"Lady Alice Fenwick", daughter of Sir Edward & Lady Elizabeth Apsley, widow of Sir John Botlier, wife of George Fenwick, Esquire, Governor of Saybrook Colony 1639-1644
The tomb reads 1648, but historians believe she died in 1645 or 1646, following the birth of her third child, a daughter.
Originally buried at "Tomb Hill" her remains were moved and the following poem by Miss Frances M. Caulkins, was read by
the Rev. Mr. Hart, of Trinity College on the occasion of Lady Fenwick's re-entombment in 1870:
"The Tomb of Lady Fenwick
On Saybrook's wave washed height,
The English lady sleeps:
Lonely the tomb, but an angel of light
The door of the sepulchre keeps.
No roof- no leafy shade,
The vaulted glory mars,
She sleeps in peace, with the light on her bed
Of a thousand kindly stars.
She sleeps where oft she stood,
Far from her native shore,
Wistfully watching the bark as it rode,
To the home she should see no more.
She sighed — "O loved bowers
With all life's dew's impearled,
Where I nestled and sang with the rosy hours.
Nor dreamed of this distant world.
Sweet home of joy and love.
My old ancestral seat!
Away, away, flies my bosom's dove.
Dear scenes of youth to greet.
O, I remember well
My cradle and my chair—
The story so sweet that my mother would tell;
My closet hour of prayer!
Lady Fenwick.
I would that I might die
On that dear English ground;
Home sleep is so sweet; 'tis so good to lie
With old yews all around.
A pilgrim band we came,
Self-exiled o'er the sea,
Sowing the seed of God's great name,
Wherever a foot-track might be.
And I loved the woodland waste
The free, pure worship of God;
And the cots of the exiles that brightened and
graced
Wilds where the savage had trod.
But now I thirst, I pine
On my native soil to lie;
To drink of England's air the wine.
To kiss her turf and die.
It must not be; sleep, sleep
Lays on me her still hand;
Let me drop, where I looked out over the deep
So oft for my native land.
There's a dearer home than home,
Sweeter air than native air;
I see the bright hill tops, and spirits that roam
Beckoning, beatified there.
Andlo! my Saviour-star
Shines off all earthly gloom;
His messenger comes— he bears me afar,
To a fairer, nobler home.
By grateful love enshrined.
In memory's book heart-bound,
She sank to rest with the cool sea wind
And the river murmuring round.
Lady Fenwick.
And ever this wave-washed shore
Shall be linked with her tomb and fame.
And blend with the wind and the billowy roar,
The music of her name."
New London, Jan. 11, 1858.
The tomb reads 1648, but historians believe she died in 1645 or 1646, following the birth of her third child, a daughter.
Originally buried at "Tomb Hill" her remains were moved and the following poem by Miss Frances M. Caulkins, was read by
the Rev. Mr. Hart, of Trinity College on the occasion of Lady Fenwick's re-entombment in 1870:
"The Tomb of Lady Fenwick
On Saybrook's wave washed height,
The English lady sleeps:
Lonely the tomb, but an angel of light
The door of the sepulchre keeps.
No roof- no leafy shade,
The vaulted glory mars,
She sleeps in peace, with the light on her bed
Of a thousand kindly stars.
She sleeps where oft she stood,
Far from her native shore,
Wistfully watching the bark as it rode,
To the home she should see no more.
She sighed — "O loved bowers
With all life's dew's impearled,
Where I nestled and sang with the rosy hours.
Nor dreamed of this distant world.
Sweet home of joy and love.
My old ancestral seat!
Away, away, flies my bosom's dove.
Dear scenes of youth to greet.
O, I remember well
My cradle and my chair—
The story so sweet that my mother would tell;
My closet hour of prayer!
Lady Fenwick.
I would that I might die
On that dear English ground;
Home sleep is so sweet; 'tis so good to lie
With old yews all around.
A pilgrim band we came,
Self-exiled o'er the sea,
Sowing the seed of God's great name,
Wherever a foot-track might be.
And I loved the woodland waste
The free, pure worship of God;
And the cots of the exiles that brightened and
graced
Wilds where the savage had trod.
But now I thirst, I pine
On my native soil to lie;
To drink of England's air the wine.
To kiss her turf and die.
It must not be; sleep, sleep
Lays on me her still hand;
Let me drop, where I looked out over the deep
So oft for my native land.
There's a dearer home than home,
Sweeter air than native air;
I see the bright hill tops, and spirits that roam
Beckoning, beatified there.
Andlo! my Saviour-star
Shines off all earthly gloom;
His messenger comes— he bears me afar,
To a fairer, nobler home.
By grateful love enshrined.
In memory's book heart-bound,
She sank to rest with the cool sea wind
And the river murmuring round.
Lady Fenwick.
And ever this wave-washed shore
Shall be linked with her tomb and fame.
And blend with the wind and the billowy roar,
The music of her name."
New London, Jan. 11, 1858.
