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The backwoodsman

Paulding, James Kirke (1778-1860)

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THE BACKWOODSMAN.

A POEM.

TO THE READER.

That the author may not be charged with having failed in what he did not attempt, it may be as well, perhaps, to state the extent of the design of the following poem. His object was to indicate to the youthful writers of his native country, the rich poetic resources with which it abounds, as well as to call their attention home, for the means of attaining to novelty of subject, if not to originality in style or sentiment. The story was merely assumed as affording an easy and natural way of introducing a greater variety of scenery, as well as more diversity of character; and whether the writer shall ever attempt to complete his original intention in the construction of a regular plan, will principally depend on the reception given to this experiment. Some reasons of no consequence to the public, induce him to state that the present work was begun more than five years ago, so far as the intention, and the preparation of some scanty materials, may be said to constitute a beginning. In three or four instances, some descriptions of natural scenery have been borrowed from former publications of the author, as being more properly adapted to a work of this nature.

Washington, July, 1818.

BOOK FIRST.

My humble theme is of a hardy swain,
The lowliest of the lowly rural train,
Who left his native fields afar to roam,
In western wilds, in search of happier home.
Simple the tale I venture to rehearse,
For humble is the Muse, and weak her verse;
She hazards not, to sing in lofty lays,
Of steel-clad knights, renown'd in other days,
For glorious feats that, in this dastard time,
Would on the gallows make them swing sublime;
Or tell of stately dames of royal birth,
That scorn'd communion with dull things of earth,
With fairies leagu'd, and dwarfs of goblin race,
Of uncouth limbs, and most unseemly face,

Tremendous wights! that erst in nursery-keep
Were used to scare the froward babe to sleep.

Neglected Muse! of this our western clime,
How long in servile, imitative rhyme,
Wilt thou thy stifled energies impart,
And miss the path that leads to every heart?
How long repress the brave decisive flight,
Warm'd by thy native fires, led by thy native light?
Thrice happy he who first shall strike the lyre,
With homebred feeling, and with homebred fire;
He need not envy any favour'd bard,
Who Fame's bright meed, and Fortune's smiles reward;
Secure, that wheresoe'er this empire rolls,
Or east, or west, or tow'rd the firm fixed poles,
While Europe's ancient honours fade away,
And sink the glories of her better day,
When, like degenerate Greece, her former fame
Shall stand contrasted with her present shame,
And all the splendours of her bright career
Shall die away, to be relighted here,
A race of myriads will the tale rehearse,
And love the author of the happy verse.

Come then, neglected Muse! and try with me
The untrack'd path—'tis death or victory;
Let Chance or Fate decide, or critics will,
No fame I lose—I am but nothing still.

From Hudson—oft, and well remember'd name!—
Led by the star of Hope, our hero came;
Here was he born, and here perchance had died,
But Fate ordain'd he other scenes should bide;
For Basil, like true Yankee lad, a wife
Took to himself ere settled half in life,
And soon began, in sober truth to prove,
The cares that often break the heart of love.
For, well-a-day! the offspring's sweetest smile,
And wife's caress, may fail to sweeten toil;
Nor can the gentlest nature always stem
The thought, that all these cares are brav'd for them.
Each morn we saw him, ere the rising sun,
And saw him, when his golden course was run,
Toiling, through all the livelong tedious day,
To chase the scarecrow Poverty away;
And when the sacred day of rest came round,
Nor rest, nor village church by him was found;

Along the river's bank still forc'd to roam,
To catch a meal for wife and babes at home.
Thus all his days in one long toil were past,
And each new day seem'd heavier than the last,
While the keen thought that his hard sinewy hand
Was blister'd, labouring on another's land;
That the rich products which he toil'd to rear,
To others' boards gave plenty through the year,
While he and his, at home, but half supplied,
Shar'd all the ills that poverty betide,
To many an hour of bitterness gave birth,
And smote his mounting spirit to the earth.

O! Independence! man's bright mental sun,
With blood and tears by our brave country won,
Parent of all, high mettled man adorns,
The nerve of steel, the soul that meanness scorns,
The mounting wind that spurns the tyrant's sway,
The eagle eye that mocks the God of day,
Turns on the lordly upstart scorn for scorn,
And drops its lid to none of woman born!
With blood, and tears, and hardships thou wert bought,
Yet rich the blessings thy bright sway has wrought;

Hence comes it that a gallant spirit reigns
Unknown among old Europe's hapless swains,
Who slaves to some proud lord, himself a slave,
From sire to son from cradle to the grave,
From race to race, more dull and servile grow,
Until at last they nothing feel or know.
Hence comes it, that our meanest farmer's boy
Aspires to taste the proud and manly joy
That springs from holding in his own dear right
The land he plows, the home he seeks at night;
And hence it comes, he leaves his friends and home,
Mid distant wilds and dangers drear to roam,
To seek a competence, or find a grave,
Rather than live a hireling or a slave.
As the bright waving harvest field he sees,
Like sunny ocean rippling in the breeze,
And hears the lowing herd, the lambkins' bleat,
Fall on his ear in mingled concert sweet,
His heart sits lightly on its rustic throne,
The fields, the herds, the flocks are all his own.

But Basil tasted not this sober bliss,
A diff'rent and a sterner lot was his;

Years pass'd away, and every year that past
Brought cares and toils still heavier than the last;
For still, each passing year, his fruitful wife
Brought a new burthen struggling into life,
Till, sooth to say, his house became too small,
Within its narrow walls to hold them all,
And all the struggles of our hardy swain
Could scarcely keep from want the lusty train.
At last, one winter came,—relentless time!—
Fear'd by the wretched in this pinching clime,
Where driving sleets and piercing whistling wind
Through every cranny a rude entrance find,
Chilling the cottage hearth, whose stinted blaze
Half warms the urchin that around it plays.
The trying season came, and, sad to tell,
Rheumatic agonies on Basil fell,
And with a rude, unsparing, withering hand
Cast him a wreck on Life's hard frozen strand.
No more his vigorous arm can strike the blow
That lays the monarch of the woodland low;
No more, alas! no more his daily toils
Feed his poor babes, and wake their grateful smiles;

For when the poor man sickens, all is gone,
Health, food, and all his comforts—every one;
The hand that fed the little whitehair'd race,
Lies motionless, in one sad resting place,
And keen varieties of wo combin'd
Prey on his flesh, and lacerate his mind.
But when the rich one suffers—happy wealth!
He feels no want, but the one want of health;
And all those precious comforts that impart
Such soothings to the sad and sinking heart,
Still in his cup with plenteous current flow
And half create oblivion of his wo;
No anxious cares molest his weaken'd mind
For starving wife and children left behind,
Who, when the sire that fed them shall be dead,
Will pine in anguish for their daily bread,
And meet no succour, save from that good Hand
Which fed the prophet in a desert land.

Were I to tell what Basil suffer'd now,
What agonizing drops roll'd down his brow,
As sad he lay upon his stinted bed,
Fearing to die, yet wishing he were dead;

How through that endless winter, Want and Pain,
Like rival fiends, tugg'd at his heart and brain;
How when his wife to distant neighbour's home,
For work or charity each day would roam;
Alone he lay, all desolate the while,
Sooth'd by no kind caress, or offspring's smile;
While other sounds there never met his ear,
But moans for food, that smote his heart to hear,
However sad the story, or how true,
The tale, alas! were neither strange nor new;
For even in this—man's chosen resting place,—
This nestling corner of the human race;—
This new Medina of the glowing West—
Where want finds plenty, and the exile rest,
Such scenes in real life, we sometimes see,
That blunt the keener edge of sympathy,
And teach, that rich and poor, the wise and fool,
Take lessons, soon or late, in Misery's school.

But time, as wise ones say, can all things cure,
Or what's as well, can teach us to endure;
For ever tasting, our enjoyment cloys—
For ever suffering, half our pain destroys;

The prosperous, fear to lose what they possess,
The poor man, hopes some future hour will bless;
The happy, live in constant fear to die,
The wretched, hope for immortality;
Fear to the one, paints danger from afar,
Hope, is the other's bright and blessed star.
Now laughing Spring came on, and birds, in pairs,
Chirp'd in the lively woods, while balmy airs
And warming beams, no more with frosts at strife,
Wak'd from its trance the genial tide of life,
That as it flow'd through Nature's swelling veins,
Freed every pulse from Winter's icy chains,
Tinted her mantling cheek with rosy hue,
And call'd her vernal beauties all to view;
The swelling buds forth from their coverts sprung,
And push'd away the wither'd leaves that hung
Whispering through many a shivering wint'ry blast,
To fall in the first breath of Spring at last.
Like dead men, in their graves forgot, they lie,
Unmark'd by all, save some lone musing eye
That marvels much, and idly, on its way,
Men, with such cause to weep, should be so gay.

Who can resist the coaxing voice of Spring,
When flowers put forth and sprightly songsters sing?
He is no honest son of mother Earth,
And shames the holy dame that gave him birth;
We are her children, and when forth she hies,
Dress'd in her wedding suit of varied dyes,
Beshrew the churl that does not feel her charms,
And love to nestle in her blooming arms;
He has no heart, or such a heart as I
Would not possess for all beneath the sky:
For thus to sit upon the clover'd brow
Of some full bosom'd hill as I do now,
And see the river, wind its happy way,
Round jutting points, with Spring's blest verdure gay,
Bearing upon its broad expansive brim
A flock of little barques that gayly skim
Backward and forth, as wayward zephyrs blow,
Like buoyant swans, all white as wint'ry snow;
And hear the distant waves so faintly roar
On the white sand, or whiter pebbled shore,
Mix'd with the whip-poor-will, and warbling train,
That hail the evening with their mingled strain;

And, over all, to see the Sun's last rays
Gild the glad world, and make the forests blaze.—
Yes—thus to sit in some gay solitude,
And call around him Memory's shadowy brood,
By turning to the folded leaf to look
For some sweet record, in Time's sacred book,
That brings to mind a train of gentle themes,
Ideal joys, and sprites of long past dreams
Of happy times, I never may forget,
That thrill with no sharp pang of keen regret,
But like the splendours of a summer day,
Amid the western clouds more sweetly play,
Reflected in the skies when day is past,
Each varying hue still softer than the last—
This is my happiness—and those who know
A surer path to peace on Earth below,
May keep it to themselves—I lack it not,
Content with what I am—and with my lot.

Even Basil, as all desolate he lay,
Felt the bland influence of Spring's newborn sway;
The Sun's warm beams like oil of gladness came,
And pour'd fresh vigour through his wasted frame;

Relax'd his rigid muscles like a charm,
And now a leg, and now a helpless arm,
Reviv'd to motion, life, and liberty,
Till in good time his wasted frame was free;
Life through his wither'd trunk resistless flow'd,
And his brown cheek with Health's own colour glow'd.
Yet though Health came, and in her jocund train
Brought all his wonted comforts back again,
Still anxious cares would throng his manly breast,
And poison many an hour of toil and rest.
The thought, when wint'ry frosts again came round,
And dash'd the forest's honours to the ground,
Its chilling influence might again renew
The scene that cleft his stubborn heart in two;
That once again himself, his babes, his wife,
Might be indebted for a niggard life,
To those who had but little to bestow,
Wak'd in his heart anticipated wo,
And rous'd his spirit to go any where,
Rather than such a beggar'd lot to share.
At last there reach'd his eager listening ear,
A tale that made his heart leap light to hear;

'Twas said that o'er the hills, and far away,
Towards the setting sun, a land there lay,
Whose unexhausted energies of soil
Nobly repaid the hardy lab'rer's toil;
Where men were worth full twice their weight in gold,
And goodly farms for almost nought were sold;
Prairies of flowers, and grassy meads abound,
And rivers every where meander round.

The news like music came to Basil's ear,
And mov'd his mind to seek a refuge here;
What though long tedious miles did intervene,
And dangers lurk his hopes and him between;
What if he bade a long, nay last adieu,
To scenes his earliest feelings fondly knew,
Bright Independence could the loss repay,
And make him rich amends some other day;
Better to leave all these, and friends most dear,
Than live a pining pauper half the year.
His trembling wife, when this resolve was known,
Shrunk from the journey to these regions lone,
But sooth'd, at last, by Hope's persuasive wile,
Consented gayly with a tearful smile;

Brac'd every nerve to meet the parting day,
When they to distant lands should speed away,
And, like right trusty dame, resolv'd to share
The good man's lot, how hard soe'er it were.

Soon all was ready, for but little they
To such far distant wilds could move away,
And if they could, their store of goods was small,
And little time it took to pack them all:
A little cover'd cart held all their store,
And, sooth to say, it might have held much more:
A sturdy nag, right rugged, rough, and strong,
Fitted to drag such equipage along,
“Stood ready dight,” as minstrel poets say,
To speed the little bevy on their way:—
Such was their outfit in this journey lone,
To distant wilds, and haunts to man unknown.

