The fairest jewel on the sea's bright arm,
Where southern slopes make wintry days seem warm,
Where on Long Island's bluffs one seems to see
Hints of the promised land that is to be,
Where mystic sails glide on the gentle swell,
And singing rivers aid the magic spell—
We greet thee, happy town, this natal morn—
A goddess rising from the sea, new born—
The Rippowam of times now passed away,
The fresh, bright, blushing Stamford of to-day!
As keeps America her festal year,
And proves four centuries have not made her sere,
How well may our fair city gaily laugh,
Whose age is but two centuries and a half!

What needs the eye that any tongue should tell
The wondrous changes that we see so well?
Since the first axe the forest woke from sleep,
And Ponus out of Progress' path did creep
(Selling the right of way so wondrous cheap);
Since Benton ruled with Puritanic sway,
Leading his flock in straight and narrow way,
Since Abram Davenport guided long and well
The fates and councils of this chosen dell,
And framed a tale for Whittier's pen to tell;
What wondrous wand has waved the region o'er,
Rolled back the virgin forest from the shore,
Bid stately homes and schools and churches stand
Where once the log-built cabin held the land,
And planted busy mill and teeming farm,
Protected by the Nation's mighty arm?
What now would fierce Miantonomoh say
To yonder warship, anchored in the bay?
No more may Toquam chief or Wascussue
Gaze on the Mataubaun they loved and knew;
No more the Indian maid's birch boat may glide
Where now the yachts in stately beauty ride;
And one must traverse many a ridge and dale
To strike to-day the vanished red man's trail.

Not idly did the fathers choose for name
That of a spot long linked with England's fame,
Where Saxon Harold drave the northern foe,
By Derwent river, centuries ago.
For, since the sturdy Pilgrims planted here
Their first log cabins in a forest drear,
Moved by their mighty thirst for freer air,
Driven by bonds no Puritan could bear,
Its free-born title has not shown a flaw,
Nor known a conqueror save Peace and Law.
What though the prowling red man might assail,
And draw an Underhill upon his trail;
Though British guns might rake Ridgefield with fire,
Norwalk or Bedford glow, a patriot pyre;
And daring redcoats put to hasty flight
The gallant Putnam down the Greenwich height,
This spot has kept its “never-conquered” fame—
A green oasis in a prairie flame!

Is there a son of Stamford never knew
The ground where Tallmadge, Waterbury grew,
Nor guessed why—scorning any meaner glory—
His heart beat high at hearing Mather's story—
Dragged from his pulpit to the prison ships
To taste the last dread draught for patriot lips?
So, too, when Civil War overflowed its banks,
Drew one in ten to swell the loyal ranks,
How many knew the grief they could not speak
Save in the tear-drop on the mourner's cheek!
Look where a Hobbie's name shines with the rest.
Type of a love that yielded up its best—
A mother's offering to the deadly guns—
A new Niobe weeping for her sons!
Ah, speed the day when all this love we own
For that rare flower of chivalry now flown
Shall blossom in imperishable stone!
Peace to the Past! throughout the centuries dead
The Hand that led the Pilgrims still has led.
In their rude way they laid the bases broad
For liberty to live and worship God;
And sad for us if we shall yield a span
Of the great rights that make a man a man.

As rolling music, joyous faces greet
The wanderer in every festal street,
As the old town, with strong affection's arms,
Draws home her sons from seas and towns and farms,
We pledge her health with many an earnest prayer;
May taint of error ne'er pollute her air;
Still may the sea, the forest, and the field
Roll to her ample lap a fairer yield;
May every daughter, every stalwart son
Add to the fathers' work, so well begun,
That thus, fair Stamford, whosoever claim
Thy sisters pencil on the scroll of fame,
Thy sons need never blush to speak thy name!