 | Erato, number II |  |
OUR WESTERN LAND.
I.
Ohio-peh-he-le!—Peek-han-ne! The prideOf the land where thy waters, O-pe-le-chen! glide.
Though thy vales, and the hills in the distance, that loom
Till they're part of the azure, or lost in the gloom,
Have long been the homes of the noble and brave,
Whose proud halls are built on the Indian's grave,—
Yet seldom the Poet hath made thee his theme,
Ohio-peh-he-le! all beautiful stream!
And he who now thy name would twine
With his and Poesy's, and wed
Them thus, knows not that e'er his line,
Save on thy borders, shall be read.
Yet on thy shore his boyhood's dreams
Have pass'd, and manhood's truths come on;
And here have flash'd those glorious gleams
Of Phantasie, whose light hath won
His yearning heart from worldly things,
And led it to the Spirit's springs.
And in thy deep and solemn shades
Hath he communed with those, whose page
The deathless fire of Song pervades—
The master-minds of many an age.
And here have hopes been form'd, and crush'd
And wearying trial, ills repaid;
And those who, when his feet have stray'd.
Between him and his danger rush'd,
Are gone; and kindred have been laid
Forever in the silent tomb.
Fair stream! I love thee—and thy gloom
Of forest—and thy strength of soil—
Thy wild and beetling rocks, that, flung
Unfashion'd from Creation's hand,
Loom in mid-heaven—where eagles toil,
And build, and rear their screaming young,
By earthquakes rock'd, by tempests fann'd!
II.
Ohio-pechen! Belle riviere!For beauty, none with thee compare.
How bright thou first break'st on the view.
Where dark Mononga's waters woo
Fair Alleghany's, wild and free.
Behold the clear Stream's coquetry!
The more 'tis woo'd and press'd, the more
It feigns to love its pebbly shore;
Retreating still, but still so fair,
Much may the wooing water dare,
That they the self-same bed may share.
Still strives she, that it may not be;
And still retreats, th' embrace to flee
Of the dark Wooer: But anon
They mingle, and together run—
The same the Wooer and the Won.
Thus ye may see a bashful bride,
Consenting half, and half denying;
Now looking love, and now aside
Turning her melting eyes; now flying
But careful still her blushing face
To turn to him she hath forsaken—
Full willing soon to be o'ertaken;
And when she is pursued and caught,
A thread will hold her—as it ought!
Now, modest maiden-struggles vain,
She blushing yields, until the twain
Are one, even as these mingled waves,k
Which part but at their ocean graves.
III.
But here, thy beetling cliffs among,Ohio, pause we in our song.
Who muses by the wooing wave?
His feet are on the Scotchman's grave!
Here highland clans and savage hordes,
With giant strength have madly striven;
And Gaul's and Britain's gory swords
Home to the hilt been driven.
Oh, Caledonia! blood that runs
In breast of thine, is free and strong;
And here thy kilted highland sons,
With gallant Grant, fough well and long:
Scorning to yield—too brave to turn—
The spirit theirs of Bannock-burn!
Sword, war-club, bayonet and knife,
Were busy in that fearful strife.
There was no quarter—“Head for head!”
And many a kilt and plume were red;
And many a clansman slept in death—
His blood upon a strangers heath.
Thy dauntless hearts the bloody fray;
And fiercely fought and well, and fared
As soldiers must on battle day:
The night came, and around they lay!
IV.
Long years, since then, have come and pass'd.Where are thy forests, dark and vast,
And frowning battlements, Du Quesne?
Those long have to the earth been cast;
For these, we look in vain.
Where frown'd the fort in those old days,
Now stand the halls of Industry;
Nor trench nor picket meets the gaze—
But the proud structures of the free.
Where now the Indian do ye see,
Or Frenchman? Gone—forever gone,
Gaul, savage, fort, and skulking-tree!
And are there now no relics? None!
Their works? There's ‘not a stone on stone!’
Virginian—Briton—Highlander—
Where is their honored sepulcher?
Around! Ye'll sometimes find a bone!
Their names? They never have been writ!
The dust we stand upon has one—
And they are part of it!
Yet many a brave one hither came,
To sell his heart's blood for renown;
And dreaming of a warrior's fame,
Unshrinking to the grave went down:
Yet, even now, yon flower ye see,
Knows more of them, by far, than we.
V.
But not alone doth Grandeur mark,With towering hill, and forest dark,
And cloud-capp'd cliff, thy shores, fair stream;
Rich groves and sunny isles are thine,
And quiet vales thy borders line;
And on thy shores the fruitful vine,
And ever-fragrant eglantine,
With hazle, haw, and thorn, combine
To form enchanting bow'rs, which dream
Of Poet never hath surpass'd.
And in thy pearly waves are glass'd
Tallest and most gigantic trees,
And skies as fair as Italy's.
The land thou windest through, has not
A mountain pass, or prairie plat,
Where daring deeds have not been done;
And every dark and wooded dell
Some thrilling tale of blood can tell:
There a heroic father fell,
And here his dauntless son;
And there, perhaps a rod away,
The fetter'd wife and mother lay—
Her infant playing by her side.
And she hath seen her first-born slain,
And heard the hatchet cleave his brain,
And watched his heart's blood flow like rain—
Her first-born, and her pride.
