Sigourney wrote several poems in homage to the famous Connecticut tree known as the Charter Oak. This poem was written in the period of state-wide grief when the tree was struck by lightening and fell on August 21, 1856. Hartford even organized a funeral procession for the tree that drew crowds of mourners. The wood from the tree was harvested and turned into keepsakes that can still be viewed at places like the CT Museum of Culture and History and the Wadsworth Atheneum Museum of Art. Charles De Wolf Brownell’s painting of 1857 is often on view at the Wadsworth, a spectacular homage to the tree whose frame is made from the Charter Oak’s wood. Read what Mark Twain had to say about the Charter Oak on his first visit to Hartford and to the Wadsworth in this anthology (see “Glimpse of Hartford” under Samuel Clemens/Mark Twain.) To learn what made this such an iconic tree and to see an image of Brownell’s painting, go to The Legend of the Charter Oak on Connecticuthistory.org.
Fall of the Charter Oak
by Lydia Huntley Sigourney
Woe,—for the mighty Tree!
The monarch of the plain,—
The storm hath reft its noble heart—
It ne’er shall tower again,
In ruins, far and wide,
Its giant limbs are laid,
Like some fallen dynasty of earth,
Whose nod the nations sway’d.
Woe, for the ancient Oak,
Our Pilgrim-fathers’ pride,
That shook the centuries from its crown,
And flourish’d when they died;
The grass-flower at its feet,
Shall quickening Spring restore,
But healthful dews, or nesting bird
Revisit it no more.
The roaming Indian prized
Its canopy of shade,
And bless’d it while his council fire
In eddying volumes play’d,
He for its wisdom sought
As to a Delphic shrine,
He ask’d it when to plant his corn,
And waited for the sign.
You white haired man sits down
Where its torn branches lie,
And tells the listening boy, the tale
Of threatened Liberty,
How tyrant pomp and power,
Once in the olden time,
Came Brennus-like, with iron tramp
To crush our infant clime,
And how that brave old Oak
Stood forth, a friend indeed,
And spread its AEgis o’er our sires,
In their extremest need,
And in its sacred breast
Their germ of freedom bore,
And hid their life-blood in its veins,
Until the blast was o’er.
Throngs, gathering round the spot
Their mournful memories weave,
Even children, in strange silence stand,
Unconscious why they grieve,
Or for their casket seek
Some relic spray to glean,
Acorn, or precious leaf, to press
Their Bible-page between.
Was there no other prey,
Oh, Storm!—that thunder’d by?
Wreaking dark vengeance, ‘neath the shroud
Of the wild midnight sky?
Was there no kingly Elm,
Majestic, broad and free,
That thou must, in thy madness, smite
Our tutelary tree?
Our beacon of the past,
Our chronicler of time,
Our Mecca, to whose greenwood glade
Came feet from every clime?
Hark!—to the echoing dirge,
In measures deep and slow,
While on the breeze our banner floats,
Draped in the weeds of woe.
The fair ones of our vale
O’er its lost Guardian sigh,
And elders with prophetic dread
Dark auguries descry,
Patriots and sages deign
O’er the loved wreck to bend,
And in this funeral of the Oak
Lament their Country’s friend.