William

William Henry Roll


Welcome to the new and improved Roll Family Windmill website! We have upgraded our authoring tools to design and create content and present it to you with style. We will be better able to maintain content and share information about the genealogy of the Roll and allied families.


They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning, We will remember them. --Laurence Binyon,"Ode of Remembrance"


I have gathered a posie of other men's flowers, and nothing but the string that binds them is mine own. --Michel Eyquem de Montaigne


Documenting your family history is a lifelong pursuit, a task of pleasure and research that is never completely finished.


Not to know one's ancestors, is to be a tree without roots, a stream without a source. --Kung-fut-se


The wind whispers through the trees, recalling words and dreams and memories of those who left us long ago. --Unknown


St. Basil of Caesarea, born about 330 A.D., said, "A tree is known by its fruit; a man by his deeds. A good deed is never lost; he who sows courtesy reaps friendship, and he who plants kindness gathers love."



WeRelate.com

This website was created the old-fashioned way; it has been hand coded.



keep calm



The Vale of Tawasentha
Normans Kill, in Longfellow's The Song of Hiawatha

Henry 1807-1882

Not related


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Nawadaha

All the wild-fowl sang them to him,
In the moorlands and the fen-lands,
In the melancholy marshes;
Chetowaik, the plover, sang them,
Mahng, the loon, the wild goose, Wawa,
The blue heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
And the grouse, the Mushkodasa!


In the Vale of Tawasentha

The Vale of Tawasentha, referred to in the following portion of Longfellow's The Song of Hiawatha, is an actual place in Albany County, New York, now named Normans Kill after an early settler. The Mohegan word Tawasentha meant "tears," and so Vale of Tawasentha means "Valley of Tears." The Dutch word "kill" means creek. Normans Kill is the first tributary of the Hudson River south of the city of Albany. Jan Mangels, the Roll ancestor who lived in the Albany area, traded with the Indians in the last half of the 17th century. He must have walked the Vale of Tawasentha many times by the alders in the spring, the summer, the autumn, and the winter.


Normans Kill (Wikipedia)

Normans Kill is a 45.4-mile-long creek in New York's Capital District
located in Schenectady and Albany counties.


In the Vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley,
By the pleasant water-courses,
Dwelt the singer Nawadaha.
Round about the Indian village
Spread the meadows and the corn-fields,
And beyond them stood the forest,
Stood the groves of singing pine-trees,
Green in Summer, white in Winter,
Every sighing, ever singing.


Normans Kill

Normans Kill


And the pleasant water-courses,
You could trace them through the valley,
By the rushing in the Spring-time,
By the alders in the Summer,
By the white fog in the Autumn,
By the black line in the Winter;
And beside them dwelt the singer,
In the Vale of Tawasentha,
In the green and silent valley.

There he sang of Hiawatha,
Sang the Song of Hiawatha,
Sang his wondrous birth and being,
How he prayed and how he fasted,
How he lived, and toiled, and suffered,
That the tribes of men might prosper,
That he might advance his people!"

Ye who love the haunts of Nature,
Love the sunshine of the meadow,
Love the shadow of the forest,
Love the wind among the branches,
And the rain-shower and the snow-storm
And the rushing of great rivers
Through their palisades of pine-trees,
And the thunder in the mountains,
Whose innumerable echoes
Flap like eagles in their eyries;--
Listen to these wild traditions,
To this Song of Hiawatha!

Ye who love a nation's legends,
Love the ballads of a people,
That like voices from afar off
Call to us to pause and listen,
Speak in tones so plain and childlike,
Scarcely can the ear distinguish
Whether they are sung or spoken; --
Listen to this Indian Legend,
To this Song of Hiawatha!

Ye whose hearts are fresh and simple,
Who have faith in God and Nature,
Who believe, that in all ages
Every human heart is human,
That in even savage bosoms
There are longings, yearnings, strivings
For the good they comprehend not,
That the feeble hands and helpless,
Groping blindly in the darkness,
Touch God's right hand in that darkness
And are lifted up and strengthened;--
Listen to this simple story,
To this Song of Hiawatha!

Ye, who sometimes, in your rambles
Through the green lanes of the country,
Where the tangled barberry-bushes
Hang their tufts of crimson berries
Over stone walls gray with mosses,
Pause by some neglected graveyard,
For a while to muse, and ponder
On a half-effaced inscription,
Written with little skill of song-craft,
Homely phrases, but each letter
Full of hope and yet of heart-break,
Full of all the tender pathos
Of the Here and the Hereafter;--
Stay and read this rude inscription,
Read this Song of Hiawatha!


Source: Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. The Song Of Hiawatha. Boston: Ticknor And Fields, 1856.