I have seen it where it
rises up amongst the Granite hills
Where its loneliness is
lightened by the songs of laughing rills;
Where it leaves the lake
and tumbles thro’ the wildwood and the glade,
Where it winds and searches
deeper ‘neath the mountain’s cooling shade.
Here the wild game of the
forest comes to drink with watchful eye,
Here the hunter waits in
cover for a buck to loiter by;
Here the angler whips the
waters for the trout within his lair,
Here at night the panther
circles round the campfire’s ruddy glare.
Then
along the rugged hillsides I can hear the ringing steel
Of
a score of hardy woodsmen felling trees with might and zeal;
I
can see the logs come rolling, tumbling, pitching down the falls
Like
a herd of bison maddened by the sting of rifle balls.
I hear it sings the same sweet song
Upon its joyful way;
It winds and twists and slips along
Forever and a day.
It tells the same sweet mellow tale
From cataract to sea,
It is the pride of hill and dale.
It is the joy of me.
Then it reaches town and village ‘neath the steep New England
hills
Where its mighty force is harnessed for the turning of the
mills;
I can hear its voice in protest as it sweeps against the walls
Of dams that check its progress, then go thund’ring down the
falls,
Down the steep and rocky incline, something picturesque and grand,
Sounding high above the humming of the industries at hand.
I can see it wind and broaden thro’ the quiet fields of green,
Where the cattle graze in silence, lending beauty to the
scene;
Where the brilliant hued kingfisher sits above the crystal pool,
Where upon the soft embankment plays the truant from the
school.
And its gleam of molten silver as it hurries towards the sea
Is a paradise of pleasure that will never cease to be.
And still it sings the same sweet song,
And still it tells its tale,
Complaining of industries wrong,
To forest, hill and dale.
It longs for freedom from the mills,
To be forever free;
To sweep unharnessed thro’ the hills
From cataract to sea.
Then it widens, and a city rises on its western shore
Here its song is rudely smothered by the tide of traffic’s roar.
O’er its bosom curves the structure where the people to and
fro
Pass in throngs from morn till even like the river’s ebb and
flow.
Here the wharves are lined with steamers, and afar upon the
knoll
Mounts a golden dome far-shining, Hartford’s pride, the
Capitol.
Near this spot was his the Charter in the oak of Nutmeg fame,
Here was nursed a spark which added to the Revolution flame.
Now the river curves and broadens thro’ the fertile plains
below,
With its surface gayly clotted with the craft that come and
go.
Here the famous leaf is gathered which the smokers give
renown,
Here the massive stones are quarried which have made a city
brown.
And still it sings the same sweet song,
But plaintive now and low;
It dreads the burdens borne along
Upon its ebb and flow.
It longs to sweep unhampered by
Each winding hill and lea;
A stretch of grandeur to the eye
From cataract to sea.
Down the ever widening valley now it surges bold and free,
Now and then a nestling village to enhance its scenery;
Islands rising from its bosom, miles of woodland steep and
wild,
Then a stretch of rolling meadow where I played when but a
child.
O I know its every corner, and I know the very place
Where you round a sharp embankment and the salt air strikes
your face.
Then the drawbridge and the lighthouse, and a last look at the
lea,
And the river plunges madly out into the open sea!
O Connecticut! I’ve sailed your course a hundred times a year,
And I’ve fished your whirling eddies, and I’ve drunk your
waters clear;
And to you I sing this ballad, both to you and every soul
Who admires your winding beauties, who has felt your sweet
control.
O river, from your lonely source
Unto the open sea,
I love your wayward, winding course,
You are the joy of me.
And still you sing the same sweet song,
Which echoes far and wide;
And still you weave and wind along,
New England’s joy and pride!
April 19, 1900
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