Now all was ready—but ere starting day
To village church poor Basil bent his way,
To ask of Him whose goodness ne'er denies
The prayers from honest poverty that rise,

Whose help is ever ready for the man
That helps himself, when help himself he can—
To ask for steady firmness to pursue
The honest purpose which he had in view;
That health would hover round his lonely way,
And God protect him through each passing day.
He begg'd no more—and all was freely given
By the sweet bounty of approving Heav'n.

And now the simple morning service o'er,
The neighbours throng'd round Basil at the door;
For they had heard his vent'rous project told—
Some thought him mad, some desperately bold;—
For 'twas not then as now—and such a plan,
Like a strange wonder, through the country ran,
And people star'd that he should leave his home,
Among the western wilds afar to roam.
The pastor bless'd him sadly as he past,
The young ones look'd as though they'd look their last,
While aged grandsires many a story told,
That made the breathless list'ners' blood run cold;
Of troops of howling wolves aye prowling round,
Of shaggy bears that every where abound,

And bloody Indian, whose infernal yell,
Of torture, death, and scalping tells full well;
Who hated blood of white-man never spares,
Women, nor babes, nor reverend snow white hairs.
They conjur'd up each story that they knew,
And car'd not, so 'twas strange, if it were true—
Of woodmen shot outright, in open day,
By prowling Indian watching for his prey;
Of sleeping wife and babes, rous'd by the yell
Of him whose voice is Death's shrill howling knell,
Consum'd in midnight flames, as lone they lay,
The father and protector far away.

Chill horror curdled every list'ner's blood,
And stiff on end the urchins' light hair stood,
But Basil still his manly heart sustain'd,
And to his daring purpose firm remain'd;
Hope was his guide, and led by that bright lure,
Man can the keenest rubs of life endure.
He was no haughty lordling's humble slave,
Stript of the mantle that his Maker gave;
No dull unletter'd hireling, whose starv'd mind
Just leaves, and hardly leaves, the beast behind;

Who chains and stripes with equal calmness bears,
And, so he eats enough, for neither cares;
Fit tenant for some little lord, who serves
Some little king, and, what he gives, deserves.
No! though the poorest of a poor man's race,
Our Basil was not born to such disgrace;
He felt that he was free, and that one word,
In his proud heart, a noble spirit stirr'd,
Whose gallant thrilling through his pulses ran,
And made him feel, and know himself a man.
He shook their outstretch'd hands, and bade them pray
That Heaven would speed him on his lonely way;
Then sought the aged tree, beneath whose shade
His sire, and mother, side by side were laid,
Leant o'er the simple mounds that mark'd the spot,
By all, save him, full many a year forgot,
And pray'd to live a life of honest fame,
And leave behind, like them, a spotless name.

BOOK SECOND.

Luck speed the wanderers! for at morning dawn
The lowly pilgrims from their home were gone,
The house was lifeless, not a breathing wight
Abided there at earliest peep of light,
Clos'd were the windows, barr'd the rustic door,
The fire was quench'd, to lighten never more.
The wife and little ones together rode,
While Basil walk'd, for heavy was the load,
And meet it was to spare the nag the while,
Whose pilgrimage was many a weary mile.
The mother's heart was like to die away,
As looking on the nestling one that lay
Sleeping, in smiles, fast in her circling arms,
And budding forth in all its infant charms;

The brisk boys laugh'd to think they'd have a ride,
Nor reck'd whatever else might hap beside;
While on the father's brow sat anxious care,
And brave resolve his fated lot to bear,
Whether mishap betide, or bright success,
With full fruition his high purpose bless.

Dark was the early dawn, dun vapours chill,
Cover'd the earth, and hid the distant hill,
A veil of mist obscur'd the struggling day,
That seemed to grope its slow uncertain way;
No insect chirp'd, or wakeful twitt'ring bird,
Within the copse, or briery dingle stirr'd.
Anon, far in the East light streaks of red
O'er the gray mists a tint of morning shed,
Brighter and still more bright their hues unfold,
Till all the sky was fring'd with burnish'd gold;
Up rose the gallant Sun! the mists away
Vanish'd, like spectres, at the dawn of day;
No silence now was in the waken'd groves,
For every bird began to chant his loves,
And all the liveried rabble insect crew,
That crawl'd upon the jewell'd earth, or flew,

Muster'd their merry notes and frisk'd away,
In many colour'd vestments—who but they!

'Twas sweet the morning minstrelsy to hear,
And Basil felt it to his heart most dear,
Although it was no bright unsullied joy,
But deeply tinctur'd with a sad alloy;
For, as with painful effort, faint and slow,
He gain'd the height that look'd o'er all below,
And stopt to rest, and turn'd to gaze behind,
A thousand tender thoughts throng'd on his mind.
Home look'd so happy in the Morning's smile,
He quite forgot his suff'rings there erewhile,
And but for honest shame, that makes us fear
The pointed finger, and the taunting sneer,
That never fail to greet the wav'ring man
Who weakly swerves from any settled plan,
He had return'd, though certain there again
To meet his old associates, Want and Pain.
Ah! there is something in the name of home,
That sounds so sweetly as afar we roam!
And who has worried through this world so lone,
But in his wand'rings this sad truth has known,

Whate'er may happen, wheresoe'er we roam,
However homely, still there's nought like home.

In truth it was a landscape wildly gay
That 'neath his lofty vision smiling lay;
A sea of mingling hills, with forests crown'd,
E'en to their summits, waving all around,
Save where some rocky steep aloft was seen,
Frowning amid the wild romantic scene,
Around whose brow, where human step ne'er trode,
Our native Eagle makes his high abode;
Oft in the warring of the whistling gales,
Amid the scampering clouds, he bravely sails,
Without an effort winds the loftiest sky,
And looks into the Sun with steady eye:
Emblem and patron of this fearless land,
He mocks the might of any mortal hand,
And, proudly seated on his native rock,
Defies the World's accumulated shock.
Here, mid the piling mountains scatter'd round,
His winding way majestic Hudson found,
And as he swept the frowning ridge's base,
In the pure mirror of his morning face,

A lovelier landscape caught the gazer's view,
Softer than nature, yet to nature true.
Now might be seen, reposing in stern pride,
Against the mountain's steep and rugged side,
High Putnam's battlements, like tow'r of old,
Haunt of night-robbing baron, stout and bold,
Scourge of his neighbour, Nimrod of the chase,
Slave of his king, and tyrant of his race.
Beneath its frowning brow, and far below,
The weltering waves, unheard, were seen to flow
Round West Point's rude and adamantine base,
That call'd to mind old Arnold's deep disgrace,
Andre's hard fate, lamented, though deserv'd,
And men, who from their duty never swerv'd—
The HONEST THREE—the pride of yeomen bold,
Who sav'd the country which they might have sold;
Refus'd the proffer'd bribe, and, sternly true,
Did what the man that doubts them ne'er would do.
Yes! if the Scroll of never-dying Fame,
Shall tell the truth, 'twill bear each lowly name;
And while the wretched man, who vainly tried
To wound their honour, and his Country's pride,

Shall moulder in the dirt from whence he came,
Forgot, or only recollected to his shame,
Quoted shall be these gallant, honest men,
By many a warrior's voice, and poet's pen,
To wake the sleeping spirit of the land,
And nerve with energy the patriot band.
Beyond, on either side the river's bound,
Two lofty promontories darkly frown'd,
Through which, in times long past, as learned say,
The pent up waters forc'd their stubborn way;
Grimly they frown'd, as menacing the wave
That storm'd their bulwarks with its current brave,
And seem'd to threaten from their shatter'd brow,
To crush the vessels all becalm'd below,
Whose white sails, hanging idly at the mast,
O'er the still waves a deep reflexion cast.
Still farther off, the Kaatskill, bold and high,
Kiss'd the pure concave of the arched sky,
Mingled with that its waving lines of blue,
And shut the world beyond from mortal view.

Poor Basil gaz'd with dim and sorrowing eyes,
And seem'd again the morning mists to rise,

While every object that in happier hour
Had often charm'd him with its wak'ning power,
Shot but a keener pang through his sad heart,
And made him more unwilling to depart.
So, to the dying man, the fairest scene
But marks his fate with agonies more keen;
The Sun's bright rays, the Morning's mellow smile,
Potent to sooth his hours of health erewhile;
The willow tufted stream, that shuns the day,
Yet by soft murmurs does its haunt betray;
The warblers of the woodland, sweet and wild,
That oft, in better days, his steps beguil'd;
The forms he loves that round him weeping stand,
Grasping with fond solicitude his hand,
As if with tender violence to stay
The tiptoe spirit on its airy way;—
All, all combin'd, but give the fatal dart
A deadlier venom, and a keener smart;
Dearer each friend, each object than before,
Just as we leave them, ne'er to see 'em more:
'Tis this which makes the bitterness of death,
Which else were nothing, but the loss of breath.

Now speed we on our way, nor stay to tell
What little rubs, or small mishaps befel,
As all through Jersey's pleasant land they wend,
And many a valley cross, and hill ascend;
What smiling scenes they saw, and what did not—
Scenes that, by me, will never be forgot!
Or where they stopt to rest, or sleep at night,
Who took their money, who refus'd outright:
Suffice, they reach'd one eve of Sabbath day,
Where Delaware pursues his winding way
Parting the sister states, that side by side
Smile on each other in the limpid tide.
'Twas just where rambling Lehigh—pleasant stream!
Fit haunt for bard to wander and to dream—
Ev'n like a gentle, all confiding maid,
By true Affection's fondest impulse sway'd,
Glides into Delaware's encircling arms,
And silently surrenders all her charms,
Gives up her very being evermore,
And that sweet virgin name of old she bore.

'Twas sunset's hallow'd time—and such an eve
Might almost tempt an angel Heaven to leave.

Never did brighter glories greet the eye,
Low in the warm, and ruddy Western sky,
Nor the light clouds at Summer eve unfold
More varied tints of purple, red, and gold.
Some in the pure, translucent, liquid breast
Of crystal lake, fast anchor'd seem'd to rest,
Like golden islets scatter'd far and wide,
By elfin skill in Fancy's fabled tide,
Where, as wild Eastern legends idly feign,
Fairy, or genii, hold despotic reign.
Others, like vessels, gilt with burnish'd gold,
Their flitting airy way are seen to hold,
All gallantly equipt with streamers gay,
While hands unseen, or Chance, directs their way;
Around, athwart, the pure ethereal tide,
With swelling purple sail, they rapid glide,
Gay as the barque, where Egypt's wanton queen
Reclining on the shaded deck was seen,
At which as gaz'd the uxorious Roman fool,
The subject world slipt from his dotard rule.
Anon, the gorgeous scene begins to fade,
And deeper hues the ruddy skies invade;

The haze of gathering twilight Nature shrouds,
And pale, and paler, wax the changeful clouds.
Then sunk the breeze into a breathless calm,
The silent dews of evening dropt like balm;
The hungry nighthawk from his lone haunt hies,
To chase the viewless insect through the skies;
The bat began his lantern loving flight,
The lonely whip-poor-will, our bird of night,
Ever unseen, yet ever seeming near,
His shrill note quaver'd in the startled ear;
The buzzing beetle forth did gayly hie,
With idle hum, and careless blund'ring eye;
The little trusty watchman of pale night,
The firefly, trimm'd anew his lamp so bright,
And took his merry airy circuit round
The sparkling meadow's green and fragrant bound,
Where blossom'd clover, bath'd in balmy dew,
In fair luxuriance, sweetly blushing grew.

O! holy Nature! goddess ever dear,
What a fair scene for human bliss was here!
What pleasant rural sports, what calm delights,
Dear happy Summer days, and Winter nights,

Might in such tranquil nestling place be spent,
Lull'd in the downy lap of sweet Content!
But vain it is, that rich and bounteous Heav'n,
To wretched man this smiling Earth has giv'n,
And all in vain its winning face displays
Such beauties to allure his reckless gaze,
While this same rash, malignant, reas'ning worm,
Bereft of all that's human but the form,
Pollutes her bosom with his kindred blood,
Turns to rank poison all her proffer'd good,
And plays before his Maker's sick'ning eyes
The serpent of this blooming Paradise.
Who that had gaz'd upon a scene so fair
Had dream'd this world a world of endless care,
Where evil deeds lurk ever in our way,
And Piety has nought to do but pray;
While all that lures to ill before us lies,
And all that tempts to good, is in the skies?
Not with wing'd angels good men wrestle here,
Like him of old, whom Israel's tribes revere;
But with a train of imps, in angel guise,
That sometimes even cheat the wary wise:

If one is foil'd, another still succeeds,
For victory but to harder trials leads,
Till tired at last, we quit the hopeless field,
Or to the weakest of the tempters yield,
And all the hard earn'd trophies thus restore,
Rather than fight one puny battle more.

