University of Virginia Library

Who says that Fortune cannot see or feel,
But crushes Merit with her rolling wheel,
While Vice and Folly still her favours share,
And claim, like children, all the parent care?
Whoever says so, has nor wit nor eyes,
And the bright dame with foolish spleen belies,
For look abroad which ever way we may,
Courage and Prudence still her motions sway,
Slave to their steady, unrelaxing rule,
She plays the tyrant only with the fool.
Without that foresight, which the danger spies,
That courage which each obstacle defies,
Imprudence still, to hide its burning shame,
Will cast on adverse Fortune all the blame,
While baffled Cowardice for ever throws
On cruel stars, what to itself it owes;
But those who grapple Danger, and provide
'Gainst probable mischance that may betide,
To her own wheel the conquer'd dame may chain,
And o'er her golden realm despotic reign.
What oft to flinching Folly madness seems,
Keen calculating Courage easy deems;
Distant and rumour'd dangers greater loom,
Like objects peering through the misty gloom,
The farther, still the loftier they appear,
And sink to nothing as we come more near.
So mountains when far off they catch the eye,
Seem a steep wall connecting earth and sky,
Impassable to every living thing,
Or man, or beast, or bird on vent'rous wing,
While fearful Fancy paints the other side,
One boundless waste, extending far and wide.
But gain'd at length, the last and boldest height,
A fair reality breaks on the sight,
Blithe we look forward, happy still to find
Just such a world as that we left behind.

Thus Basil—when he left his rural home,
In search of better fortune far to roam,
His fancy pictur'd years of solitude,
Far from the haunts of men in regions rude;
That shut from all the sweets of social life,
Himself, his growing boys, and faithful wife,
With howling beasts would congregate the while,
And never see another being smile,
Or hear a human voice, save Indian yell,
Shaking the forest with its echoing swell.
But happy Chance, that like the Summer breeze,
Can bring or rain or sunshine as she please,
And oft with her good-natur'd gambols cheers
The present sorrow, or the future fears,
Ordain'd that here a little band he found,
With him upon the self same errand bound,
Who hail'd with welcome our wayfaring man,
And joy'd in such associates in their plan.
Now blither was the hope that led the way,
And Basil's heart wax'd lighter every day,
Till all the little preparations o'er,
Our vent'rous band sought fair Ohio's shore,
Loosen'd their boats, and grasp'd the offer'd hand
Of many a stranger that around did stand;
For now about to leave, a long, long while,
The gentle world of courtesy and smile,
And reft of all its hallow'd sweets, sojourn
In lonely lands, whence they might ne'er return;
Around their lingering eyes full oft they cast,
And gaz'd, as people do, who look their last,
While every soul of all the stranger train
Seem'd a dear friend they ne'er should meet again.
A simple scene! yet if we view it well,
'Twill soon to grander outlines haply swell,
For here we see, as on a chart unfurl'd,
The destinies of this great Western world.
So came our ancestors, stern volunteers!
Who knew the dangers, yet despis'd the fears;
Thus did they sever many a heart-knit tie
Freedom and competence to win, or die;
And thus their hardy offspring dare to roam,
Far in the West, to seek a happier home,
To push the red-man from his solitude,
And plant refinement in the forest rude,
Thus daringly their glorious race to run,
Ev'n to the regions of yon setting sun.

Now, fare thee well—dear haunts of social men!
Long may it be, ere we shall meet again!
Farewell the village church, and tolling bell,
Sounding to prayers, or rustic fun'ral knell;
The lively fields, where men and herds are seen
Sporting, and lab'ring morn and eve between;
The smoke of rural hamlet curling high
Above the trees, in peaceful Summer sky;
The ploughman's whistle, and the lambkin's bleat,
The tinkling music of the herd, so sweet—
All, all farewell! far other scenes of life,
Rude forest labours, and wild savage strife,
My vent'rous song, perchance, will soon rehearse,
And rougher scenes demand a loftier verse.

