University of Virginia Library

THE COMING OF GREELEY.

When you go to Poultney, Vermont, drive or walk over to East Poultney, and see the exact spot where Horace Greeley came up the road from his home in Massachusetts, a few miles away—a slender lad fifteen years of age, and asked for a position as apprentice in the little old printing-office there, and engaged to contribute his services at forty dollars per year. A better-dressed, better-looking, and better-groomed boy, would probably have obtained more. He immediately commenced “making good”, and it was not many years before he became one of the leading editors of New York. His subsequent history is a part of the history of our country.

'Twas a day of summer quiet in the dusty village street;
All the chair-haunts were deserted where the gossips loved to meet;
Scarce a letter made its exit from the small postoffice door,
And a lonely clock was ticking in the crude old country store.
All the market-day's ambition back to farming lands had gone,
And the sleepy dwelling-houses seemed to struggle with a yawn.
'Twas not quite a time for banners of success to be unfurled,
Or to look for an invasion from a leader of the world.
Look! into the street there enters one whose widely-spoken name
Soon will light this modest village with the starlit torch of fame!
There is with you one whom Heaven has intended as a seer—
One whose tones of honest wisdom all the world will stop to hear;
Who will hold the thoughts of thousands in the hollow of his hand—
Who will smite with leaden gauntlets a great Evil of the Land;
One whose words of sturdy wisdom will be read by night and day,
Wheresoe'er The Star-strown Language has pursued its gleaming way;
Who in many a hut and palace will become an honor-guest,
As he runs the blade of wisdom round the Ulcer of the West.
Throng the streets, O sleuths of wonders! here is something grand to see;
What a prince of stately presence must this potentary be!
He has come with milk-white horses and gold harness on them spread?
There are music-masters playing—there are banners overhead?
There are trumpets singing triumph from their bold and brazen lungs?
There are drum-heads swiftly rolling music-morsels 'neath their tongues?
There are soldiers marching bravely, through the village up and down,
Fiercely guarding with their weapons o'er a never-threatened town?
All at once from bonds of quiet, claims the thoroughfare release,
And the windows all are glowing with the battle-flags of peace?
No! this hero of the future has no splendors to employ:
He is not a princely ruler, but a poor and lonely boy.
From the far-off country-regions, he has struggled here alone,
To make good the high ambition that his heart so long has known.
There is lack of preparation—there is negligence to spare—
From his worn and dusty foot-gear, to his tangled flaxen hair;
There is lack of boyish beauty, and of studied city grace,
From the hard rough hands beside him, to the freckles in his face.
But a dogged resolution will not let his courage fail,
And his valiant heart keeps saying, “I will conquer and prevail!”
Did he conquer?—let the chapters of his brave life make reply:
For the boyish village printer won a name that will not die.