Then I came to Jonathan E. Hoag. & the next person on the list turns out to be his third wife Lydia Martin (nee Dwelle) Hoag. The couple joined the EPOC in 1892, just one year after it's founding. So we have husband/wife suffragists in Easton. Cool! As I start reading Jonathan's bio on Find A Grave, I notice that he was poet & friends with Howard P. (H.P.) Lovecraft! Very cool! Since I just happened to be working in the Folklife Center at Crandall Public Library at the time, I went over to the OPAC & located a copy of
with an Introduction by none other than H.P. Lovecraft.
was born in Valley Falls (Rensselaer County), NY on February 10 1831 to Abigail (nee Gifford) Hoag & her husband, Robert Nesbit Hoag. The family, including six other children, moved to South Easton when Joanthan was 8. He moved to Greenwich in 1911, & lived there until his death on December 17, 1927. He was 96 years old, & had outlived three wives.
. Apparently Jonathan was fond of writing poems for family members to commemorate milestones, like his cousin's 80th birthday. There are some such poems in his book, including a few for his mother, and one for his sister Hannah Hoag Balch.
hile I have not yet found a poem entitled "An Ode to a Suffragist", I did notice one about Dionondahowa Falls. Please enjoy...
by Jonathan Elihu Hoag (1917)
rocks o’er which the waters fly,
Pray tell me
whence ye came and when and why;
age reveal, your purpose show,
mysteries of long ago!
Was it at
Nature’s noon that first your height
Rose to the
fulgent rays of solar light?
Or was it at
the dawn, when nascent earth
the nebula that gave it birth?
torrent of the primal scene,
the course of ages that have been;
more that ancient sky, whose rays
first drops with mist-enshrouded blaze;
memory, and display the whole
revelation’s all enlightening scroll!
long story to yon clinging vine,
proud sentinel, the wind-swayed pine;
tell the tinted flowers that spring
Close to the
banks where your swift waters sing;
green groves by balmy winds caressed,
twittering wrens and chirping robins nest;
Why be so
loath your secrets to unfold,
shall leave your gorges dry and old?
day the sage will seek in vain,
your ripples run, a numerous train;
And many a
weed and thorn will lift its head
mute pebbles of the arid bed.
thou cataract, while time remains,
And I will
spread thy fame in Doric strains;
tale to millions shall be dear,
generations yet unborn shall hear!
cohorts on the heights arrayed,
wonder watched thy tall cascade;
purpose scanned thy gorge below,
with hypoborean skill the foe;
a warning, and the glaciers greet
prophecies of peril and defeat?
plains to Phoebus wont to yield,
their rocky bones strewn o’er the field!
And when the
Red Man in primeval pride
admiration sought they pine-clad side;
white spray a Manitou to trace,
before the spirit of the place;
to him thy secret then relate,
And tell the
copper visitor thy fate!
Cossayuna, stately, gray and tall.
question grave, address the waterfall;
“You tell me
some,” he grunt, “Me tell you more,”
is heard above the mighty roar.
Minnewawa, she whose eyes
brighter that the stars of midnight skies;
she says, “the many things you know;
“Me tell you
Indian lore of long ago.
and torrents, I’ll preserve to fame,
proud falls, Dionaondawa name!”
the rocks, whose ancient lips so long
Had lain in
silence, dumb to speech and song;
thunderous accents they the records read,
uncounted years of varied dead;
sides, by time’s sharp chisel rent
rocked the rising continent,
the thick veiled skies, no sound was heard
black Vulcan’s subterranean word.
Cyclops, with gigantic might,
the rocks from realms of Stygian night,
silence and Cimmerian pall
mantle shroud and cover all;
moonless, starless, soundless space,
“A new world
joins the planetary race,
the fiat as the Almighty speaks,
“A rift of
light through the deep vapor breaks—
and stars their wonted paths assume,
heaven supplants the primal gloom.
above, where circling seraphim
foaming torrent o’er our brim;
sprightly grace the crystal waters flow,
reverberate in the gulf below;
deep gorge with rushing force to rage,
the mill-wheels for a future age.
“In days to
come a million souls shall reap
blessings our tumultuous waters keep,
industry, with all her copious store,
the mendicant and clothe the poor.
complete, the useful stream shall glide
the river meets the salty tide;
the laboring flood at least shall rest,
sleeping on Old Ocean’s ample breast!”