The op'ning eyelids of the blue ey'd day
Saw our industrious pilgrims on their way;
For Spring was waning fast, the Summer near,
And Time would soon evolve the passing year;
Winter might come ere yet the houseless band
Had found a refuge in the promised land.
No idle fools, or idle knaves are they,
Who cannot stay at home their pray'rs to say;
No barefoot beggars, cloth'd in rags and dirt,
With leathern thong equipt, and sackcloth shirt,
Leaving the sacred duties of their home
In search of shrines or holy land to roam,
As if the God who hears the whisper'd pray'r,
Gave not his equal presence every where;
No! they were those who strove with gen'rous aim,
To 'scape the jaws of Beggary and Shame;

To gain amid the forest wild and drear
That competence to honest Worth so dear.
Surely such pilgrims seek a purer shrine
Than tombs of men, by priestcraft made divine,
And surely Heav'n will smile upon their way,
Ev'n though they seek not holy land to pray.

Now all through Pennsylvania's pleasant land,
Unheeded past our little roving band,
—For every soul had something here to do,
Nor turn'd aside our cavalcade to view—
By Bethlehem, where Moravian exiles bide,
In rural paradise, on Lehigh's side,
And York and Lancaster—whose rival rose
In this good land, no bloody discord knows.
Not such their fate!—the ever grateful soil
Rewards the blue-ey'd German's patient toil;
Richer and rounder every year he grows,
Nor other ills his stagnant bosom knows
Than caitiff grub, and cursed Hessian fly,
Mildews, and smuts, a dry or humid sky;
Before he sells, the market's sudden fall,
Or sudden rise, when sold—still worse than all!

Calmly he lives—the tempest of the mind,
That marks its course by many a wreck behind;
The purpose high that great Ambition feels,
Sometimes perchance upon his vision steals,
But never in his sober waking thought
One stirring, active impulse ever wrought.
Calmly he lives—as free from good as blame,
His home, his dress, his equipage the same,
And when he dies, in sooth, 'tis soon forgot
What once he was, or what he once was not—
An honest man, perhaps,—'tis somewhat odd,
That such should be the noblest work of God!

So have I seen in garden rich and gay,
A stately cabbage waxing fat each day;
Unlike the lively foliage of the trees,
Its stubborn leaves ne'er wave in Summer breeze,
Nor flower, like those that prank the walks around,
Upon its clumsy stem is ever found;
It heeds not noontide heats, or Evening's balm,
And stands unmov'd in one eternal calm.
At last, when all the Garden's pride is lost,
It ripens in drear Autumn's killing frost,

And in a sav'ry sourkrout finds its end,
From which detested dish, me Heaven defend!

Now reach'd they Susquehanna's classic stream,
Well worthy of the poet's lay I deem,
And sweetly is it sung by him whose verse
Erewhile did Wyoming's sad tale rehearse,
In simple, plaintive, melancholy lay,
Worthy the sweetest minstrel of our day:
No need that I should tell his gentle name,
You'll find it on the roll of deathless Fame.
In toilsome journey many a mile they past,
And reach'd long Alleghany's foot at last;
Wild, endless chain! that rising in the North,
Where stout St. Lawrence heaves his waters forth,
Pursues its devious course, firm bas'd and high,
Dark barrier of the East and Western sky,
And knits the sister states in one great band,
Ne'er to be sever'd by a mortal hand.
Here, seated where the first and last bright ray
Of morn and ev'ning round his footing play,
By past time, present, and the future bless'd,
Besides the genius of the glowing West.

High thron'd amid the pure ethereal skies,
The East and West with equal ken he eyes,
Watches with equal care each sister state,
The new and old, the little and the great;
With equal pleasure sees the Sun arise
In ruddy East, or set in Western skies,
And joys, from petty local feelings free,
In ALL the Land's combin'd prosperity.

Here, too, the god of mighty rivers bides,
And his exhaustless urn pours down its sides;
Some westward roll, and, gathering on their way,
Through untrack'd glens and shady labyrinths stray,
Whence stealing from their woods to fruitful plains,
Where gen'rous Plenty greets industrious swains,
They meet at last on fair Ohio's side,
And lose their being in that ample tide.
Others, far eastward wending, find their way
To Pennsylvanian landscapes rich and gay,
Or through long devious vales, meandering slow,
To southern lands, still gathering on they flow,
Till cent'ring in Potomac's ample wave,
The sister states on either side they lave,

And in the deep Atlantic's breast at last,
Through Chesapeake's wide op'ning all are cast.

Hard was the tugging up that mighty hill,
Full oft the sturdy pony stood stock still;
And had not Basil watch'd the wheel right well,
Back they had tumbled—where, no soul can tell.
At last they reach'd the summit rough and high,
Just as the stars began to gem the sky,
And twinkle, as if weeping those light dews
Which pale-ey'd Evening o'er the parch'd Earth strews:
They sought the hut where lowly trav'llers bide,
And nestling close together, side by side,
Napp'd it right sweetly till the Morn's gay smile
Rous'd to another long, long day of toil.

Hail, blessed Night! tir'd Nature's holiday!
When all the lab'ring world has leave to play;
Thou smooth'st the sweating workman's wrinkled brow,
The galley slave, and peasant at the plough,
The stooping sitheman, and the axeman good,
Whose weapon's like a whirlwind in the wood,

Love thy pale shadows, as with watchful eye
They trace the Sun adown the western sky,
Thou mak'st them sweet amends for toilsome pain
By the light rest they find beneath thy reign.
Not so th' ill-neighbour'd lids of Discontent;
They hold no fellowship—and night is spent
In dull repinings at our wayward fate,
Or quarrels with that world we love and hate,
And while rough Labour sleeps on rocks alone,
To such the downy pillow seems a stone.

Our Basil beat the lazy Sun next day,
And bright and early had been on his way,
But that the world he saw e'en yesternight,
Seem'd faded like a vision from his sight.
One endless chaos spread before his eyes,
No vestige left of Earth or azure skies,
A boundless nothingness reign'd every where,
Hid the green fields, and silent all the air.
As look'd the trav'ller for the world below,
The lively morning breeze began to blow,
The magic curtain roll'd in mists away,
And a gay landscape laugh'd upon the day.

As light the fleeting vapours upward glide,
Like sheeted spectres on the mountain side,
New objects open to his wondering view
Of various form, and combinations new,
A rocky precipice, a waving wood,
Deep winding dell, and foaming mountain flood,
Each after each, with coy and sweet delay,
Broke on his sight, as at young dawn of day,
Bounded afar by peak aspiring bold,
Like giant capt with helm of burnish'd gold.
So when the wandering grandsire of our race
On Ararat had found a resting place,
At first a shoreless ocean met his eye,
Mingling on every side with one blue sky;
But as the waters, every passing day,
Sunk in the earth, or roll'd in mists away,
Gradual, the lofty hills, like islands peep,
From the rough bosom of the boundless deep,
Then the round hillocks and the meadows green,
Each after each, in freshen'd bloom are seen,
Till, at the last, a fair and finish'd whole
Combin'd to win the gazing patriarch's soul.

Yet oft he look'd, I ween, with anxious eye,
In lingering hope somewhere, perchance, to spy,
Within the silent world, some living thing,
Crawling on earth, or moving on the wing,
Or man, or beast—alas! was neither there,
Nothing that breath'd of life in earth or air;
'Twas a vast silent mansion rich and gay,
Whose occupant was drown'd the other day;
A church-yard, where the gayest flowers oft bloom
Amid the melancholy of the tomb;
A charnel house, where all the human race
Had pil'd their bones in one wide resting place;
Sadly he turn'd from such a sight of wo,
And sadly sought the lifeless world below.

Now down the mountain's rugged western side,
Descending slow, our lowly trav'llers hied,
Deep in a narrow glen, within whose breast
The rolling fragments of the mountain rest;
Rocks tumbled on each other, by rude chance,
Crown'd with gay fern, and mosses, met the glance,
Through which a brawling river brav'd its way,
Dashing among the rocks in foamy spray.

Here, mid the fragments of a broken world,
In wild and rough confusion, idly hurl'd,
Where ne'er was heard the woodman's echoing stroke,
Rose a huge forest of gigantic oak;
With heads that tower'd half up the mountain's side,
And arms extending round them far and wide,
They look'd coeval with old mother Earth,
And seem'd to claim with her an equal birth.
There, by a lofty rock's moss-mantled base,
Our tir'd advent'rers found a resting place;
Beneath its dark, o'erhanging, sullen brow,
The little bevy nestled snug below,
And with right sturdy appetite, and strong,
Devour'd the rustic meal they brought along.

The squirrel ey'd them from his lofty tree,
And chirp'd as wont, with merry morning glee;
The woodcock crow'd as if alone he were,
Or heeded not the strange intruders there,
Sure sign they little knew of man's proud race
In that sequester'd mountain biding place;
For wheresoe'er his wandering footsteps tend.
Man never makes the rural train his friend;

Acquaintance that brings other beings near,
Produces nothing but distrust or fear;
Beasts flee from man, the more his heart they know,
And fears, at last, to fix'd aversion grow.
As thus in blithe serenity they sat,
Beguiling resting time with lively chat,
A distant, half heard murmur caught the ear,
Each moment waxing louder, and more near,
A dark obscurity spread all around,
And more than twilight seem'd to veil the ground,
While not a leaf ev'n of the aspin stirr'd,
And not a sound, but that low moan was heard.
There is a moment when the boldest heart
That would not stoop an inch to 'scape Death's dart,
That never shrunk from certain danger here,
Will quail and shiver with an aguish fear;
'Tis when some unknown mischief hovers nigh,
And Heav'n itself seems threat'ning from on high.

Brave was our Basil, as became a man,
Yet still his blood a little cooler ran,
'Twixt fear and wonder, at that murmur drear,
That every moment wax'd more loud and near.

The riddle soon was read—at last it came,
And Nature trembled to her inmost frame;
The forest roar'd, the everlasting oak
In writhing agonies the storm bespoke,
The live leaves scatter'd wildly every where,
Whirl'd round in madd'ning circles in the air,
The stoutest limbs were scatter'd all around,
The stoutest trees a stouter master found,
Crackling, and crashing, down they thund'ring go,
And seem to crush the shrinking rocks below:
Then the thick rain in gathering torrents pour'd,
Higher the river rose and louder roar'd,
And on its dark, quick eddying surface bore
The gather'd spoils of Earth along its shore,
While trees that not an hour before had stood
The lofty monarchs of the stately wood,
Now whirling round and round with furious force,
Dash 'gainst the rocks that breast the torrent's force,
And shiver like a reed by urchin broke,
Through idle mischief, or with heedless stroke;
A hundred cataracts, unknown before,
Rush down the mountain's side with fearful roar,

And as with foaming fury down they go,
Loose the firm rocks and thunder them below;
Blue light'nings from the dark cloud's bosom sprung,
Like serpents, menacing with forked tongue,
While many a sturdy oak that stiffly brav'd
The threat'ning hurricane that round it rav'd,
Shiver'd beneath its bright resistless flash,
Came tumbling down amain with fearful crash.
Air, Earth, and Skies, seem'd now to try their pow'r,
And struggle for the mastery of the hour;
Higher the waters rose, and blacker still,
And threaten'd soon the narrow vale to fill.

Where are the little bold wayfarers now
We left, erewhile beneath the rude rock's brow?
Does that same Pow'r, whose voice in thunder roars,
Whose breath, the whirlwind, might the waters pours,
Still watch amid this hour of wild alarm,
And shield the trembling wanderers from harm?
Yes! there they sat like lambs within their fold,
While all around the swelling waters roll'd,

Making an island of the little space
Where they had found their pleasant resting place:
Close to their pent up feet the torrent past,
And every moment seem'd as 'twere the last;
For still the rain in gathering fury pour'd,
And still the river rose, and louder roar'd.

The trembling wife and boys sat moveless by,
Watching, in breathless stillness, Basil's eye,
Perchance to see if from its orb there broke
A ray that bright deliverance bespoke,
For still in Danger's most besetting hour,
There is a lofty and resistless power
Thron'd in the steady visage and calm eye
That knows what danger is, yet dares to die.
'Tis here when Hope with long exertions tires,
The fainting spirit lights its waning fires,
'Tis here that Weakness, when the blood is froze,
Turns her dim eyes, when these she dare unclose,
And infant instinct aye to reason true,
Looks, and still feels its confidence renew.

As raving madness, when the fit is o'er,
Sinks fainting down, still weaker than before,
Sudden tir'd Nature sunk in calm repose;
The storm subsided rapid as it rose;
The dark clouds sail'd behind the mountain's head,
The river shrunk within its wonted bed;
The laughing sunbeams on its surface play,
And blithe as birds our pilgrims wend their way,
For as upon the wrecks their eyes they cast,
Their hearts grew lighter for the danger past.
Few days now brought them to their journey's close,
And gave the weary wand'rers short repose,
Ohio's gentle stream before them lay,
In tranquil silence gliding on its way,
And parting, with its current as it ran,
The prowling savage from the christian man.