And heard her lord's loud battle-cry,
And seen him bravely do and die.
— Spartan! though to the earth o'erthrown,
Still waged he the unequal fight—
Still aim'd the deadly fire aright—
And when he felt death's gathering night
Fell back, and died without a groan.
Now seiz'd the savage her prattling child!
It look'd in his tattoo'd face, and smiled
The baubles and vermil there to see.
Loud shrieks that mother, and rends her hair—
Then shivers the thongs that bind her there,
And begs the savage her child to spare;
But, grinning, he swings it in the air,
And dashes it 'gainst a tree;
Then lays it, quivering, at her feet.
A frantic moment 'tis closely prest,
Unconsciously, to her yearning breast;
But its little heart hath ceas'd to beat,
And her streaming hair is its winding sheet.
—How wild has grown that mother's eye!
Her limbs fail, and her brain reels round;
Senseless, she falls upon the ground;
A moment, and again she's bound.
Up, mother! they must fly.
Up! up! they cannot longer stay,
And thou with them must haste away.
Too weak? Then must thou die!
A tomahawk swings in the silent air,
A dark hand clenches her tangled hair,
The crown of her head is bloody and bare,
And, dying, alone they leave her there.
But hark! in that dell a deathshot rings,
And aloft the hindmost savage springs,
And falls like a stone to the ground;
But his comrades fear the vengeance near—
And away, away, like the startled deer
When the baying pack are close in the rear,
O'er rock and log they bound.
Who had skulk'd when the havoc was first begun;
He had rifle—but loads, alas! but one.
And he saw his father and brother slain,
And the dead babe thrown at its mother's feet:
And heard her plead for mercy in vain,
And soon beheld her fetter'd again,
Death, but not mercy, to meet.
A knife gleam'd red on his straining eye,
And he saw her scalp-lock waved on high:
Then he swore that the last who lingered should die
Of that dark and murderous band.
They fly; but the proud scalp-bearer is still
But half way up the bordering hill:
Young hero, now! The trigger he drew;
The glen was fill'd with his wild halloo;
And away the cowardly Indians flew,
As if hundreds were at hand.
But he who had led those murderers on,
And paused for the scalp when his band were gone,
Lay cold and stiff in that bloody dell—
And the panther found him where he fell.
VI.
Ohio-pechen—glorious river!Thy children's same shall last forever.
There's scarce a rod along thy shore,
Where grappled not, in days of yore,
The warrior, or the Sagamore,
And iron-sinewed pioneer.
Seldom have foes so madly striven;
Quarter was neither asked nor given;
The white-man placed his trust in Heaven;
The Indian knew not fear.
The war-club and the bayonet,
At rise of sun; and at the set,
Savage and soldier struggled yet
In merciless border war.
Who conquered? Look around the scene!
The wigwam nowhere dots the green;
The Indian's days of power, have been—
The white-man's, are.
VII.
Old days are gone; and pass'd awayAll traces of the Indian's sway.
Far other scenes surround us now;
In quiet vale, on mountain brow,
And far retired in shady glen,
Behold the dwellings of the free—
A race who scorn to bend the knee,
Save at the shrine of God it be:
Fair women, and brave men.
According to Messrs. Duponceau and Heckewelder, gentlemen of much research into our aboriginal dialects, the word Ohio, is derived from the language of the Delawares,—being an abreviation, or rather the three first syllables of several words which they find in the idiom of that tribe. These words, with their significations, as given in the last number of the “Transactions of the American Philosophical Society,” are as follows:
Ohui—Ohi, very; O'pee, white; Ope-le-chen, bright, shining;— O-peek, white with froth; Ohio-pe-chen, it is of a white color; Ohio-peek, very white, (caused by froth or white caps:) Ohio-phan-ne, very white stream; Ohio-peek-han-ne, very deep and white stream; Ohio-peh-he-le, white frothy water.
It would appear from the above, that the early emigrants took the liberty of curtailing the Aboriginal name of our noble river of its fair proportions. I do not know that this is a very “safe precedent;” but I have ventured to to the like with the name of one of its head-waters—for which I humbly crave pardon of antiquaties and critics. Words of five syllables, as Monongahela, are rather unmanageable things in octo-syllabic verse.
Belle riviere—Beautiful river; the name bestowed upon the Ohio by the early French explorers; pronounced nearly as if written riv-yare.
The waters of the Alleghany are beautiful and clear; and the current of this river is considerably more rapid than that of the Monongahela, whose waters are of a dark muddy color. Standing upon the point of their junction, when the Monongahela is the highest—which is rarely the case, but which the author was fortunate enough once to witness,—a fine sight is presented. The Alleghany comes sweeping along, sparkling in the sunlight or starlight, —like “a thing of life,” free and joyous in the present moment, and having no thought of the next. But no sooner does it reach the point of junction, than, crowded upon by the muddy waters of the Monongahela, it retreats to the north shore of the Ohio,—as if, like a coy maiden, to shun the advances of the “Dark Wooer.” And it is several miles before the two streams fully unite—a dark line being perceptible for a considerable distance, which gradually nears the north shore, and grows less distinct, till the waters are completely mingled.
| Erato, number II | |