"Lady Alice Fenwick", daughter of Sir Edward & Lady Elizabeth Apsley, widow of Sir John Botlier, wife of George Fenwick, Esquire, Governor of Saybrook Colony 1639-1644
The tomb reads 1648, but historians believe she died in 1645 or 1646, following the birth of her third child, a daughter.
Originally buried at "Tomb Hill" her remains were moved and the following poem by Miss Frances M. Caulkins, was read by
the Rev. Mr. Hart, of Trinity College on the occasion of Lady Fenwick's re-entombment in 1870:
"The Tomb of Lady Fenwick
On Saybrook's wave washed height,
The English lady sleeps:
Lonely the tomb, but an angel of light
The door of the sepulchre keeps.
No roof- no leafy shade,
The vaulted glory mars,
She sleeps in peace, with the light on her bed
Of a thousand kindly stars.
She sleeps where oft she stood,
Far from her native shore,
Wistfully watching the bark as it rode,
To the home she should see no more.
She sighed — "O loved bowers
With all life's dew's impearled,
Where I nestled and sang with the rosy hours.
Nor dreamed of this distant world.
Sweet home of joy and love.
My old ancestral seat!
Away, away, flies my bosom's dove.
Dear scenes of youth to greet.
O, I remember well
My cradle and my chair—
The story so sweet that my mother would tell;
My closet hour of prayer!
Lady Fenwick.
I would that I might die
On that dear English ground;
Home sleep is so sweet; 'tis so good to lie
With old yews all around.
A pilgrim band we came,
Self-exiled o'er the sea,
Sowing the seed of God's great name,
Wherever a foot-track might be.
And I loved the woodland waste
The free, pure worship of God;
And the cots of the exiles that brightened and
graced
Wilds where the savage had trod.
But now I thirst, I pine
On my native soil to lie;
To drink of England's air the wine.
To kiss her turf and die.
It must not be; sleep, sleep
Lays on me her still hand;
Let me drop, where I looked out over the deep
So oft for my native land.
There's a dearer home than home,
Sweeter air than native air;
I see the bright hill tops, and spirits that roam
Beckoning, beatified there.
Andlo! my Saviour-star
Shines off all earthly gloom;
His messenger comes— he bears me afar,
To a fairer, nobler home.
By grateful love enshrined.
In memory's book heart-bound,
She sank to rest with the cool sea wind
And the river murmuring round.
Lady Fenwick.
And ever this wave-washed shore
Shall be linked with her tomb and fame.
And blend with the wind and the billowy roar,
The music of her name."
New London, Jan. 11, 1858.
The tomb reads 1648, but historians believe she died in 1645 or 1646, following the birth of her third child, a daughter.
Originally buried at "Tomb Hill" her remains were moved and the following poem by Miss Frances M. Caulkins, was read by
the Rev. Mr. Hart, of Trinity College on the occasion of Lady Fenwick's re-entombment in 1870:
"The Tomb of Lady Fenwick
On Saybrook's wave washed height,
The English lady sleeps:
Lonely the tomb, but an angel of light
The door of the sepulchre keeps.
No roof- no leafy shade,
The vaulted glory mars,
She sleeps in peace, with the light on her bed
Of a thousand kindly stars.
She sleeps where oft she stood,
Far from her native shore,
Wistfully watching the bark as it rode,
To the home she should see no more.
She sighed — "O loved bowers
With all life's dew's impearled,
Where I nestled and sang with the rosy hours.
Nor dreamed of this distant world.
Sweet home of joy and love.
My old ancestral seat!
Away, away, flies my bosom's dove.
Dear scenes of youth to greet.
O, I remember well
My cradle and my chair—
The story so sweet that my mother would tell;
My closet hour of prayer!
Lady Fenwick.
I would that I might die
On that dear English ground;
Home sleep is so sweet; 'tis so good to lie
With old yews all around.
A pilgrim band we came,
Self-exiled o'er the sea,
Sowing the seed of God's great name,
Wherever a foot-track might be.
And I loved the woodland waste
The free, pure worship of God;
And the cots of the exiles that brightened and
graced
Wilds where the savage had trod.
But now I thirst, I pine
On my native soil to lie;
To drink of England's air the wine.
To kiss her turf and die.
It must not be; sleep, sleep
Lays on me her still hand;
Let me drop, where I looked out over the deep
So oft for my native land.
There's a dearer home than home,
Sweeter air than native air;
I see the bright hill tops, and spirits that roam
Beckoning, beatified there.
Andlo! my Saviour-star
Shines off all earthly gloom;
His messenger comes— he bears me afar,
To a fairer, nobler home.
By grateful love enshrined.
In memory's book heart-bound,
She sank to rest with the cool sea wind
And the river murmuring round.
Lady Fenwick.
And ever this wave-washed shore
Shall be linked with her tomb and fame.
And blend with the wind and the billowy roar,
The music of her name."
New London, Jan. 11, 1858.
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