
Her wicked head, with its wild gray hair,
And nose like a hawk, and eyes like a snake."
But merrily still, with laugh and shout,
From Hampton River the boat sailed out,
Till the huts and the flakes on Star seemed nigh,
And they lost the scent of the pines of Rye.

They dropped their lines in the lazy tide,
Drawing up haddock and mottled cod;
They saw not the Shadow that walked beside,
They heard not the feet with silence shod.
But thicker and thicker a hot mist grew,
Shot by the lightnings through and through;
And muffled growls, like the growl of a beast,
Ran along the sky from west to east.

Then the skipper looked from the darkening sea
Up to the dimmed and wading sun;
But he spake like a brave man cheerily,
"Yet there is time for our homeward run."
Veering and tacking, they backward wore;
And just as a breath-from the woods ashore
Blew out to whisper of danger past,
The wrath of the storm came down at last!

The skipper hauled at the heavy sail
"God be our help!" he only cried,
As the roaring gale, like the stroke of a flail,
Smote the boat on its starboard side.
The Shoalsmen looked, but saw alone
Dark films of rain-cloud slantwise blown,
Wild rocks lit up by the lightning's glare,
The strife and torment of sea and air.

Goody Cole looked out from her door
The Isles of Shoals were drowned and gone,
Scarcely she saw the Head of the Boar
Toss the foam from tusks of stone.
She clasped her hands with a grip of pain,
The tear on her cheek was not of rain
"They are lost," she muttered, "boat and crew!
Lord, forgive me! my words were true!"

Suddenly seaward swept the squall;
The low sun smote through cloudy rack;
The Shoals stood clear in the light, and all
The trend of the coast lay hard and black.
But far and wide as eye could reach,
No life was seen upon wave or beach;
The boat that went out at morning never
Sailed back again into Hampton River.

O mower, lean on thy bended snath,
Look from the meadows green and low
The wind of the sea is a waft of death,
The waves are singing a song of woe!
By silent river, by moaning sea,
Long and vain shall thy watching be
Never again shall the sweet voice call,
Never the white hand rise and fall!

O Rivermouth Rocks, how sad a sight
Ye saw in the light of breaking day
Dead faces looking up cold and white
From sand and seaweed where they lay.
The mad old witch-wife wailed and wept,
And cursed the tide as it backward crept
"Crawl back, crawl back, blue water-snake
Leave your dead for the hearts that break!"

Solemn it was in that old day
In Hampton town and its log-built church,
Where side by side the coffins lay
And the mourners stood in aisle and porch.
In the singing-seats young eyes were dim,
The voices faltered that raised the hymn,
And Father Dalton, grave and stern,
Sobbed through his prayer and wept in turn.

But his ancient colleague did not pray;
Under the weight of his fourscore years
He stood apart with the iron-gray
Of his strong brows knitted to hide his tears;
And a fair-faced woman of doubtful fame,
Linking her own with his honored name,
Subtle as sin, at his side withstood
The felt reproach of her neighborhood.

Apart with them, like them forbid,
Old Goody Cole looked drearily round,
As, two by two, with their faces hid,
The mourners walked to the burying-ground.
She let the staff from her clasped hands fall
"Lord, forgive us! we're sinners all!"
And the voice of the old man answered her
"Amen!" said Father Bachiler.

So, as I sat upon Appledore
In the calm of a closing summer day,
And the broken lines of Hampton shore
In purple mist of cloudland lay,
The Rivermouth Rocks their story told;
And waves aglow with sunset gold,
Rising and breaking in steady chime,
Beat the rhythm and kept the time.

And the sunset paled, and warmed once more
With a softer, tenderer after-glow;
In the east was moon-rise, with boats off-shore
And sails in the distance drifting slow.
The beacon glimmered from Portsmouth bar,
The White Isle kindled its great red star;
And life and death in my old-time lay
Mingled in peace like the night and day!⁵

---

1 “Stephen Bachiler,” Wikipedia (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Bachiler : accessed 1 November 2019).^↩
2 Joseph Dow, History of the Town of Hampton, New Hampshire: From Its Settlement in 1638, to the Autumn of 1892 (Salem, Massachusetts: Salem Press, 1894), 1:57; Internet Archive (https://archive.org/details/historyoftownofh00dowj/ : accessed 1 November 2019.^↩
3 Dow, History of the Town of Hampton, New Hampshire, 1:54.^↩
4 Joseph Dow, History of the Town of Hampton, New Hampshire, 1:57.^↩
5 John Greenleaf Whittier, The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1894), 245-247.^↩

national lowercase day

october 14 is "national lowercase day."

a public domain poem by e. e. cummings seems appropriate to honor the day:

songs (ii)

when life is quite through with
and leaves say alas,
much is to do
for the swallow,that closes
a flight in the blue;

when love's had his tears out,
perhaps shall pass
a million years
(while a bee dozes
on the poppies,the dears;

when all's done and said,and
under the grass
lies her head
by oaks and roses
deliberated.)