Come then, our native Muse—bred in the wild,
Drear Solitude and lonely Fancy's child!
If ever thou didst shiver and turn pale,
Yet love to listen to some bloody tale,
That thrill'd with wild and terrible alarm,
Yet held thee breathless in its magic charm;—
If ever thou didst pause in moss-grown glen,
Unprinted yet by track of wandering men,
To listen to the wolf's long quavering howl,
Or shrill sharp shriek of twilight prowling owl,
Whose music turns the startled ploughman pale,
As lone, like thee, he lingers in the dale,
Musing on rustic damsel, passing fair,
Whose eye half promis'd she would meet him there;—
If ever in some cloud-bespeckled night,
When the moon glanc'd a wayward flickering light,
And shadows ever changing in the breeze,
Seem shapeless monsters gliding through the trees,
Thou wert beguil'd through church-yard path to roam,
That led, perchance, a nearer way to home,
And fancy'd that there met thy watchful ear,
A sound, so low, so sad, so chill, and drear,
As if some long clos'd, clammy, fleshless grave
Had op'd its stubborn jaws, and groaning gave
Its mouldering bones awhile to roam at will,
Through midnight shades all damp and deadly still,
Until Aurora, and her sprightly train,
Should chase them to their narrow cell again;—
If such thy haunts and themes, I woo thee now,
Come hover o'er thy lowly suppliant's brow,
And with thy gloomy soul my verse inspire,
While vent'rously I wake the untouch'd lyre.

As down Ohio's ever ebbing tide,
Oarless and sailless silently they glide,
How still the scene, how lifeless, yet how fair,
Was the lone land that met the strangers there!
No smiling villages, or curling smoke,
The busy haunts of busy men bespoke,
No solitary hut, the banks along,
Sent forth blithe Labour's homely rustic song,
No urchin gambol'd on the smooth white sand,
Or hurl'd the skipping-stone with playful hand,
While playmate dog plung'd in the clear blue wave,
And swam, in vain, the sinking prize to save.
Where now are seen along the river side,
Young busy towns, in buxom painted pride,
And fleets of gliding boats with riches crown'd,
To distant Orleans or St. Louis bound,
Nothing appear'd, but Nature unsubdu'd,
One endless, noiseless, woodland solitude,
Or boundless prairie, that aye seem'd to be
As level, and as lifeless as the sea;
They seem'd to breathe in this wide world alone,
Heirs of the Earth—the land was all their own!

'Twas Evening now—the hour of toil was o'er,
Yet still they durst not seek the fearful shore,
Lest watchful Indian crew should silent creep,
And spring upon, and murder them in sleep;
So through the livelong night they held their way,
And 'twas a night might shame the fairest day,
So still, so bright, so tranquil was its reign,
They car'd not though the day ne'er came again.
The Moon high wheel'd the distant hills above,
Silver'd the fleecy foliage of the grove,
That as the wooing zephyrs on it fell,
Whisper'd it lov'd the gentle visit well—
That fair-fac'd orb alone to move appear'd,
That zephyr was the only sound they heard.
No deep-mouth'd hound the hunter's haunt betray'd,
No lights upon the shore, or waters play'd,
No loud laugh broke upon the silent air,
To tell the wand'rers man was nestling there,
While even the froward babe in mother's arms,
Lull'd by the scene suppress'd its loud alarms,
And yielding to that moment's tranquil sway,
Sunk on the breast, and slept its rage away.
All, all was still, on gliding barque and shore,
As if the Earth now slept to wake no more;
Life seem'd extinct, as when the World first smil'd,
Ere Adam was a dupe, or Eve beguil'd.

