Potomac River (Poem)

From Tales of the Chesapeake by George Alfred Townsend:

Brave river in the mountains bred,

And broadening on thy way,

So stately that thy stretches seem

The bosom of the bay!

Thy growth is like the nation’s life,

Through which thy current flows—

Already past the cataracts

And widening to repose.

Thy springs are at the Fairfax stone,

Thy great arms northward course,

They join and break the mountain bars

With ever rallying force;

But in thy nature is such peace,

The beaten mountains yield,

And lie their riven battlements

Within thy silver shield.

Through battle-fields thy runnels wind,

In fame thy ferries shine;

Thy ripples lave the ancient stones

On Freedom’s boundary line;

Where every slave the border crossed,

A living host repass’d,

And of the sentries of thy fords,

John Brown shall be the last!

Yet, O Potomac! of thy peace

Somewhat let faction feel,

And Northern Pilgrims patient hear

Of Mosby and MacNeill.

The long trees bloom where Stuart cross’d,

And weep where Ashby bled,

And every echo in thy hills

Seems Stonewall Jackson’s tread.

The love we bore in other days

No difference can bar,

And truce was kept at Vernon’s grave

However rolled the war.

Like thee, oh river! human states

By many a rapid rage,

Before they reach the deeper tides

And glass the perfect age.

Brief is the span since Calvert’s huts

Were still the Indian’s sport,

And Braddock’s columns stumbled on

The borderer Cresap’s fort,

Till now the tinted hills grow fond

Around yon marble height,

Where Freedom calmly rules a realm

That tires her eagle’s flight.

And still the wild deer sip thy springs,

The wild duck haunt thy coves,

And all the year the fisher fleets

Bask o’er thine oyster groves;

The strange new bass thy trout pursue.

And where the herring spawn,

The blue sky opens to let through

Thine own majestic swan.

Haste, Nature! Raze yon shiftless halls,

Where pride penurious bides,

The while the richness of the hills

Runs off to choke the tides;

Where every negro cabin stood

A freeman’s hearthside warm,

And broad estates of bramble wood

Expunge in many a farm!

Fill and revive these fair arcades,

O race to Freedom born!

The tinkling herds that roam the glades,

The barge’s mellow horn,

The lonesome sails that come and go

Repeat the wish again:

The ardent river yearns to know

Not memories, but Men!

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