Here lay dark Pittsburgh, from whose site there broke
The manufacturer's black and sparkling smoke,
Where Industry and useful Science reign'd,
And man, by labour, all his wants sustain'd;

There, mid the howling forest dark and drear,
Rov'd the wild Indian, wilder than the deer,
King of the woods—who other blessings priz'd,
And arts and industry alike despis'd:
Hunting the trade, and war the sport he loved,
Free as the winds, the dauntless chieftain rov'd,
Taunting with bitter ire, the pale-fac'd slave,
Who toils for gold from cradle to the grave.
Extremes of habits, manners, time and space,
Brought close together, here stood face to face,
And gave at once a contrast to the view
That other lands and ages never knew;
Pass but the river, and that world where meet
Of bland society each courteous sweet,
Is left behind, for manners wild and rude,
And scenes of death, or deathlike solitude.

Sweet river of the West! a purer wave,
A fairer region never yet did lave!
Tranquil, and smooth, and clear, its current roves
Through flowery meadows, and long sylvan groves;

Winding in silence on its destin'd way,
Idly it lingers with a sweet delay,
And often turns, as if its course to find,
Back to the smiling scenes it left behind.
Sweet river of the West! though yet unsung
By native bard, thy native vales among—
Though yet no strains of native music pour,
To wake the sleeping echoes of thy shore,
Ere long some minstrel from thy banks shall spring,
And track thy wand'rings with a loftier wing,
In worthier strains thy various charms rehearse,
And in oblivion drown my weaker verse.

Yes! the bright day is dawning, when the West
No more shall crouch before old Europe's crest,
When men who claim thy birthright, Liberty,
Shall burst their leading-strings and dare be free,
Nor while they boast thy blessings, trembling stand,
Like dastard slaves before her, cap in hand,
Cherish her old absurdities as new,
And all her cast-off follies here renew;

Statesmen no more from thence their precepts draw,
And borrow both their reason and their law,
Like advertising quacks, right wond'rous sage,
With the same nostrums cure both youth and age,
And blundering up the lofty steeps of fame,
Break down the vigour of our youthful frame,
With stimulatives, fitted to revive
Some worn out profligate, scarce half alive;
When Mind at last shall break its rusty chain,
And here, our chosen monarch, freely reign.

BOOK THIRD.

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.

BOOK FOURTH.

Thus happily sojourn'd our rural band,
Calm in the bosom of their native land;
Content, yet looking onward still to more,
And adding every year to last year's store,
Some comfort, or some luxury yet behind,
Still gave an impulse to the active mind,
And kept its moving current bright and clear,
By soft vicissitudes of hope and fear.
The story of Ambition's wild career,
Like some far travell'd rumour met their ear,
And when a monarch fell, or kingdom rose,
In sooth, it troubled not their calm repose;
They seem'd beyond the reach of War's dread strife,
And half the ills that checker human life.

But Mis'ry is a sure and stanch bloodhound,
That tracks the pathless Earth till man be found;
The World seems blithe and blessed every where,
Till Man appears, and tempts the Devil there,
Then the gaunt pack of suffering, Sin and Shame,
Come yelping on to hunt their fav'rite game,
To lap the life-blood, banquet on our groans,
And break our hearts, or turn them into stones.
They should be made of flint to stand the shock,
Of woes that cluster, and of hopes that mock,
For Happiness is but the flash that wings
The tuneful ball, that murders while it sings;
We, like the miser, hoard our little store
Of worldly bliss, and toil to make it more,
View with delight the rich and sparkling prize,
And hug the casket where the jewel lies;
Sudden the plund'rer comes—and all is flown,
Save the dark hollow, where the ruby shone.

Far in a dismal glen whose deep recess,
The Sun's life-giving ray did never bless,
Beside a lone and melancholy stream,
That never sparkled in the spritely beam,

Sever'd from all his copper-colour'd race,
A moody Indian made his biding place;
Here mid green carpets of dew dripping moss,
And solemn pines, that lock'd their arms across
The foam-crown'd brook, and with their gloomy shade
An everlasting dusky twilight made,
With hurrying steps, like maniac oft he trod,
And curs'd the white-man, and the white-man's God.
Once the proud painted chief of warriors brave,
Whose bones now bleaching lay without a grave,
A thousand red-men own'd his savage sway,
And follow'd on where'er he led the way,
Rang'd the wide forest many a countless mile,
And hail'd him lord of cruelty and wile—
Now, like a girdled tree, unleaf'd he stood,
The only relick of a stately wood;
The last of all his race—he lived alone,
His name, his being, and his haunts unknown.

Amid a sunless vegetation here,
Fungus, and mildew'd rottenness so drear,
He nurs'd his spleen, and studied day and night
How he his nation's wrongs might best requite,

Tear every white-man's offspring limb from limb,
And do to them, as they had done to him;
For no deep casuist, alas! was he,
The justice of the white-man's claims to see,
Or comprehend, why the pale slave of toil,
Who turns to gold the fruits of every soil,
A better claim had to this smiling earth,
Than those who rang'd it from their nation's birth.
Oft would he roam the pathless woods by night,
When star and moon refus'd their cheering light,
Invoke the shadows of his fallen race,
That howl about the world from place to place,
Or call dark spirits from their dread repose,
To sooth his vengeance and strike down his foes,
And when the echoes answer'd loud and near,
Would fancy that they throng'd around him here.
The passions that in other breasts bear sway,
And lead the race of man a different way,
He never knew, or if he e'er had known,
Before one master feeling they had flown.
The love of woman, glory, or of gain,
Ne'er caus'd a pang, or sooth'd an hour of pain,

All were condens'd in one intense desire,
That scorch'd his brain and heart with quenchless fire;
His very life and being it had grown,
He liv'd, he breath'd, in that, and that alone.

Thus long time brooding o'er one bloody theme,
That fill'd his daily musings, and his dream,
His brain to moody madness was beguil'd,
And broke into a chaos dark and wild—
Forsaken haunts unknown to the clear Heav'n,
Caves in the dripping rocks by torrents riv'n,
At eve he sought, and with half-smother'd breath,
Woo'd fell Revenge, and hungry white-ribb'd Death.
“Hark!” would he mutter, “every thing is still,
“The screech-owl, wolf, and boding whip-poor-will!
“Now is your time—come forth I prithee now—
“Come my pale darlings, fan my burning brow.
“If in the air ye hover—blessed things!—
“Come like the raven with his coal-black wings;
“If in the worthless, man-encumber'd earth,
“Like forked adders, crawl ye hissing forth;
“Come with an apple in your coiling train,
“And blast these ague-cheeks yet once again;

“Or if beneath the Ocean's mad'ning foam,
“Ye find your dark and melancholy home,
“Rise, with its ugliest monsters in your train,
“And give me vengeance for my people slain;
“So shall the blue detested wave that bore,
“The book-learn'd fiend, the white-man to this shore,
“With tardy justice help me to repay,
“The wrongs that eat my very heart away.”

The howling storm that drives the happy home,
But tempted him a wider range to roam,
And when loud thunder rattled in his ear,
That was the music he best lov'd to hear;
If it were midnight, he would wander forth,
The loneliest thing that crawl'd this peopled earth,
And while the half-starv'd wolf and well-cloth'd bear,
Fled from the tempest to their secret lair,
'Twas his delight through tangled groves to stalk,
And mutter to himself unjointed talk,
Or climb some slippery cliff that tower'd on high,
To mouth the thunder rumbling in the sky,
Or at its very verge on tiptoe stand,
To catch the nimble lightning in his hand,

And as he grasp'd the unsubstantial air,
Would fancy that he held it quivering there,
Then with delirious laughter backward start,
And hurl it at the hated white-man's heart.

At last, the lone enthusiast believ'd,
He had commission from his God receiv'd,
The remnant of his fallen race to save,
And drive the white-man o'er the boundless wave;
Yet often the wild discord of his brain,
To better tune awhile would come again,
And then his pride, or policy forbade,
The secret of his mind should be betray'd;
So half impostor, half enthusiast grown,
Sometimes the dupe of others, then his own,
Cunning, and Frenzy, sep'rate or combin'd,
Sway'd the wild chaos of his wav'ring mind.

Urg'd by the fiend that tenanted his brain,
He sought the haunts of savage man again,
Proclaim'd his mission wheresoe'er he came,
And challeng'd holy Prophet's hallow'd name.

His restless, bloodshot eye—thick tangled hair,
Quick hurrying step, and wild unearthly air,
The eloquence which Frenzy oft inspires,
That moves to tears, or lights consuming fires
Gain'd proselytes where'er the maniac came,
And won their rev'rence, and a prophet's name;
All gaz'd with wonder at the wizard form,
That talk'd with spirits in the midnight storm.
Taunt not the Indian—ev'n the brightest mind,
By learning and philosophy refin'd,
Trembles and vibrates, like the aspin leaf,
'Twixt fiery zeal, and freezing unbelief;
As fears oppress, or Hope's bright beacon shines,
To one or other wayward it inclines,
Grovels at Superstition's altar dire,
And lights the heretic's consuming fire,
Or, as the ebbing fervour backward rolls,
Denies its god, and murders all men's souls,
Sometimes for Gospel, monkish cant receives,
And sometimes doubts, what Wisdom's self believes.

No marvel then, the Indian, who ne'er knew
Themes of philosophy, or false or true,

Whose mind was like the forest that he rov'd,
Dark, gloomy, rayless, rugged, unimprov'd,
With hatred of the white-man's race inspir'd,
Should yield his head, to what his heart desir'd.
Restless the prophet rov'd, as one whose mind,
No biding place on earth, was doom'd to find,
And wheresoe'er he went, his words of flame,
Rous'd them to rage, or blanch'd their cheeks with shame.
He told them, how in distant ages past,
The white-man on these shores his anchor cast,
Where countless tribes of red-men freely reign'd,
Not one of all whose myriads now remain'd.
In wonder first, and with soft pity then,
They gaz'd upon these strange, pale-visag'd men,
Stretch'd out the ever ready helping hand,
Hunted them game, and gave away their land,
With fond credulity their tales believ'd,
And all their wants, and all their fears reliev'd:
How in a little while th' ungrateful crew,
Their toils about the simple Indians threw,
Cheated them of their lands with fraud and lies,
False, fair deceitful words, and falser eyes,

Till in the end, they learn'd the wretched trade,
And their own brothers, like the whites betray'd,
Drank, cheated, swore to that which was not true,
And chang'd with every changing wind that blew,
Renounc'd their ancient gods throughout the land
For other creeds they could not understand,
And in the downhill path, at length, became
Worthy associates in the Christian name.

“Thus,” would he rave, “debas'd by Christian arts,
“Weaken'd their bodies, and corrupt their hearts,
“Tribe after tribe, soon found a timeless grave,
“Or liv'd to be the white-man's abject slave,
“Linger'd amid the scorn of every fool,
“And lick'd the dust, where they were born to rule;
“Or if they 'scap'd this most degen'rate fate,
“Join'd some more distant tribes, that soon or late,
“Fell like the rest, or driv'n from their home,
“Far from their fathers' graves were doom'd to roam,
“While the pale white-man, ever in their rear,
“With bloodstain'd steps, march'd on his curs'd career,
“Resolv'd, too sure, ere he his race had run,
“To chase them ev'n beyond the setting Sun.

“Now—now's the time that we must take our stand,
“Or skulk like foxes from our hunting land;
“The moment's come—for bloody Discord throws,
“Her flames on every side among our foes,
“For gold, or hate, or some of those curs'd rights,
“That cloke the wrongs we suffer from these whites,
“The spirits tell me they will try ere long
“Which has the right—that is, which is the strong;
“Awake, ye red-men! for the last, last time—
“Make one bold stand to save your native clime!
“Bury the calumet, deep, deep in earth,
“And swear by Vengeance ne'er to draw it forth,
“Till not a soul of that pale-visag'd race
“Within this land shall show his frosty face,
“Of snow or ice in some hard winter made,
“And blanch'd in one eternal midnight shade;
“Paint your red faces with a thousand stains,
“Till not a lineament of man remains;
“Look like the fiends, and be ye what you seem,
“Nor canting mercy for a virtue deem;
“Swear to revenge your wrongs—then deeply swear,
“Not one of all the white-man's race to spare,

“E'en though the wordless babe that knows no guile,
“Should look you in the face with that same smile,
“The hypocrite, his ruthless father, wore,
“When first he came to cheat in days of yore;
“These are young wolves, who when their teeth are grown,
“Will lap our blood, and gnaw us to the bone,
“Vainly we kill the root, if still the seed,
“Within the soil is left, more foes to breed.”