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

Rogers, Fred and Josie Carey. A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood: The Poetry of Mister Rogers. Philadelphia: Quirk Books, 2019.

Fans of Mister Rogers' Neighborhood will love this collection of song lyrics from the show. Fred Rogers wrote many of them, although Josie Carey contributed lyrics for several. Fred Rogers earned a degree in music composition and lent his skills to the accompanying music, which is not included in this collection focusing on the lyrics. The art work by Luke Flowers seems to fit the lyrics although the illustrations reflect the twenty-first century rather than the era of the show. For example, one illustration shows a modern flat screen computer monitor in a doctor's office. As I read the book and looked at the accompanying illustrations, I often thought, "We need Mister Rogers' influence on today's children." I received an electronic copy from the publisher through NetGalley with expectation of an honest review.

Taking the Arrow Out of the Heart

Walker, Alice. Taking the Arrow Out of the Heart: New Poems. Translated by Manuel Garcia Verdecia. New York: 37Ink, Atria, 2018.

I really enjoyed the Alice Walker books I read in April for National Poetry Month, so I was excited to find this new collection of poems by the author. The collection contains the English poems and Spanish translations by Manuel Garcia Verdecia. The collection is perhaps focused a bit too much on the ills of society and philosophically aligned further left than my own leanings. While I agree with the author's points of social injustices, I think the way we would address them differs a great deal. I still enjoy the rhythm of the author's poetry. I even read a few of the poems in both languages, mainly to see if I was still able to read and comprehend in Spanish. As far as I can tell, the translator did a very good job--and I was able to comprehend more than expected. I received an advance electronic galley through the publisher via NetGalley with expectations of an honest review.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost

With the cold frigid temperatures, snow still on the ground from earlier in the week and snowing now with the possibility of a layer of ice on top it by morning, I was reminded of this poem that we memorized in elementary or middle school.

Show & Tell: A Poem

My mother kept a scrapbook in her teenage years. This poem entitled "Put My Little Shoes Away" was found in its pages with a notation that her grandmother (Mary Ann Harris Hester) had given it to her. A quick "Google search" revealed that this poem was later put to music and recorded by the Everly Brothers, Hank Snow, Bill Monroe, and others. It's really a rather sad song about a dying child. One wonders if this poem was special to my great grandmother because she lost her child Lillie Faye, my grandmother's twin, in December 1897 when she was only nine months old.

A Cowboy Poem

Janice has reminded us that this is Cowboy Poetry Week. I thought it would be fun to locate an old cowboy poem to post. The following poem was the most genealogically-related poem that I could find in the cowboy poetry volume I perused. It comes from Songs of the Cattle Trail and Cow Camp compiled by John A. Lomax ( New York: Macmillian, 1919; pp. 152-153).

The Bandit's Grave

by Charles Pitt

'Mid lava rock and glaring sand,
'Neath the desert's brassy skies,
Bound in the silent chains of death
A border bandit lies.
The poppy waves her golden glow
Above the lowly mound;
The cactus stands with lances drawn,--
A martial guard around.

His dreams are free from guile or greed,
Or foray's wild alarms.
No fears creep in to break his rest
In the desert's scorching arms.
He sleeps in peace beside the trail,
Where the twilight shadows play,
Though they watch each night for his return
A thousand miles away.

From the mesquite groves a night bird calls
When the western skies grow red;
The sand storm sings his deadly song
Above the sleeper's head.
His steed has wondered to the hills
And helpless are his hands,
Yet peons curse his memory
Across the shifting sands.

The desert cricket tunes his pipes
When the half-grown moon shines dim;
The sage thrush trills her evening song --
But what are they to him?
A rude-built cross beside the trail
That follows to the west
Casts its long-drawn, ghastly shadow
Across the sleeper's breast.

