Going-to-the-stars :: :: University of Virginia Library

I will think of you,
Strong old Indian god,
Old turkey cock,
On a forest rock,
Old buffalo, knee-deep in the weeds,
Old faithful heart who could boast and strut;
I will think of you when I harvest again,
I will think of you in the forest again,
I will think of you when the woods are cut—
Old, old Andrew Jackson.

I think of you, Andrew Jackson,
Two o'clock in the morning,

In the White House, alone,
You stand there, Old Hickory,
Lean as a bone.
It is now
The fifth of March,
1833,
And you wonder
With an aching heart,
Have you set your people free?
You see the frontier skirmish-line
Of the western cabins, built
For man's escape
From Babylon,
From Europe's gold and gilt;
And yet you know this Washington
Is too fine
Too superfine,
Is full of sugar,
Cake and wine.

I dreamed when I was only a boy
Of this second inaugural night,
When you, a second time,
Had your way;
And your banners burned bright!
I saw you marching around your fire,
Tired, restless, fuming, dreaming,

Booted and spurred,
Till day.

Some are born to be bullied and chidden,
To be bridled
And ridden,
Born to be harried or whipped or hidden;
Others
Born
Booted and spurred to ride,
To make the aristocrats stand aside.
I dreamed, as a boy, of Andrew Jackson,
Relentless, furious, high in his pride,
Democracy irresistible,
Booted and spurred
To ride.

He broke the horns
Of all cattle who horned him,
He broke the bones
Of all who scorned him;—
Biddle or Webster or Clay or Calhoun.
The finest hope from the Cave of Adullam,
Since David ascended the throne;—
Old Andrew Jackson,
The old, old raven,
Lean as a bone!

Now his smart lackey, the wizard Van Buren is gone.
Van Buren's crawlers, bootlickers and toadies have gone,
But the best and the worst of “The People” stay on.
Young frontiersmen drink around Jackson,
Yet he sits alone,
Like a stone.

He is so cold,
He is so old.
The night is so empty, so weary, so dreary,
He is short of breath, he breathes hardly at all,
He wishes for death and the end of it all—
Old old,
Old old,
Andrew
Jackson.
Why should he not be unsteady?
He is a legend, already.

Though he leans here, the conqueror of the proud,
Harvesting here without fear,
He sighs for his coffin, his pall and shroud,
And calls for his Rachel aloud.

And he thinks of Van Buren and all such men,
Then stands up and laughs,

And laughs again.
For he thinks what all lions think of all jackals;
Then he thinks of the time when the world was young
And Rachel was young,
When he threaded black woods without guard, without guide,
And shot without trial all who slandered and lied;
He thinks of gigantic scoundrels he hung
In West Tennessee, when the Nation was young,
In Florida, when the Nation was young.
Then he thinks he will soon
Hang those
Nullifiers,
And make them a “terror to traitors”—
And especially . . .
John C. Calhoun!
Then, he thinks on,
To Heaven,
Where heavenly Rachel is gone.
And the boy frontiersmen sense the mystery
Of the far-off eyes and the destiny
Of this man who could never change his mind,
Who put strange fight into humankind.
Still cold as a stone,
Abrupt, alone,
Old, old,

Old, old,
Andrew
Jackson.

He climbs to the roof.
He looks at the stars aglow,
One constellation
Seems like a buffalo.
He says: “The world is so queer and so wide!”
He wonders if that new notion is sound—
These rascals say that the world is round.
And he watches the fires on the edge of the sky,
Far-off delirious dancers go by;—
Democracy prancing on far-off hills,
Where the hard cider pours down
In rivers and rills.

Soon his back grows straight,
His manner more stern,
His breath turns fire,
His iron eyes burn,
More and more mysterious grows
The dawn,
Till he calls to his Rachel the rose.
He dreams,
As he walks,

Of the bride
Of his youth—
Her immaculate beauty,
Immaculate truth.

That game-cock look all over him now,
Don Quixote now, with a dangerous eye,
He inflexibly stands
With a Bible and picture there in his hands;
(And only in these will his heart confide!)
His wife's tattered Bible tight in his hands,
And her miniature there in his lonely hands:—
Old Rachel Jackson,
Our flag, our flag, in her capable hands,
Her faithful and deathless hands!

He tramp-tramp-tramps down the creaky stair,
With a rattle of spurs,
A rattle of spurs,
Jingling out
The old, old story,
Democracy's shame
And Democracy's glory,
A natural king
With a raven wing;
Cold no more, weary no more—
Old old,

Old old,
Andrew Jackson!

Now the strong west wind with a loud song is singing,
Down the White House chimney the wild song is winging:—
“West Tennessee brought white horses for him,
Strong colts in relays, white horses in line,
Each steed had more splendour, fury more fine,
War horses, king horses, stallions divine.
Then the whole Nation brought white horses for him.”

Only the rich want his name to grow dim,
To have the American people forget
How they brought great white horses for him.
Do you think that I want some fool,
Statistical,
To picture that second inaugural
Who has read all the diaries of that day
And all that the Adamses have to say?
And the speeches of Calhoun, of Webster and Clay?
I must ask a boy who has faded away.
I must ask my own heart when it was so young
To speak of Jackson with a proud tongue,

As my father and my grandfathers taught me
To speak of Jackson with a proud tongue.
When I take the road and beg again,
In the first log cabin I will talk of Jackson.
There, the second inaugural night,
With a cane he drove the last revelers out,
For there were swine in the glamour and rout.
There were gourds on the floor,
Empty hard cider kegs,
Broken-up tables,
And broken chair legs.
But, far on the edge of the Maryland hills,
Bonfires burned high, the revelers danced,
Steeds and riders snorted and pranced;
Thebes had gone down,
Sparta gone down,
Babylon fallen,
Rome fallen,
London Tower fallen,
The Bastile fallen!
Gone were the blasphemous breeds—
Mankind was made new.
The only crown was Democracy's crown,
The only town left was Democracy's town,
And Jackson was king of it, too.
And the hard cider poured down the hills and the trails,

And men drank up glory from gourds and from pails.

In the empty White House the chieftain was still.
His face was a talon,
His hands were talons,
George Washington's old armchair was a throne,
The high-heeled women were weeping alone.
Rachel Jackson's old ghost
Was queen on the throne.
He thinks of New Orleans,
Then of the day
He sent Calhoun's messengers furious away,—
The green logs hissing a sinister tune
While he thinks
Of Calhoun.

He hears louder shouting,
The bonfires afar
Shine on the hills like his mighty north star;
He hears his followers boasting, bantering,
With the end of his sword he stirs up the embers,
And he thinks of secessionists,
Counts all their numbers,
But he looks in the embers and sees his white horses,
Cantering, cantering, cantering, cantering.