As fires new lighted in the dry rank grass,
From side to side like lazy lightnings pass,
So did his words inspire the list'ning train,
Rouse every heart, and light each kindling brain;
The Indian blood was up, and well-a-day!
Blood only can that boiling spirit lay.
But there was one who felt within his breast,
A keener thrill of vengeance than the rest;
A youth with all the gravity of age,
And all the cunning of a thoughtful sage,
One, who through distant tribes rude sway maintain'd,
And o'er their loves and fears despotic reign'd.
In peace no passion seem'd to warm his soul,
In war his passions rag'd without control;

Yet oft, when in calm indolence he'd seem,
'Twixt sleep and waking buried in some dream,
With vacant eye, and cold unconscious stare,
Unknowing what he thought, or how, or where,
His boiling brain was whirling all the while,
With desp'rate plans to ruin or beguile;
Schemes of deep mischief rankled in his mind,
And hate and policy were there combin'd
In one great plan to free his wand'ring race,
Or give them death, and rid them of disgrace;
Deep as old Ocean's caves, for ever dark,
Within his bosom lay one latent spark,
Till that was touch'd, he seem'd insensate clay,
When it was touch'd he burst like fiend away,
And scour'd the earth for victims to assuage
His fev'rish bosom's unrelenting rage.

That spark was waken'd in his bosom now,
And play'd in lightnings round his burning brow,
The prophet's words his soul with venom fill'd,
And his rous'd heart with keener vengeance thrill'd;
With joy he hail'd the maniac's mad career,
And half beguil'd by Hope, half chill'd with fear,

100

Sometimes believ'd the madman was inspir'd,
At others, fear'd some fiend his brain had fir'd;
Still, whether prophet, madman, knave or fool,
He was he thought a most convenient tool,
To work upon the dark benighted mind,
With rage half mad, and superstition blind,
And make it to his towering will submit,
By right divine, or Indian holy writ.
'Tis thus, if right we read historic page,
Through the long records of each cheating age,
We find, the art to govern mainly lies
In throwing dust in man's deluded eyes;
The less they see, the better rulers speed,
For babes, the docile blind may freely lead;
Not by superior wit the statesman rules,
So much as making all his fellows fools:
This our young Shawanoe gather'd from his sire,
And well he fann'd the newly lighted fire,
Pronounc'd the wandering maniac's mission true,
And hotter firebrands mid the circle threw,
Till ev'n the torpid heart of wint'ry age,
Burst its thick ice, and fir'd with headlong rage,

101

Forgot its tutelary genius, Fear,
And roll'd away in Folly's mad career.

Next morn betimes, ere yet the Sun's bright beam,
Gilded the woods, or play'd upon the stream,
Old men, young warriors, matrons, children came,
To call upon the Spirit's hallow'd name,
And ask an effort of his matchless might,
To aid them in one last decisive fight.
Mild was the mellow morning, not a breeze
Wak'd the deep slumbers of the lifeless trees,
Night's prowling train had silent sneak'd away,
And woodland birds not yet begun their lay;
The sky was one pale vault, without a star
Twinkling amid its azure fields afar,
Save the bright star of morn, that seem'd to stay
To bid good morrow to the god of day.
The wood was pil'd—the glorious Sun arose,
And each within the pyre his offering throws;
Something with which they most regret to part,
Some relic dearest to the giver's heart,
To show their pious reverence and love
To that Great Spirit thron'd in skies above.

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The pile consum'd, a reverend gray-hair'd band
Advanc'd within the circle hand in hand,
And pour'd to Him a wild and simple pray'r,
Who by some name is worshipp'd every where.

“Great Spirit! master of the lives of all,
“Soul of the universe, on thee we call!
“O! thou who hold'st the reins of winds and storms,
“Master of visible and viewless forms,
“Of spirits roving in earth, air, and sea,
“Who do thy bidding wheresoe'er they be,
“Command the good around our paths to stray,
“And keep the evil from our steps away;
“Give to the young the spirits of the brave,
“Who sought for liberty and found a grave;
“Inspire the old with wisdom to disclose
“The means to rid us of these hated foes;
“Tell us in dreams, thou lone and lofty One,
“What we must do, or what must leave undone.

“Great Spirit! whom all Heav'n and Earth proclaim
“Lord of the universe, whate'er thy name;

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“Who breath'st in every thing in earth or air,
“That's great and beautiful, and good and rare,
“Whose unprescrib'd divinity pervades
“The haunts of men, and gloomy trackless shades,
“Lives in all things we do, or feel, or see,
“Thou who art every thing, and all things thee—
“Great Spirit! hither turn thy list'ning ear!
“The stifled groans of anguish thou dost hear,
“Are from thy children, 'tis a nation calls,
“By thee it conquers, or by thee it falls.
“Who then shall light for thee the sacred flame,
“Or call upon thy cold unfeeling name?
“The Christian God were better far than thee,
“He makes his children triumph, while we flee;
“To him if conquer'd we our vows must pay,
“Forsake thine altars, and disclaim thy sway—
“Hear us, Great Spirit! whom we yet adore,
“Or save us now, or lose us evermore!”

A band of chafing warriors next there came,
Who danc'd around the low expiring flame,
With threat'ning gestures, death denouncing eyes,
Low mutter'd curses, and tremendous cries.

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O! bloody were the deeds each warrior sung,
While charm'd Attention on his accents hung;
If in his vagrant life, he e'er had done
A deed that sweet Humanity would shun,
Scalp'd a young babe, or tortur'd a poor white,
With knives and fires, and shouted with delight,
To see the drops fast down his forehead roll,
And hear the groans that left his very soul,
The ruthless crime of Heav'n and man accurs'd,
Was now in song triumphantly rehears'd;
Mute admiration held the list'ning train,
Each long'd to act the bloody scene again,
And some poor trembling, half-starv'd captive wretch,
Upon the rack of lingering torture stretch,
From murder with ingenious art refrain,
And nurse his life to lengthen out his pain.
Thus through the livelong day they danc'd and sung,
And with their music distant woodlands rung,
The very wolves with this loud rant were scar'd,
Nor from their haunts that day to venture dar'd;
But when the Sun low waning tow'rd the West,
Proclaim'd the coming hour of balmy rest,

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The weary, wild, tumultuous, madden'd throng,
Howl'd to their God, the warriors' hairbrain'd song.

“Take heart—he hears us in yon ruddy skies,
“And through the Sun looks with approving eyes!
“Behold, how bright his golden circle shines,
“The willing Spirit to our wish inclines!
“'Tis He that sends this fair and sprightly day.
“'Tis his sweet smiles that on the waters play;
“He makes the springs to rise, the rivers flow,
“The thunders rattle, and the whirlwinds blow,
“Wings forth the nimble lightning with his arm,
“Scourges the earth, or shelters it from harm—
“The high, the powerful, the unknown Great,
“Still hears our pray'rs, still watches o'er our fate;
“He loves our tribe, he sees, he feels our woes,
“And gives us vengeance, on our ruthless foes;
“Cheer up my brothers! we shall pay them yet,
“And in revenge, our wrongs and shames forget.
“But see! he leaves us—his bright warming Sun,
“Is gone away—'tis done, aye it is done—
“Freedom is ours, the Spirit tells us so,
“Wo to the white-man—to his children wo!

107

BOOK FIFTH.

109

Now the wide wilderness was up in arms,
And the lone forests quak'd with strange alarms;
The war-whoop quav'ring loud, and shrill and drear,
Echo'd along the rivers far and near;
Each hostile tribe its former rage subdu'd,
Bury'd the mem'ry of each ancient feud,
And various passions in one hate combin'd,
Bent to one purpose every various mind.
The hairbrain'd Prophet, whose infuriate zeal
Boil'd o'er his heart, and made his reason reel;
Amid the painted ranks like maniac flew,
And kept alive the madness of the crew,
While the young Shawanoe, king of the wood,
And foremost of the warriors, panting stood,

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Eager the bloody struggle to begin,
And take the chance, alike to lose or win.

One else was busy there—a renegade,
Who first his own, and then our land betray'd;
One of those wretches Europe sometimes throws
From her sick stomach, that with vice o'erflows,
To show corruption far beyond our reach,
Sublimer modes of villany to teach,
And prove, by demonstration strong and clear,
How much that lofty race excels us here,
By sending forth examples that proclaim
Her ranker turpitude, and deeper shame.

Exil'd for a long catalogue of crime,
He sought a home in this devoted clime,
Where sweet Philanthropy, as is the vogue,
Spreads her soft lap to catch each falling rogue,
And baby Sympathy is grown so nice,
It pampers Idleness and pities Vice,
Weeps o'er those cruel laws devis'd to save
The honest lab'rer from the prowling knave,

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As if Society was fram'd alone
For kings and rogues, by turns to mount the throne,
And ride the world, while every honest fool,
Labours and starves, their victim or their tool,
Hither to this good land, this modern Rome,
Where Want and Exile find a lib'ral home,
The suffering Patriot, the recreant knave,
Pow'r's virtuous victim, and Corruption's slave,
All throng alike, and whereso'er they stray,
Meet friends, and welcome, on their weary way,
Hither he came—our Western air to taint,
And play the sinner in the garb of saint.
A banish'd Patriot—for that's the name
That cheats our sympathy and hides his shame—
A persecuted Exile, who but he!
A martyr at the shrine of Liberty,
He raised his voice in Freedom's sacred cause,
At hanging rail'd, and curs'd all tyrant laws,
Denounc'd the freeborn Will's most mild restraint,
And Treason's victim call'd a suffering saint,
Deeming that land by tyrant power enchain'd,
Where those stern despots, Law and Justice reign'd—

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The people sanction'd laws, most mild behest,
And the wild impulse of a tyrant's breast,
Are but the same—if they should curb his will,
'Tis tyranny, and hard oppression still.
Cherish'd and pamper'd here, he might have grown
A fair exotic, we had call'd our own;
But where Corruption takes a thriving root,
The plant is soon detected by its fruit,
And kindness, like the genial warmth of Spring,
That gives the serpent venom to his sting,
The thorough villain wakes to bolder deeds,
And in his heart more lusty vipers breeds;
He needs no tempter to enforce his will,
Whose heart spontaneous, ever leans to ill.

One of our tyrant laws at length he broke,
And to escape its curs'd oppressive yoke,
Fled to a neighb'ring province, and became
An instrument of England's lasting shame.
Sent as a tool of mischief to the wild,
The Indian tribes to ruin he beguil'd,
Brib'd them to deeds, at which the heart recoils,
And drove them headlong into fatal broils,

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With those whom self-defence forbids to show
That mercy which to Ignorance we owe.
As years revolv'd, the hard'ning wretch became
The Indians' curse, the whiteman's burning shame;
Half christian, and half savage, he combin'd
Their various vices in his various mind;
Learn'd all the horrors of the savage crew,
And taught them crimes which yet they never knew;
Corrupted, and corrupting, every day
Some remnant of his soul he threw away;
Cast, one by one the virtues of his race,
While not one savage virtue took its place;
Till all the vices of both natures join'd,
Grew in the monstrous medly of his mind.
One sole, and lonely virtue still he had,
That only made the villain doubly bad;
'Twas courage—not that virtue of the brave,
That lives on Fame, and conquers still to save;
But a blood-thirsty instinct, wild and rude,
That fear and clemency alike subdu'd,
And lull'd the only conscience villains have,
The fear of death—the reck'ning of the grave.

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His music was the melody of moans,
The woman's shriekings, and the infant's groans;
The sight he lov'd was writhing agonies,
For other's tortures gave his bosom ease,
And each convulsive agonizing start,
Thrill'd with inhuman triumph through his heart.
He never turn'd upon his heel to save
Or mitigate the sufferings of the brave,
But with ingenious art, and fiend-like skill,
Devis'd new modes, a longer way to kill.

This bloody envoy with commission came
To add fresh fuel to the rising flame,
To proffer aid, with gifts the chiefs to gain,
Cheat with fair promises the simple train,
And lure them far away, to join once more,
Those who had oft betray'd their race before.
Now through the irksome forest's twilight gloom,
Where bees ne'er hum, or honey'd flowrets bloom,
By paths unmark'd by all but Indian eyes,
And nameless streams, in nameless lands that rise,
Whose banks ne'er echo'd to the fowler's gun,
Whose wave ne'er sparkled in the Summer sun,

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Strait as an arrow, from their own sure bow,
Long countless miles our savage warriors go,
Nor ever miss the track that leads aright,
Be it or sunless day, or starless night.
With silent haste, and light elastic tread,
They wander'd like dumb shadows of the dead,
While the last warriors of the distant rear,
Guided by caution, or impell'd by fear,
Smooth the dry leaves, all vestige to efface
Of the light footsteps of that wily race.

