The Poets of Maine:  Daniel Webster.


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The Poets of Maine
A Collection of Specimen Poems from over Four Hundred Verse-Makers 
of the Pine Tree State
with Biographical Sketches
Compiled by George Bancroft Griffith
Portland, Maine
Elwell, Pickard & Company
Transcript Job Print; Edward Small, Binder.

page 17-19

At the age of twenty, Daniel Webster, --(born in Salisbury, N.H., Jan. 18th, 1782,)--
was teaching school at Fryeburg, in this State, at the magnificent salary of three
hundred and fifty dollars per annum; he also did the writing of deeds for James
Osgood, Esq., at he rate of two shillings and three pence for each deed.  While 
also delivered a Fourth of July oration in the old Fryeburg church, and "so profound
was the impression which this oration produced upon the minds of the hearers, that the 
sentiments enunciated were remembered and repeated after the lapse of more than 
fifty year."  (See letter of Dr. Thomas P. Hill in Webster's Private Correspondence.)
"So remarkable a production," says Mr. C. W. Lewis in his preface to the Fryeburg
Webster Memorial, "was the oration regarded at the time by those who heard it, that one 
enthusiastic farmer ventured the bold remark that Daniel might some day even attain 
in the lofty position of Governor of New Hampshire."  Through the courtesy of Messrs. 
A.F. and C. W. Lewis, we subjoin fragmentary poem written by Webster at Fryeburg, Feb.
26, 1802, addressed to Habijah W. Fuller, and one on Washington, written by him while
a senior in college.

MEMORY

Once more to prattle on her darling theme,
Once more to wake the soft, mellifluous stream
That brings us all our blessing as it flows,
Whose currents friendship's golden ore disclose,
  The muse essays her little skill;
And though her lightsome lay
No master's hand display
Though loose her lyre and wild her song,
Through seraph fire tip not her tongue,
  The friend--oh, such a friend!--will hear her still
O Memory!  thou Protean friend and foe,
Parent of half our joy and half our woe,
Thou dost the rapture which I feel, impart,
And thou the griefs that press around my heart.
  Thine is a motley train:
Despondence there is seen,
And Sorrow, pale-faced queen;
And Gladness there, with merry face,
That ne'er did wear a sad grimace;
  And buxom Pleasure sporting o'er the plain.

**********

Next moment, lo! appears
Some plenteous cause of tears--
Some pleasure fled (for pleasure flies),
Or Simonds sped beyond skies--
  And memory cancels all the good she grants*--

*Here, Mr. Webster adds,--"But if I poetize further upon Memory, I shall not have
room to tell you half of what I wish, so sweet Miss Muse, we will dismiss you.


WASHINGTON

Ah! Washington, thou once didst guide the helm
And point each danger to our infant realm;
Didst show the gulf where factious tempests sweep,
And the big thunders frolic o'er the deep;
Through the red wave didst lead our bark, nor stood,
Like ancient Moses, the other side the flood.
But thou are gone,--yes, gone, and we deplore
The man, the Washington, we knew before.
But, when thy spirit mounted to the sky,
And scarce beneath thee left a tearless eye,
Tell what Elisha then thy mantle caught,
Warmed with thy virtue, with thy wisdom fraught.
Say, was it Adams? was it he who bare
His country's toils, nor knew a separate care,
Whose bosom heaved indignant as he saw
Columbia groan beneath oppression's law,
Who stood and spurned corruption at his feet,
Firm as "the rock on which the storm shall beat?"
Or was it he whose votaries now disclaim
Thy godlike deeds and sully all thy fame?
Spirit of Washington, oh! grant reply,
And let thy country know thee from the sky.
Break through the clouds, and be thine accents heard,
Accents that oft' mid war's rude onset cheered.
Thy voice shall hush again our mad alarms,
Lull monster faction with thy potent charms,
And grant to whosoe'er ascends thy seat,
Worth half like thine, and virtues half as great.