Lost Towns of the Swift River Valley: Drowned by the Quabbin by Elena Palladino

Author:Elena Palladino [Palladino, Elena]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: History, Social History, Architecture, Urban & Land Use Planning, United States, State & Local, New England (CT; MA; ME; NH; RI; VT)
ISBN: 9781467147972
Google: kbypEAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B0BT24C4S9
Barnesnoble: B0BT24C4S9
Goodreads: 85803685
Publisher: The History Press
Published: 2022-10-10T04:00:00+00:00

PART III

DESTRUCTION

HOME, SWEET HOME

By an unnamed Swift River Valley resident,

from The Lost Valley by Donald Howe

They tell us they have paid for our land—

They tell us that our homes have been well sold—

But do not folks in Boston understand

There are some things you cannot buy for gold?

My humble home now seems more dear to me

Than any city mansion ever will;

No fairer outlook will I ever see

Than from my window out on old Den Hill.

Here as a careless, happy child I played,

And never thought or cared from here to stray;

There in the churchyard are our loved ones laid,

And here in peace had we still hoped to stay.

The roads and fields haunted with memories seem—

Fond memories of a bygone happy year.

We may not loiter o’er them now and dream

Of scenes and faces once to us so dear.

Our honored sires who helped this town to make,

Cut off the forests, cleared the fields from stones,

Their quiet graves they now must all forsake—

There is no rest here even for their bones!

We may not for our fields and forests mourn;

To leave our homes may be a passing gain.

To see our loved ones from the churchyard torn

Brings all our grief and sorrow back again.

Dear valley, soon must all your beauty fade,

And all your loveliness will pass away.

Stripped of your homes, stripped of your trees and shade.

And waters poured on ruin drab and gray.

The sun will shine as brightly as of yore,

And sparkling water will reflect the light,

But we will stand in grief upon the shore

And weep for scenes now hidden from our sight.

The busy mill, the little fertile farm

Whose produce seemed to fill our ev’ry need;

Those simple sports that had for us such charm,

When for a time from labor we were freed.

The young, perhaps, may leave without regret—

The ties that bind them are not yet so strong—

But we, the old, we never can forget

The homes which we have lived in and so long!

But backward still our thoughts will ever turn,

To lie in memory that happy past;

For our old friends and home our hearts will yearn

In grief and pain until the very last.

Those dear old friends now scattered far and wide,

The friends we loved, so constant and true,

No friendships like the old ones true and tried

Can ever be as dear to me and you.

Friends of our youth bound to us with a chain,

Whose links are made of loving deeds and kind.

Nor can we ever hope to forge again

With some new friends a tie so strong to bind.

Slow and reluctant we the valley leave,

With lingering look and eyes that fill with tears;

Our hearts will for the valley ever grieve

Through all our few and sad remaining years.

No other spot will seem so fair,

No other flowers will ever bloom so free,

No other home will with this home compare,

No matter where that other home may be.

And, city folks, do not our grieving scorn,

Nor view our homes with a disdainful eye.

Remember, it’s the home where we were born,

And is the home where we had hoped to die.

EXILE.

Greenwich Village, April 5, 1932

Download

Copyright Disclaimer:
This site does not store any files on its server. We only index and link to content provided by other sites. Please contact the content providers to delete copyright contents if any and email us, we'll remove relevant links or contents immediately.