In such a scene the Soul oft walks abroad,
For Silence is the energy of God!
Not in the blackest Tempest's midnight scowl,
The Earthquake's rocking, or the Whirlwind's howl,
Not from the crashing thunder-rifted cloud,
Does His immortal mandate speak so loud,
As when the silent Night around her throws
Her star-bespangled mantle of repose;
Thunder, and Whirlwind, and the Earth's dread shake,
The selfish thoughts of man alone awake;
His lips may prate of Heav'n, but all his fears
Are for himself, though pious he appears.
But when all Nature sleeps in tranquil smiles,
What sweet yet lofty thought the Soul beguiles!
There's not an object 'neath the Moon's bright beam,
There's not a shadow dark'ning on the stream,
There's not a star that jewels yonder skies,
Whose bright reflection on the water lies,
That does not in the lifted mind awake
Thoughts that of Love and Heav'n alike partake;
While all its newly waken'd feelings prove,
That Love is Heaven, and God the Soul of Love.
In such sweet times the spirit rambles forth
Beyond the precincts of this grov'ling Earth,
Expatiates in a brighter world than this,
And plunging in the Future's dread abyss,
Proves an existence separate, and refin'd,
By leaving its frail tenement behind.
So felt our Basil, as he sat the while,
Guiding his boat, beneath the moonbeam's smile.
For there are thoughts, which God alike has giv'n,
To high and low—and these are thoughts of Heav'n.

Thus gliding down the gentle river tide,
Three days and nights, at length our party spied
The lone asylum where their lot was cast,
And reach'd the long expected home at last.
A winding stream, that came from Heav'n knows where,
Far in the woods, join'd fair Ohio there,
And at their silent meeting might be seen,
A little level land all fresh and green,
On which those strange mysterious works appear'd,
By unknown hands, in unknown ages rear'd;
Mounds, such as rise on Euxine's level shore,
The lasting tombs of nameless names of yore,
And forts, if we on trav'llers' lore rely,
With oaks of ages on their summits high.
These, gliding down Ohio's devious maze,
Now catch the passing stranger's wand'ring gaze,
Puzzle the wise-heads of the learned schools,
And teach philosophers to talk like fools.

'Twas here they landed mid the desert fair,
Broke up their boats, and form'd a shelter there,
Till they could build them cabins snug and warm,
To shield from Autumn's rains, and Winter's storm.
Then, for the first, the woodman's echoing stroke,
The holy silence of the forest broke;
Now first was heard the crash of falling trees,
Yielding to other power than howling breeze:
And now the first time did the furrow tear
The virgin Earth, and lay her bosom bare.
All now was bustle in that calm retreat,
The wants of Winter, and its rage to meet,
And soon, like magic, in the late lone wild,
A little rustic village rose and smil'd.
With keen-edg'd axe some warr'd against the wood,
And girdled trees, that ages there had stood,
While trusty rifle close beside them lies,
To guard from wily Indian's dread surprise;
Some urg'd the plough where'er the land was clear,
And some went forth to chase the half-tame deer,
That look'd them in the face with wistful ken,
As wond'ring what could be these stranger men.
Women and children, all were busy here,
To meet the pressure of the coming year,
A long, drear Winter now before them lay,
And short and shorter wax'd each passing day.

Soon hazy Autumn came—in other lands
That rich rewards the labourer's blister'd hands;
But here our pilgrims no such blessings know,
They could not reap where they did never sow.
The Summer's lively hue, so fresh and green,
In these damp forests, now no more was seen,
It faded every day, like youth's bright bloom,
And other tints the waning woods assume;
The yellow aspin rear'd its palsied head,
The scarlet maple and the oak's deep red,
With here and there a sturdy evergreen,
Mingling their motley foliage, round were seen;
In dappled livery, Nature now was clad,
Like bonny Scot, in many-colour'd plaid.