So rov'd they, and so reach'd the kindred band,
That waited for them in the desert land;
And now—refreshing spectacle!—was seen,
Within the solitary woodland green,
By the keen eye of Heav'n that pierc'd the shade,
And mark'd the union by Ambition made—
A holy league—devised on modern plan,
Betwixt the Pagan, and the Christian man,
To bring the tomahawk and scalping knife,
In aid of mad Ambition's murd'rous strife,
Give a yet bloodier hue to War's dread face,
With one more blot old England's records grace,

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And teach the Indian race, with pious care,
New modes of plunder—cruelties more rare.

Accursed union! cruel, bloody, base—
Shame of the Briton—blot on all our race!
Was it for England, of her glories proud,
To back her cause, with such a murd'rous crowd,
To fight—to run away—thus hand in hand,
With such a howling, scalping, tort'ring band?
Was this the way her piety to prove,
Her saint-like charity, and Christian love,
By sweet communion with a Pagan crew,
That ne'er one impulse of soft pity knew?
To bring the savage fiend, that never spares
The speechless innocent, nor snow-white hairs,
In bloody fellowship in wilds to live,
With those whose God commands them to forgive—
Was it for her—to sink her ancient fame
In such an ocean of eternal shame?

Think not, proud island—high as is thy lot,
These deeds of thine shall ever be forgot,

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For howsoe'er thy records may deceive,
Here unborn millions shall the tale believe—
Long as the hours shall ply their ceaseless pace,
Thy sons shall hear their fathers' deep disgrace,
And blush, if blush they can, with burning shame,
At this deep blot that stains the Briton's name,
Within the doomsday-book of wrathful Time,
'Tis writ in blood, that in this lonely clime,
Deep in the gloomy forest's boundless shade,
For deeds that blink the blessed sunshine made,
Whence dying groans, unheard, unpity'd rise,
And scarce a rumour to old Europe flies,
Faith's mighty bulwark—battled side by side
With yelling fiends that law and Heav'n deride,
Saw them the captive with slow tortures kill,
And could have sav'd them, but had not the will.
O, England! thou a long arrear must pay,
When comes the bloody, bitter reck'ning day;
The hour may come—nay it will come in time,
When thou wilt pay for this detested crime;
Then in some desp'rate struggle man to man,
The wrathful mind these deeds of thine shall scan,

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And with a noble thirst of vengeance fir'd,
By mem'ry of its country's wrongs inspir'd,
The victors noblest attribute will show,
And teach thee—how to spare a captive foe.

The maniac Prophet, whose infuriate hate,
Disdain'd the lagging steps of War to wait,
Set forth on lonely ramble to descry,
If yet, perchance, the adverse foe was nigh,
Or haply free from dreary War's alarm,
He staid at home, nor dream'd of coming harm.
Alone he hied him—for his gloomy soul,
Sicken'd at fellowship, and scorn'd control;
His humour was to roam, no one knew where,
Mutt'ring and murm'ring to the lonely air.
With cautious step, the wily Indian went
Like prowling thief on villanous intent,
Lay on his face, and listen'd to the breeze,
Whose whisper'd greetings woo'd the waving trees,
And if an acorn fell, he quail'd with fear,
For now the white-man's dangerous haunts were near.
Nearer, and nearer still the Prophet hied,
And now the curling smoke far off descry'd,

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Above the woods in waving volumes rise,
Mingling its lighter tints with pale blue skies.
A little nearer, and the village spire,
Rose every moment higher yet and higher,
Until, at last, the peaceful hamlet scene,
Burst on his view, along the level green;
The Sun's last rays upon the spire top gleam'd,
The ev'ning purple on the still wave beam'd,
The lazy herds tinkled their evening bell,
The measur'd oar upon the river fell,
As swift the light canoe, from side to side,
Flitting like Indian barque was seen to glide,
The boatman ty'd his boat to root of tree,
And sung, or whistled there, right merrily—
And every sound upon the ear that broke,
The hour of rural relaxation spoke;
Nothing was seen, but comfort every where,
And nothing heard, that seem'd the voice of Care.

Back shrunk the madbrain'd wand'rer stung with spleen,
And sick'ning at this peaceful village scene;
It minded him of times he once had known,
Ere doom'd to wander through the earth alone,

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For on this spot he once had reign'd a king,
O'er man and beast, and every living thing;
In this fair haunt, from boy to man he grew,
And tasted all the bliss the savage knew;
Here had he seen his people happy dwell,
Here had they fought, were conquer'd, and all fell.
A flood of tenderness rush'd on his mind,
And for one moment the poor wretch grew blind;
A thrill, for many, and many a year unknown,
Cut through his heart, though harden'd into stone,
A tear, the only one that e'er had stain'd
His manhood's cheek, unbrush'd away remain'd,
And, for one breath, his lone and wretched lot,
Was in the mem'ry of the past forgot.
But 'twas a moment only that engag'd
His tender thoughts—the next his bosom rag'd;
Indignantly he brush'd the tear away,
And as more hotly glows the Sun's bright ray,
When past the Summer shower that soon is o'er,
And leaves it brighter than it was before,
His swelling heart with keener vengeance burn'd,
And all his tenderness to fury turn'd.

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“Aye—rest ye safe awhile”—he madly cried;
“Bask in the sunshine on my river's side,
“While the true lord of wave and wood and soil,
“Skulks from his home, and howls and starves the while.
“Sleep soundly yet, ye curs'd—devoted train,
“Ere long ye'll slumber ne'er to wake again,
“Or wake to hear the death-denouncing yell,
“Rouse for the last time, with its echoing swell,
“To see your dwellings wrapt in midnight flames,
“Hear helpless babes, and wives invoke your names,
“And call upon the Christian God in vain,
“To be their safeguard, yet, yet once again.
“How silent all around—how mild the eve!
“Farewell awhile—a little while I leave
“These gentle haunts, which when again I see,
“Wo to the white-man—he'll remember me!”

This said, he turn'd him to the glowing West,
Where day's last tints upon the light clouds rest,
And turning, saw an aged pilgrim stand,
Beneath an oak, with rustic staff in hand,
Who seem'd e'en like that day's departing sun,
As if his race on earth were almost run.

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Sudden the murd'rous tomahawk he drew,
And wing'd by vengeance on his victim flew,
But as he look'd upon the old man's face,
There was a mild, and melancholy grace—
A fearless resignation so divine,
An eye that so forgivingly did shine,
As stopt awhile the Prophet's mad career,
And made him pause 'twixt reverence and fear.
He seem'd like patriarch of some distant age,
Return'd awhile to linger on this stage;
Bald was his brow—so very deadly fair,
As if no drop of blood now mantled there;
A few white hairs, like flaky snow unstain'd,
The reliques of a century remain'd,
And his calm eye, as in a mirror, shew'd
The mild reflection of a mind subdu'd;
No boiling passion foam'd, and eddied there,
Av'rice or gluttony, or selfish care,
But all was like the twilight's peaceful hue,
When gentle skies in silence shed their dew.

The Prophet gaz'd upon the bloodless sage,
And reverenc'd the divinity of age;

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Were he an infant still his blood should flow,
For helpless babes to sturdy warriors grow;
But time can ne'er the old man's strength restore,
Or wake the sleeping vigour of fourscore.
“Old man!” he roughly cried, “what makes ye here,
“Dost not the wolf or bloody Indian fear,
“For bloody is the word the whites bestow,
“On those who fight, the only way they know?”

“I go,” replied the gracious aged man,
“To spend the remnant of my life's short span,
“In preaching truth to Nature's erring child,
“That roams in darkness through the desert wild,
“The Bible's holy eloquence to speak,
“And teach the red-man, our true God to seek.”

“Your God! the bitter mockery withhold—
“Your God! you have no other god than gold!
“For this,”—the maniac cried,—“for this alone,
“You bow before your Godhead's gilded throne;
“For this you murder, plunder, cheat, defame,
“With false aspersions blast your brother's name.

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“Sell mothers, daughters, nay, your very wives,
“Barter religion, trade in human lives,
“Break Heaven's high mandates, spurn the law's control,
“And stake 'gainst money an immortal soul!
“Come not to our lone woods, old man, I say,
“But bear your crazy frame some other way,
“And ere for distant converts thus you roam,
“See if there's nothing left to do at home;
“There if thou wilt, thy nursery tales unfold,
“Till every soul fall down and worship gold—
“The Saviour of thy race died not for us,
“He died to be the Indian's lasting curse.”

“Mistaken man!”—the graybeard mildly cried;
“For thee, and us, alike the Saviour died!
“Look—the kind Christian whom thou would'st destroy,
“Shall lead thee to bright paths of peace and joy,
“The arts of life, and social comforts teach,
“And happiness beyond thy fancy's reach;
“Show thee to plough the yet uncultur'd field,
“And reap in peace whatever prize it yield,
“Make thy dark intellect with light to glow,
“And taste the sweets of knowing what we know,

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“Give present comfort here, and future bliss
“In a far lovelier paradise than this,
“Make thee a man while living, and when dead
“An angel, in the realms where angels tread.”

“Accurs'd,” exclaim'd the maniac, “be thy care—
“I know what things your Christian Indians are!
“O! I have seen them naked and forlorn,
“Of every attribute of manhood shorn,
“Skulking from town to town, a worthless race,
“Earning the wages of their deep disgrace,
“Shooting for liquor with the self same bow,
“That laid the red-man of the forest low,
“And sunk beneath the lowest Christian knave,
“Take kicks and buffets from the white-man's slave;
“These are the product of your Christian love,
“Men while on earth, and angels when above!
“Now what are we, who in the woodlands reign,
“The lords of all the skulking forest train,
“Who through long trackless wilds pursue the deer,
“And live in dangers all the rolling year?
“Are we not men—who know no other trade,
“Than war and hunting, sports for warriors made;

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“Who though nor guide nor compass point the way,
“Track beast or man, where'er they chance to stray,
“Ev'n though the white-man, with his purblind eyes,
“No vestige of a passing footstep spies?
“Who tell each hour of day or pitchy night,
“When sun and twinkling stars deny their light,
“Fight to the last, and when at length o'erthrown,
“Tortures endure, and die without a groan?
“Tell me, wise graybeard—those that do these things,
“Are they not men, and worthy to be kings?”

“True,” cried the old man, “ye are men, I know,
“Men that disgrace their Maker, here below;
“Whose gods are imps red hot from scorching Hell,
“Whose paradise, where store of beavers dwell;
“Whose mercy is the captive wretch to tear,
“Whose pride, the bloody dripping scalp to wear,
“To howl around where some poor victim lies,
“Shriv'ling in fires, and by slow inches dies.
“Alas! the ruthless thing that never spares,
“Is not a man, though manhood's form he wears,
“He does belie the mercy of sweet Heav'n,
“And damns himself, by prayers to be forgiv'n.”

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“And dost thou prate of mercy! O, full well,
“Of Christian mercies can our Indians tell!
“You spar'd their lives, to drive them from their home,
“Like scouting beasts in distant wilds to roam;
“You did not kill them, like a generous foe,
“And end their sufferings with one manly blow;
“You spar'd them for long exile, and disgrace,
“Spar'd them to see the ruin of their race,
“Spar'd them for keener tortures, woes more dire
“Than scalping-knife, or slow consuming fire;
“We view such trifles with unflinching eye,
“'Tis nothing for a warrior thus to die;
“But I—old man, if thou hadst ten times died,
“Thou ne'er hadst known the suff'rings I abide,
“That shrivel this tough heart with woes so keen,
“They make me wish that I had never been.
“Look!—if the waning lamp of thine old eye
“Gives light enough far objects to descry—
“Look, what a peaceful scene, how mild, how fair,
“Bares its sweet bosom to the cooling air!
“Canst see the noiseless wave unruffled glide
“Round yonder isle that parts its gentle tide,

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“Whose fringed shore reflected in the stream,
“Like shadowy land of souls, far off does seem?
“Dost see yon moon, like sky-hung Indian bow,
“Across the wave a line of radiance throw,
“That seems a silver bridge, perchance to guide
“The wand'ring soul across the rippling tide,
“To that fair isle, whose soften'd landscapes show
“So green and pleasant in the wave below?

“Think—hadst thou dwelt in such a smiling land,
“Cherish'd, and cherishing a brother band,
“Not one of whom from foe did ever flee,
“Not one of whom but would have died for thee—
“Think, hadst thou tasted all the pleasures here,
“That habit and long uses make so dear,
“All other modes of living but thine own,
“All other happiness to thee unknown,
“Still following up the paths thy fathers trod,
“Still worshipping thy fathers' ancient God—
“Think, had some roving band of red-men came,
“And wrapt thy dwellings in wide wasting flame,
“With bloody might cleft down thy helpless race
“And left thee without friend or biding place,

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“Because thou didst not choose to roam the wild,
“And live the life so dear to Nature's child—
“Wouldst thou—aye, wouldst thou then his mercy praise,
“That he did lengthen out thy doleful days,
“And curse thee with a load of worthless life,
“Reft of thy old associates, babes, and wife,
“Loathing the present as a bitter curse,
“Fearing the future, that still threaten'd worse,
“Yet bearing still to live, in hopes one day,
“The bloody debt with interest to repay?
“Such was, such is, my lone and wretched lot—
“But what of that—in sooth, it matters not;
“I cannot write my wrongs, nor make appeal
“To those who watch o'er other people's weal,
“And if to Heav'n I raise the suppliant pray'r,
“And ask redress, I get no justice there,
“For as ye rule on earth, so in the skies
“Rules your great God, and all redress denies.

