THE POEM:
By Charles Clinton Jones
"Moulton Castle"
It stood on a pine fringed hill-top
O’er looking the ancient town,
And the winding course of the river;
That turreted castle brown.
For more than a generation
It guarded the country-side,
The city and bay and islands,
And the marshes low and wide.
Grimly it stood looking seaward,
And when the day died out of the sky,
It saw in the gathering darkness
Plum Island’s twinkling eye.
A little more to the northward
Burning the night like coals,
Yellow and red alternate
The changing lights of the Shoals.
Full many a sailor scanning
The land with his searching glass,
Has seen along the horizon
That turreted hill-top pass.
And many a traveler turning
His face toward home again,
Wearied with traffic and travel
In the busy haunts of men,
Rejoiced to see in the distance
Those towers ‘bove the tree-tops rise,
Clear cut in the their somber beauty
‘Gainst the background of the skies.
And often in drive and ramble,
As we cast our eyes around,
A view of the brown old castle,
To our great delight we found.
When the two old bald-headed eagles
Return to their haunts in the spring,
At sight of if its rugged outline,
They quickened the eager wing.
And many a flock of swallows
In nests ‘neath the sheltering eaves,
Have gendered their broods of younglings,
And flown again with the leaves.
But now it is gone, and the hill-top
Is bare as the Tyrian stone,
While o’er it the breezes murmur,
And the night winds make their moan.
The sheltering pines about it
Their dark green branches toss,
Chanting a dirge-like anthem
For their own and the country’s loss.
The sailor and homebound traveler
Will scan the horizon well,
But never a sign will greet them
Of its ancient sight to tell.
The birds in the their springtime coming,
And their southward flight in the fall,
Will look in vain for its turrets,
And its brown expanse of wall.
And tho’ a far grander mansion
Shall take its place on the hill,
The picture of the Moutlon Castle
Will remain in memory still.
By Charles Clinton Jones
"Moulton Castle"
It stood on a pine fringed hill-top
O’er looking the ancient town,
And the winding course of the river;
That turreted castle brown.
For more than a generation
It guarded the country-side,
The city and bay and islands,
And the marshes low and wide.
Grimly it stood looking seaward,
And when the day died out of the sky,
It saw in the gathering darkness
Plum Island’s twinkling eye.
A little more to the northward
Burning the night like coals,
Yellow and red alternate
The changing lights of the Shoals.
Full many a sailor scanning
The land with his searching glass,
Has seen along the horizon
That turreted hill-top pass.
And many a traveler turning
His face toward home again,
Wearied with traffic and travel
In the busy haunts of men,
Rejoiced to see in the distance
Those towers ‘bove the tree-tops rise,
Clear cut in the their somber beauty
‘Gainst the background of the skies.
And often in drive and ramble,
As we cast our eyes around,
A view of the brown old castle,
To our great delight we found.
When the two old bald-headed eagles
Return to their haunts in the spring,
At sight of if its rugged outline,
They quickened the eager wing.
And many a flock of swallows
In nests ‘neath the sheltering eaves,
Have gendered their broods of younglings,
And flown again with the leaves.
But now it is gone, and the hill-top
Is bare as the Tyrian stone,
While o’er it the breezes murmur,
And the night winds make their moan.
The sheltering pines about it
Their dark green branches toss,
Chanting a dirge-like anthem
For their own and the country’s loss.
The sailor and homebound traveler
Will scan the horizon well,
But never a sign will greet them
Of its ancient sight to tell.
The birds in the their springtime coming,
And their southward flight in the fall,
Will look in vain for its turrets,
And its brown expanse of wall.
And tho’ a far grander mansion
Shall take its place on the hill,
The picture of the Moutlon Castle
Will remain in memory still.