The seed now sown, the cabins well prepar'd,
They sat them down, and growling Winter dar'd;
For hardy Industry need never fear
The roughest changes of the rolling year,
Give it but health, e'en in the desert wide,
'Gainst each vicissitude 'twill soon provide,
Breast every exigence, nor shrink the while,
From Nature's frown, but meet it as her smile:
But beggary's now the fashion of the times,
And paupers hither flock from distant climes;
Thousands of brawny rogues unblushing stand
Whining, and lying, cap and crutch in hand,
Cover'd with dirt, as though e'en water here
They cannot buy, forsooth—it is so dear!
Idle as worthless, still the wretches find
Some silly dupes to imposition blind,
And cheat sweet Charity of that poor meed,
For Age and Sickness piously decreed;
Too indolent for work abroad to roam,
They lounge, and lye, and beg—and steal at home,
And though they bring pollution to our shore,
Lay all their crimes at our good people's door,
While honest Industry must ever strive
To keep itself, and these vile rags alive.

Gradual the dappled cloke of Autumn fell,
And Winter rav'd through wood and winding dell,
Silent the stream's soft soothing murmurs were,
And still the myriads of the peopled air;
The trees no more a whispering music made,
But howling blasts roar'd through the leafless shade,
Or, if it fell into a calm severe,
'Twas only to give place to sounds more drear.
Oft in the freezing midnight's dread repose,
The gaunt wolf's wail, quav'ring afar arose,
And oft the little hamlet they surround,
Rousing the sleepers with a fearful sound,
That as upon the half-wak'd ear it fell,
Seem'd murderous Indian's death-denouncing yell.
But soon they ceas'd these midnight foes to hear,
For use can conquer ev'n almighty fear,
And those who live in dangers, sleep as sound,
In sight of death, ev'n on the cold bare ground,
As though on curtain'd beds of down they lay,
And snor'd in peace the livelong night away.
Man can be happy, bide he where he may,
If health and freedom smile upon his way;
But he who seeks it, still must ever find,
If e'er he find it, in his own calm mind—
Vainly we chase it—if it be not there,
'Tis not on Earth—in Heav'n—nor any where.

Calm were the wint'ry days our pilgrims knew,
And lightly o'er their heads the moments flew;
At eve they spent their little social hours,
As gay as though they bask'd in Eastern bowers,
Or in the racket of some noisy town,
Toil'd day and night to run light pleasure down.
Learn'd Basil now his leisure time employs,
To teach his blooming girls, and growing boys,
Reading and writing, and each simple rule,
That he had learn'd, while young, at village school;
But when that task was done, round evening blaze
The good man talk'd of things of other days—
Sometimes he told them how, in good time past,
Our fathers fought for freedom to the last,
The march of tyranny sev'n years withstood,
And bravely won the price of toil and blood.
Then would he tell of souls now gone to rest,
By every native heart's best wishes blest:
Of virtuous Greene, whose cherish'd name shall be
As everlasting as thy hills, Santee,
And borne on Fame's untir'd, earth-circling wings,
Rise pure and limpid as his Eutaw springs:
Of Marion, by his country not half known,
Who kept a war alive, himself alone;
And when the prostrate South defenceless lay
To foreign bands, and homebred foes a prey,
Still nurs'd the fainting spirit of the state,
And bravely tripp'd the heels of adverse Fate;
Still watch'd the footsteps of the plund'ring foe,
Who thought him distant till he felt the blow,
And hung upon his flank, or straggling rear,
And made him buy each inch of land too dear:
Of Franklin, who by mind alone sustain'd,
The palm of Science, and of Wisdom gain'd,
Whose name deep rooted in this grateful land,
Against the wiles of Envy long shall stand;
And while Oblivion's wave, urg'd on by Time,
Swallows the mighty million, stand sublime.
Thus the rough torrent sweeps the Earth away,
And pilfers something from her every day,
While the steep rock, firm seated on its sides,
Rests calmly there and all its force derides;
The more the waters sap its rooted base,
It rises still in stern majestic grace;
Higher its brow of adamant uprears,
And deeper rooted in the earth appears.