“See!” cried he, as the frenzy caught his brain—
“How their white bones lie bleaching on the plain!
“Their shadows haunt me wheresoe'er I stray,
“Their howling shades still cross my fearful way;

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“I have no other kindred now but these,
“I hear no other music in the breeze;
“They call upon me in shrill dismal screams,
“They haunt my waking thoughts, my nightly dreams;
“Whene'er I stretch my hand, their cold, cold clasp,
“I feel like ice, within my shrinking grasp;
“With shades I dwell, they haunt me every where,
“And howl for vengeance in the midnight air.
“Buried within this gloomy vault alive,
“Vainly to quit its mildew'd walls I strive,
“Condemn'd with worms and mouldering bones to bide,
“And ghosts that chatter as before they died.
“Go—go in peace—ere yet thy limbs I tear,
“And cheat with half a meal, some half-starv'd bear!”

“I pity thee—Heaven knows I pity thee,
“And wish to Heav'n such things might never be.
“But learn of me, thou lone and wretched man,
“'Tis impious the ways of God to scan.
“For so it is, alas! or right or wrong,
“The weak are ever victims of the strong;
“In polish'd states, the master mind presides,
“In barb'rous nations force of arm still guides,

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“Mind in the one, the stoutest nerves obey,
“Force in the other holds despotic sway.
“If thou wouldst let us, we would be thy friends,
“And for thy ancient wrongs make rich amends,
“From long-remember'd woes thy thoughts beguile,
“And teach this world to wear its sweetest smile,
“By pointing all thy hopes to yonder skies,
“Where the lost bliss of every mortal lies;
“There shall you find, if still ye seek aright,
“The baffling Bliss, and fugitive Delight,
“That stopt a moment with their laughing train,
“Then bade good-bye, and never call'd again.
“O! come with me! thou wild bewilder'd thing,
“Leave vengeance to yon sky-enthroned King,
“That better knows than you, to spare or strike,
“And punishes the wicked all alike;
“Here, if they 'scape, still, still they meet their doom,
“In fires that never quench, and ne'er consume;
“Forgiving, and forgiv'n, thy days shall glide
“Smoothly and brightly as yon sparkling tide;
“The white-man shall thy age's weakness bless,
“The red-men cherish, and their wrongs redress,

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“Teach them to tread the only path that guides
“The steps of man where Truth and Justice bides,
“Give them rich lands, where they may dwell in peace,
“And every passing year their stores increase.”

“Fair promises! but canst thou wake the grave?
“They have no lives to bless, no souls to save.
“Hast thou forgot, or dost thou mean to jeer?
“I told thee that I had no kindred here;
“And, if I had, think'st thou I would forego
“The only hope that lights me here below,
“Sell my revenge, forget my murder'd tribe,
“And cheat my kinsmen for a worthless bribe?
“Thy memory is bad, thou dost forget
“I am a savage, not converted yet—
“'Tis for the white-man, who his Maker sold,
“To sell his brothers for accursed gold.
“Peace—peace, thou hoary tempter of fourscore—
“Begone!—and never seek these woodlands more;
“Away!”—he cried, with frenzy-lighten'd brow,
“Were I a Christian I would scalp thee now;
“Go home, and lye amid thy very pray'rs,
“And say the bloody Indian never spares.”

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This said—he darted in the woods amain,
To seek his warriors of the wilds again.
The aged Pilgrim, sighing, turn'd away,
And marvell'd so that he forgot to pray,
That men were born with such a stubborn mind,
And hearts so hard, and eyes so wilful blind.

135

BOOK SIXTH.

137

The fairest days produce the thunder storm,
The fairest climes the earthquake's wrecks deform,
The brightest hours the buoyant spirit knows,
Too oft are heralds of the blackest woes;
Life's but a froward child, that now appears
All dress'd in smiles, anon all drown'd in tears,
With swift vicissitudes we struggle still,
And ill is lin'd with good, and good with ill.
One would have thought, that in the woods at least,
Our pilgrims might have sat at Nature's feast,
Free from the coil of War's detested strife,
The Christian broadsword and the Pagan knife,
And all the ills that proud Ambition rains
On Europe's villages, and peaceful swains.

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But so it is, with mortals one and all,
Where'er they bide, still evil will befall;
And 'tis but folly in the wise to say,
While each pursues on earth a diff'rent way,
As chance directs, or circumstance decrees,
His sire, his mother, or himself to please,
One only path to happiness should guide,
And all the others lead us far and wide;
Each has its sources of peculiar bliss,
What one denies in that, it gives in this;
Each boasts peculiar good, peculiar ill,
And, strike the balance, all are equal still—
In the poor mite of human bliss below,
Virtue makes all the diff'rence that we know.

The Eagle and the Lion now at strife,
Stak'd in the bloody struggle life for life;
On land our country bled at every pore,
At sea the palm of victory she bore;
On land, one dastard earn'd a load of shame,
At sea, a train of glorious imps of fame
Retriev'd their country's honour, blow by blow,
And laid a thousand years of glory low.

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Here, in the South, a band of plund'rers rag'd,
There, yelling fiends infernal warfare wag'd,
And people doubt, ev'n to this distant day,
Which bore the palm of cruelty away;
Pity, that balms the wretch's sorest lot,
One never knew—the other had forgot.

Could men, whose eyes first saw the blessed day,
In this good land, at home like women stay,
Plead conscience to escape the coming fight,
And skulk behind some vile pretence of right?
There have been such—oblivion shield their name,
Better forgot, their story and their shame.
Who would not battle bravely, heart and hand,
In any cause for this dear buxom land;
O, never may the heartless recreant know
The joys from conscious rectitude that flow;
Nor ever, for one fleeting moment, prove,
Man's dear respect, or woman's dearer love;
Ne'er may he hold high converse with the brave,
But live with slaves, and be himself a slave;
Ne'er may he know the sober waking bliss,
Of living in a freeman's home like this,

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The poor man's long-sought, new-found, promis'd land
Where gen'rous Plenty, with a lavish hand,
Pays honest Labour, from her boundless store,
And each day makes him richer than before.
Ne'er may the dastard know such biding place,
Nor such a country stain with deep disgrace;
But pine on abject Afric's scorching sand,
Or banish'd to old Europe's dotard land,
Grovel beneath some tottering tyrant's throne,
Nor dare to call his worthless soul his own—
Or live at home to know a fate still worse,
The gen'rous soul's most bitter biting curse—
Live in his native clime a wretch abhorr'd,
And dead his name descend in black record,
A freeborn slave, who would not lift his hand
To succour his own suffering native land.

Not such were those who sojourn'd in the wild,
They mourn'd, or joy'd, as Fortune frown'd or smil'd;
Though distant from the scene of stern alarm,
And far remov'd from War's wide spreading harm,
Still, when they heard of vict'ries on the wave,
O'er those once thought the bravest of the brave,

141

Or ravages on some defenceless coast,
By the mean minions of a lawless host,
They long'd to share the victor's glorious toils,
And strip the plund'rer of the poor man's spoils.

At length, from distant quarters, rumours came,
That wak'd the smother'd embers into flame;
The Indian, and his ally in their rear,
Rag'd through the wilds with barbarous career,
And stories that might make the blood run cold,
By many a wretched fugitive were told.
Who has not heard of Raisin's dismal tale,
Who has not listen'd till his cheek turn'd pale,
Who e'er will cease the victims to regret,
Who can forgive, or who will e'er forget?
Their country, their own safety—their revenge
Impell'd them on these butcheries to avenge,
And when they heard the West was up in arms,
Peace and dear home lost all their wonted charms;
The vigorous youth, the strong-knit nervous man,
To arms, with one accord, all hurrying ran,
While tearful matrons, sad, yet not dismay'd,
Sat looking on, disdaining to dissuade,

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Or with unskilful haste, and bustle slow,
And look that aye persuaded not to go,
Prepar'd of comforts, all the little store
That each one to the distant warfare bore.
Pass we the story of the parting day,
When Sorrow claims her rights, and men obey,
Nor tell what griefs the matron's tears reveal'd,
Or what the soldier's manly pride conceal'd,
As thus the long-united rural train
Parted, perhaps, to never meet again.

Now might be seen in arms a sturdy band,
The chivalry of our bold western land,
Not steel-clad knights, but men with hearts of steel,
Not such as dragons slay, and ladies steal,
Who righted wrongs, by breaking heads and laws,
And rais'd their arm, or with, or without cause,
Fought for pure love, or follow'd some brave chief,
A border hero, or an outlaw'd thief;
And when they should have ta'en their country's part,
Hir'd their good swords to pierce her to the heart.
No—they were men, whom poets seldom name,
Too lowly for the records of high Fame,

143

Whom native valour, and their country's good,
Sent forth to face the wild-men of the wood.
Kentucky—old Virginia's buxom child,
Muster'd her merry hunters for the wild;
And gallant Tennessee, join'd heart and hand,
To lend her help to free the bleeding land,
Revenge the murders of the lone frontier,
And make the butcher buy his victim dear.

Glory and Danger ever are allied,
And like twin eagles tower side by side;
Rocky, and steep, and slippery to the tread
Is the rough path that wins the mountain's head,
Yet he who braves the dangers of the way,
At every step attains a brighter day,
Each moment nears the pure ethereal skies,
Each moment feels his mounting spirit rise,
Till gain'd at last, the proud yet dizzy height,
He looks around, and sees a world in sight.
The pure unvapour'd air that breathes around,
New strings his nerves, as with elastic bound
He lightly foots the mountain's azure head,
While far below inferior mortals tread,

144

Then sits him down beneath a laurel's shade,
And owns his painful labours all o'erpaid.
So the high soul that lives for great renown,
And pants on tiptoe for bright Glory's crown,
Must march through dangers, wrestle with hard toil,
And face that death from which low souls recoil,
Till he has gain'd the meed of deathless fame,
And made himself a universal name;
Then when he sits aloft upon the steep,
And sees below him meaner mortals creep,
Like grovelling reptiles crawling at his feet,
Gazing in hope his lofty smile to meet,
Dangers and toils, and hardships are forgot
In the dear splendours of his glorious lot.

No marvel then, that as we look around,
Such men in every age and clime are found,
Since poets praise, and meaner scribes record
The bloody triumphs of the conquering sword,
That Terror's awful banner high unfurl'd,
And made a desert of one half the world.
'Tis easy for a man to risk his life,
When panting millions watch the glorious strife;

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If he prove victor, universal Fame
Trumpets the deed, immortal is his name;
And if he fall, in Glory's arms he lies,
Amid a blaze of admiration dies,
Like shooting star, whose most resplendent ray
Beams forth when from her orb she darts away.

But there's a nobler heroism than this,
A brighter glory, and a purer bliss;
'Tis when the hardy peasant, without name,
Who never sought, or dream'd of winning fame,
Not in the hope of glory, or of gold—
Not in the hope his story will be told
In lofty rhyme, or high historic page,
To challenge wonder in some distant age,
Quits all the dear domestic joys of life,
Home, harvest, happiness, and honest wife,
To worry through the dismal forest shade
For treacherous murders, and surprises made,
With weary watchfulness his way pursue,
Mid dangers ever near, yet ne'er in view,
And there, if beaten, bear a load of shame,
If victor, destitute alike of fame.

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Or if in distant fight obscurely slain,
Scalp'd, and unburied, there his bones remain,
To mould and mildew in the various air,
E'en like the beast, that crows and vultures tear;
If taken, still a harder fate he bears,
From him who never pities, never spares.
In long protracted tortures to expire,
And perish in the slow consuming fire,
Rather than sit with folded arms at home,
Prating of Athens, Sparta, and proud Rome,
While his own country wants his nervous hand
To chase the spoiler from the suffering land.
These are the warriors that my homely Muse
The heroes of her lowly tale would choose,
And haply, if this rude unpolish'd lay
To other times, perchance, might find its way,
O! she would chronicle each humble name,
And crown it with a wreath of honest fame.