A lone coyote comes by night
And sits beside his bed,
Sobbing the midnight hours away
With gaunt, up-lifted head.
The lizard trails his aimless way
Across the lonely mound,
When the star-guards of the desert
Their pickets post around.

The winter snows will heap their drifts
Among the leafless sage;
The pallid hosts of the blizzard
Will lift their voice in rage;
The gentle rains of early spring
Will woo the flowers to bloom.
And scatter their fleeting incense
O'er the border bandit's tomb.

Poetry Day

Lisa asked us to share poems on our blogs today. I decided to share a VERY OLD classic--one written by King David. I'm using the King James Version from which many of us learned it in our childhood days.

PSALM 23

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever.

Laundry Night

Tonight has been laundry night at the Thornton household, so in honor of it, I found an old poem:



Washing Day

by Emilie Poulsson (words) and J. H. Chapek (music)



Washing day has come again,
Get the washtubs ready;
Set them on the washing bench,
See that they are ready.



Sort the clothes and toss them in,
Now's the time for toiling!
Rub and rub, and rub and rub,
Ready for the boiling.



From the foaming, sparkling suds,
Rinsing now and wringing,
Soon we hang them on the line,
In the light breeze swinging.



Set the tubs and all, away,
How the time is flying!
Now at last we take a rest
While the clohtes are drying.



Spotless, snowy white and pure,
Oh! though we are weary
Thoughts of all the nice, clean clothes
Make us blithe and cheery.



Source: Kindergarten Magazine, vol. 4, no. 5 (Jan. 1892): 284-85.

Tonight's Activity

. . . was posting more limericks to other blogs.

Limericks at Other Blogs

This post will be updated as I have a chance to post limericks at various other bloggers' sites. Here are a few that I've managed to post. Some may not be immediately available until the blogger has approved the comment.

At Hill Country of Monroe County: http://hillcountryofmonroecountry.blogspot.com/2008/02/blog-poems-about-hill-country.html

At Genea-Musings: http://randysmusings.blogspot.com/2008/02/best-of-genea-blogs-february-3-9-2008.html

At AnceStories: http://ancestories1.blogspot.com/2008/02/random-acts-of-kindness-week.html

At Destination: Austin Family: http://destinationaustinfamily.blogspot.com/2008/02/blogging-homework-or-sleep.html

Update: Later in the evening of Feb. 11

At FootnoteMaven: http://footnotemaven.blogspot.com/2008/02/good-news-bad-news.html

Feb. 12

At Cow Hampshire: http://cowhampshire.blogharbor.com/blog/_archives/2008/2/12/3514582.html

At Geneablogie:
http://blog.geneablogie.net/2008/02/black-catholics-in-america-who-was.html

At Walking the Berkshires:
http://greensleeves.typepad.com/berkshires/2008/02/call-for-posts.html

At Kinnexions:
http://greensleeves.typepad.com/berkshires/2008/02/call-for-posts.html

At Creative Gene: http://creativegene.blogspot.com/2008/02/ode-to-blogging.html

At Apple's Tree:
http://appledoesntfallfar2.blogspot.com/2008/02/carlisle-family-papers-university-of.html

A Thanksgiving Poem

When I think of Thanksgiving, my mind goes back to a poem that I learned in elementary school. The poem was written by Lydia Maria Child, a children’s magazine editor who was also prominent in the anti-slavery movement of the 19th century. The poem was called “Thanksgiving Day” although most of us know it best by its first line. The poem was first published in Flowers for Children, volume 2 in 1844. This version comes from Children’s Literature: A Textbook of Sources for Teachers and Teacher-Training Classes, edited by Charles Madison Curry and Erle Elsworth Clippinger (Chicago: Rand McNally, 1921).

THANKSGIVING DAY
Over the river and through the wood,
To grandfather’s house we go;
The horse knows the way
To carry the sleigh
Through the white and drifted snow.

Over the river and through the wood --
Oh, how the wind does blow!
It stings the toes
And bites the nose,
As over the ground we go.

Over the river and through the wood
To have a first-rate play.
Hear the bells ring,
“Ting-a-ling-ding!”
Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day!

Over the river and through the wood,
Trot fast, my dapple-gray!
Spring over the ground,
Like a hunting-hound!
For this is Thanksgiving Day.

Over the river and through the wood,
And straight through the barnyard gate.
We seem to go
Extremely slow,
It is so hard to wait!

Over the river and through the wood --
Now grandmother’s cap I spy!
Hurrah for the fun!
Is the pudding done?
Hurrah for pumpkin pie!