Then would he turn his little hearers pale,
With many a melancholy matron's tale,
Which stately Hist'ry deems beneath her pen—
The record of the woes of nameless men.
He told of hardships stern, and perils drear,
That met our soldiers in their sad career,
How from their comfortable homes they came,
To help their country, not to fight for fame;
How still half starv'd, half naked, and half froze,
On the sharp earth, or ice-glaz'd Winter snows,
Track'd by their blood, like wounded deer they rov'd,
And brav'd all hardships, for the cause they lov'd;
Ev'n on the verge of Famine's yawning jaws,
Not one betray'd his suffering Country's cause,
Not one deserted to the conq'ring band,
Or sold his comrades, or his native land:
Still to their glorious leader bravely true,
The war's vicissitudes they struggled through,
Sav'd this good land, and when the tug was o'er,
Begg'd their way home, at every scoundrel's door.

But there was one, aye known and honour'd well,
Of whom our Basil lov'd the best to tell.
O! how he dwelt upon that finish'd mind,
Which left all ancient patterns far behind;
Whose virtues all so nicely balanc'd were,
That none seem'd very great, or very rare;
Like classic temple whose proportions meet
In such true harmony, such concord sweet,
It oft deceives the inexperienc'd sight,
That measures not its proud superior height;
'Tis not a part—it is the matchless whole—
The combination, that enchants the soul.

O! spotless, blameless, high heroic name,
Heir of the World's best gift, unblemish'd Fame!
What though no stately sculptures deck thy tomb,
Or blazon'd 'scutcheons its pale vault illume,
The freedom which thy steady virtues gave,
Is the best monument that thou canst have;
While grateful millions consecrate thy name,
Thou need'st no tomb to prop thy deathless fame.
For me—I joy that he, who when alive,
'Gainst empty pageants did so nobly strive,
When dead, reposes by his parents' side,
Debas'd by no vile attributes of pride.
I love the simple grave unspoil'd by art,
Of him whose tomb is every virtuous heart!
Proud monuments in stately pomp that rise,
And cheat the world with flattery and lies,
May give distinction to the artist's name,
And consecrate e'en nothingness to fame;
But wheresoe'er a Washington may rest,
There Fame shall make her everlasting nest;
For that renown the one from tombs receives,
The other to the simplest hillock gives.
No mass of marble towering to the skies,
Where truth inflated, turns to nauseous lies,
No pen historic, nor the fabling lyre,
Attun'd to flattery, his deeds require:
Look in his Country's face, you'll see them there!
List to her voice, you'll hear them in the air!
No need of pompous epitaphs to tell,
His high-wrought soul has bade this orb farewell,
For when from Earth retires the glorious Sun,
The darken'd World proclaims his race is run.

Often as Memory chang'd her varying glass
To melancholy musings they would pass,
And please themselves, that in some future day,
They'd visit those dear friends so far away,
And mid their wondering kinsfolk proudly tell,
What dangers they had fear'd, and what befel.
Right pleas'd to think they'd see that home again,
The present moment lost its keenest pain;
And while they put it off from year to year,
The world they could not visit sought them here,
For every passing Summer hither brought,
Some hardy wight who independence sought,
And many a distant friend, who chanc'd to hear
How they had prosper'd, came and join'd them here;
Till, in good time, their new found world appear'd,
E'en just like that to memory long endear'd.
Thus fond delusive Hope—thou honest cheat!
Dost ever lure us on with promise sweet;
And, when the dear reality is fled,
Set us to chase some phantom in its stead,
Till to the present reconcil'd at last,
We pine nor for the future, or the past,
What we can't hope to taste, no more regret,
And what's beyond our reach, in time forget.
The present, past, and future, sooth to say,
Within each other's hands, like gamesters play;
When the dark present wears no charm the while,
We to the future turn, and see it smile;
And when the future desolate appears,
The present joy with full fruition cheers;
While when they both with gloom are overcast,
We fly for refuge to the days long past,
Muster the good deeds of our youthful prime,
And light Hope's lamp amid the wrecks of Time.

Meanwhile, more prosp'rous grew each good man's lot,
Till each in time a goodly farm had got,
For their wise landlord knew his interest well,
And half his land for almost nought would sell;
Knowing the other would right soon repay
The half that he had almost giv'n away.
Now the log hut, erst haunt of sturdy men,
Degen'rate lot! became the porker's pen,
While stately fabricks rose on every side,
The good man's comfort, and the good dame's pride;
To cultivated fields, the forest chang'd,
Where golden harvests wav'd, and cattle rang'd;
The curling smoke amid the wilds was seen,
The village church now whiten'd on the green,
And by its side arose the little school,
Where rod and reason, lusty urchins rule,
Whose loud repeated lessons might be heard,
Whene'er along the road a wight appear'd.

Thus passed the time, and thus amid the wild,
A dauntless man, became each blooming child;
Toil brac'd their nerves, and dangers made them brave,
And not a drop of blood here smack'd of slave;
Their hardy labours in the fields were plied,
With trusty rifle ever at their side;
Their hours of sport amid the woods were spent,
Chasing the deer, with hound of trusty scent,
Or warring with the wolf, and scoundrel bear,
Whom kindness cannot sooth, nor threat'ning scare.
All round they saw no being that might claim,
A rank superior, or a prouder name,
To tread the mounting spirit to the earth,
And crush the soul of Freedom in its birth;
Each was a man, for manhood's stamp he bore,
And none was less than that, and none was more,
In sweet according harmony was join'd,
The active body, with the active mind,
The spirit that will break Oppression's chain,
Yet follow like a lamb in Reason's train.

'Tis true—yet 'tis no pity that 'tis true,
Many fine things they neither felt nor knew.
Unlike the sons of Europe's happier clime,
They never died to music's melting chime,
Or groan'd, as if in agonizing pain,
At some enervate, whining, sickly strain;
Nor would they sell their heritage of rights,
For long processions, fetes, and pretty sights,
Or barter for a bauble, or a feast,
All that distinguishes the man from beast.
With them, alas! the fairest masterpiece,
Of beggar'd Italy, or rifled Greece,
A chisell'd wonder, or a thing of paint,
A marble godhead, or a canvass saint,
Were poor amends for cities wrapt in flame,
A ruin'd land and deep dishonour'd name;
Nor would they mourn Apollo sent away,
More than the loss of Freedom's glorious day;
Among them was no driv'ling princely race,
Who'd beggar half a state, to buy a vase,
Or starve a province nobly to reclaim,
From mother Earth, a thing without a name,
Some mutilated trunk decay'd and worn,
Of head bereft, of legs and arms all shorn,
Worthless, except to puzzle learned brains,
And cause a world of most laborious pains,
To find if this same headless, limbless thing,
A worthless godhead was, or worthless king.

Not such were these, whose story I unfold,
Or else some other might their tale have told.
No! they were men whose minds were form'd to dare,
Whose bodies fram'd the hardest toils to bear,
Men who whene'er their native land's to save,
Will win the meed or find a glorious grave.
Of such rare spirits was that gallant band,
Who 'gainst the bloody Indian made a stand,
Through the dark pathless woods did bravely chase
The treacherous warriors to their hiding place,
Though knowing well that in the bloody field,
They spare no soul, of all that fight or yield.

O rare Kentucky! gallant Tennessee,
And young Ohio, we are bound to thee!
Though like the aged patriarch's fav'rite son,
The younger born, a glorious race ye've run.
Be this the legend on your crests engrav'd,
Like Joseph we our elder brethren sav'd.
In some more happy, nor far distant day,
When that detested poison ebbs away,
That floats in our young Country's swelling veins,
And spots her face with party colour'd stains,
Chills the wild throbbing of the heart's high beat,
And cools the glowing pulse's gen'rous heat,
O! then some bard shall frame a loftier lay,
Which sung, perchance, in some far distant day,
Along Ohio's tranquil, silvery tide,
Will many a bosom swell with honest pride,
And teach to myriad mortals yet unborn,
To turn on haughty Europe scorn for scorn,
That second Afric—robb'd of liberty,
By the same cheats that set the negro free.