There are, who dream man is a dull machine,
Mov'd like a puppet in the mimic scene,
Rein'd or impell'd by Power's resistless force,
That wills his action, and prescribes his course,

147

Alike his vigour, and the same his skill,
Whether he act against, or with his will;
As if the noblest impulse cherish'd here
Were but the slave of Power, the sport of Fear,
And that best boon of ever-bounteous Heav'n,
Our guardian reas'ning Will alone was giv'n,
To strut in gyves, or sneak in leading-strings,
And truckle to a race of booby kings!
'Tis held enlighten'd in these times to say,
Some men are born to govern, some obey,
One to play hero, in the World's great school,
Whom Fate and Nature destin'd for a fool,
While the true monarch, with the master mind,
Skulks in his train, and gnaws his chains behind;
To curl the lip with most incredulous scorn,
When told of virtue in the lowly born,
And deem it fable when they chance to read
Of noble daring in the peasant breed.

Is it a fable—that in ancient times,
The hardy Goths forsook their wint'ry climes,
Lur'd by the hope of plunder, or beguil'd,
By fair Italian fields that gayly smil'd,

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And like the locust-flight that hides the Sun,
With famine and dismay the land o'errun—
Is it a fable, that while lordly pride
Stood helplessly to view the carnage wide,
Or skulk'd away to some secure retreat,
Trembling the stout barbarian band to meet,
Or refuge in its treasons vainly sought,
And with its country, its own safety bought,
The tottering state alone supported stood,
By men without one drop of noble blood?
Valerian, Probus, Claudius, stern and brave,
And Diocletian, offspring of a slave!
These propp'd the falling empire of the world,
And bloody vengeance on the plund'rer hurl'd,
Nor sunk proud Rome, while hardy peasants sway'd,
'Twas the blood-royal that the land betray'd.

Is it a fable—that in later day,
When thrones, and vet'ran armies prostrate lay,
And half old Europe's chivalry was dead,
The other half to neutral climes had fled—
When the proud Phantom of this trembling world,
With unresisted might his mandates hurl'd;

149

When nothing seem'd to check his boundless sway,
And nought was left but humbly to obey,
The peasant's, and the peasant's arm alone,
Upheld each state, and sav'd each tottering throne?
Is it a fable, that the landweer rose,
A wall of hearts, the torrent to oppose?
Is it a fable, ev'n the Spaniard wak'd,
And for a tyrant his existence stak'd,
Struggled with generous chivalry to save
The very soil in which he liv'd a slave?
It is alone the Peasant's honest hand,
When all is lost, can save a sinking land;
No power on earth a nation can subdue,
When a brave people to themselves are true;
It may o'errun, may heap the land with slain,
May spoil its fields, but never can retain.

If then the poor, down-trodden, patient slave,
Who has no freedom left, to lose or save,
Will for a choice of masters stake his life,
In the wild turmoil of Ambition's strife;
Fight for a worthless king, whose doating pride,
His gallant feats in secret will deride,

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And when the hour of pressing danger's o'er,
Treat him still worse than e'er he did before,
Recall concessions made in peril's hour,
That check'd the gambols of his lawless power,
And while the wretched dupe the cheat bewails,
Hang him, a traitor, if the rascal rails—
If such can die for their dear native land,
What may we not expect from Freedom's band,
Who strive—not to prop up a sinking throne,
Rear'd for the happiness of one alone,
Whose sparkling diamonds are the peasant's tears,
Whose pillars, his long sufferings and his fears,
But for those equal rights, kind Heav'n bestows,
Which each one feels, and cherishes, and knows;
That gen'rous plenty which their toil repays,
And leaves them something for long rainy days;
That Liberty in every age and clime,
Idol of sages, theme of bards sublime,
By headlong violence, too oft misus'd,
By tyrants, and their minions, long abus'd—
That cherub, deem'd an unsubstantial shade,
Till here, confess'd by all, her home she made?

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March! was the word, and now their steps they guide,
Through tangled ways amid the forest wide,
With none to hail them, silent as they past
Through dismal shades, with twilight gloom o'ercast,
No soul to speed them on their tedious way,
No crowded cities, and no ladies gay
Pour'd forth in gazing thousands to admire,
Their splendid equipage and gay attire,
Strew the sweet products of the vernal year,
Or give at parting, one inspiring cheer.
The nodding plume that shades the brow of war,
And hides the deep trench of the warrior's scar,
The gilded gorget, sparkling in the sun,
The beamy splendours of the vet'ran's gun,
The shoulder'd epaulette, the prancing steed,
The flashing sword, that does the bloody deed,
And all the fun'ral pomp of human strife,
That makes the very coward scorn his life,
And the seam'd visage of rough War appear
A glorious angel—all was absent here;
'Twas the scarr'd front of bloody baleful strife,
In all the naked lineaments of life.

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No rattling drum its far-heard music made,
No piping fife, the noiseless march betray'd;
Each step they take, they pause with watchful care,
The forest warriors swift and wily are,
They come like foxes, like gaunt tigers fight,
And when they flee outstrip the pigeon's flight;
Silence, and Care that never shuts his eyes,
Alone can guard against their quick surprise.
Thus with a calm, unostentatious pride,
Watchful and wearisome our warriors hied,
Sometimes through regions of far-spreading mire,
Sometimes o'er boundless prairies scorch'd by fire,
Dead, lifeless seas, where wave nor voice was heard,
And not a welcome tree or shrub appear'd;
Nothing alive, save some dark moving mass,
That like a rolling mist far off would pass,
Now gliding tow'rd, now rolling back again,
Athwart the bare interminable plain.
This to the soldier's inexperienc'd gaze,
The wandering Indian's devious march betrays,
But the old hunter smiles, for well he knows
'Tis but a countless herd of buffaloes.

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From shadeless levels, where the Sun's hot ray
Pour'd on their heads the livelong sultry day,
They plung'd deep in the boundless forest green,
Where Summer Sun's bright ray was never seen;
Chill, dreary, lifeless, wrapt in twilight gloom,
It seem'd as they were lost in some wide tomb.
How silent was that world they travell'd o'er,
And what a sad solemnity it wore!
The matted wood, no sportive zephyr stirr'd,
And not a solitary, widow'd bird
Abided in the deep impervious shade,
Or mid the boughs his mournful music made;
No butterfly, or busy humming bee,
Or pale, unfragrant, wild flower did they see;
The brood of sunshine held no revels there,
Amid the ever-during chilly air.
But when night came, and broke the deep repose
That Nature o'er the woodland day aye throws,
Then stalk'd the lean wolves from their living grave,
By gloom and silence made like robber brave,
In packs of thousands, eager for the prey
They snuff'd at distance all the tedious day;

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Around the waken'd camp like fiends they prowl,
Quav'ring gaunt Hunger's deep carniv'rous howl,
And bay the fires that glimmering all around,
Fright them from treading the forbidden ground;
Rough bears, asham'd by day to show their face,
The beast's worst libel, and the wood's disgrace,
Crept clumsily around the waning fires,
And grinn'd, and growl'd their horrible desires;
Their eyes like burning coals amid the trees,
Moving about the watchful soldier sees,
All else impervious to his anxious sight,
In the deep gloom of that dark forest night;
Yet ev'n these moving lights his aim might guide,
And many a rash intruder there had died,
Had they not fear'd the gun's far echoing sound,
Might rouse some savage rabble prowling round,
Warning them that the adverse foe was nigh,
And giving notice, or to fight or fly.

Thus wearily they trudg'd a trackless way
Through shades unwelcom'd by the light of day,
Until at last, one sober eve, they came
To where a woodland stream, unknown to fame,

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Idly meander'd through a grassy plain,
Then sought oblivion in the woods again,
And murmur'd forth, as 'twere, a last farewell
To that sequester'd solitary dell.
Here, on its opposite, and loftier side,
The holy brotherhood, our warriors spied,
Waiting, it seemed, the coming fight to meet,
And our bold yeomen, with a welcome greet;
The Indian shouted, as the foe drew nigh,
The Briton mark'd them with contemptuous eye;
The worse for him! for little did he know
What marksmen keen were in that homely foe,
Or what tough hearts, and stout determin'd hands,
Had come to beard him in these lonely lands.

Light-footed Eve, with noiseless step appear'd,
Like balmy dews that drop from Heav'n unheard;
The skies smil'd sweetly on the world below,
As if their glorious tenants did not know
What fearful sport would soon pollute the scene,
What blood, ere long, would stain that virgin green,
Or blithly sporting in the blessed air,
View'd not the worms that crawl'd and fretted there.

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The adverse bands, the deep determin'd foes.
Forgot their ire in Nature's calm repose,
And tacitly put by the bloody fray
Until the dawning of another day,
As loth to mar the scene with their rude strife,
Or lose, perchance, a few sweet hours of life.

Night came—yet left behind her all the train
Of gentle courtiers that adorn her reign;
Silence, that leads her band of peaceful hours,
And Sleep, that Care and wrinkled Spleen devours,
That while the counterfeit of death it seems,
Gives us that bliss the day denies, in dreams,
Far distant staid, in happier scenes and climes,
And waited patiently for better times.
On either side the river, anxious Care
Kept many a wakeful eye from closing there;
Some thought upon their dear homes far away,
Some fear'd the dangers of the coming day,
And watchful captains durst not wink their eyes,
Fearful of adverse Indians' dread surprise,
For shallow was the ever murmuring wave,
That roll'd between them and the silent grave.

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A thousand fires gleam'd red on either side,
And cast a threat'ning glare across the tide;
Here—the pale white-man, pond'ring on his end,
Clasping his rifle, now his truest friend,
Sat pensively, and thought of many things,
That such drear times to his remembrance brings;
Dear absent friends, that near the heart's core live,
And foes, that fear now prompts him to forgive;
And many, many things that he erewhile,
Pass'd carelessly, or with indiff'rent smile,
Now climb the weaken'd barriers of the heart,
And claim one last farewell, ere yet they part.
There—the red Indian, dancing round his fire,
Broke the dread silence with his yellings dire,
And seem'd as damned imps had burst their chain,
To vex and mar this beauteous world again,
Still cherishing their old earthborn desires,
And howling, in their own eternal fires;
About the flame that cast a blood-red glare,
The many-colour'd dæmons caper'd rare;
Sometimes clasp'd hand in hand they whirl'd around,
Like winged fiends, that hardly touch the ground,

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Without, across, amid the blaze they flew,
As if no pang of scorching heat they knew;
With dismal yell, that echoed from afar,
They danc'd the bloody dance of death and war,
And sung, or howl'd, that deep funereal strain,
Those who once hear, full seldom hear again:
“'Tis come! the day our brothers to avenge—
“'Tis come! the precious hour of sweet revenge.
“We'll fight, we'll kill, we'll drive them in the flood,
“And make the river one wide stream of blood;
“Their dripping scalps with glorious fury tear,
“And mid our fathers in proud triumph wear,
“Eat up their hearts, hang their white flesh to dry,
“And leave their bare bones in the sun to fry—
“'Tis come—'tis past—'tis won, the bloody field,
“Kill those that fly, and torture those that yield.”

So wan'd the tedious, dismal night away;
But with the first faint streaks of dawning day,
The peaceful Cherub, that had haunted here
E'er since old Time began his young career,
Silent and sorrowful, to Heav'n withdrew,
And bade his little paradise adieu;

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Yet as with lingering wing he upward hied,
Oft did he look behind, and sadly sigh'd,
To think, that even in this lonely shade,
For peace and silent contemplation made,
The brazen imp of strife should dare intrude,
And vex its quiet with his clamours rude.
Enough of war, its glories and its ills,
The volume of the past, and present fills;
The hist'ry of the world before the flood,
And since, alas! is writ in tears and blood;
But, oh! the records of this peevish age,
In after times, when men unclasp the page,
Enough of blood and pillaging will show,
To pall, e'en the voluptuary in wo,
The sanguinary lust of warriors cool,
Sicken the wise, and satiate the fool,
Tire out dull Patience with eternal strife,
And make us loathe, this vile, this cut-throat life.

Why then should I luxuriate in gore,
And tell of horrors often told before?
How Christian groans, and Pagan's fearful yell,
As fled the one, or as the other fell,

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Mingled in grating discord met the ear,
And made the stoutest bosom quake with fear?
Why should I free my Muse from her restraint,
And with unfeeling coolness pause, to paint
The quiv'ring limb, the bleeding bosom bare,
The dripping head, reft of its honour'd hair,
The writhing struggle in the last sad hour,
When Death and fainting Nature try their power;
The wounded victim, now bereft alike,
Of strength to crawl, or energy to strike,
Rolling and weltering in his smoking gore,
By friends and foes alike now trampled o'er,
Unheeded in the bloody, busy strife,
Where each man fought to save, or win a life?
Why should I—but enough, alas! and more—
We are no vampyres thus to live on gore;
Man 's not a wolf, o'er carnag'd fields to prowl,
And snuff the scent of blood, and lap, and howl;
Nor vulture hov'ring in the blessed air,
Watching, the dying victim's heart to tear,
That he should thus delight in blood and strife,
And hang with rapture o'er the woes of life.

161

Not such the scenes dear to my humble Muse,
Not such the themes that she delights to choose!
She loves to linger through the livelong day
Plucking each wild flower, blooming on her way,
To stop where'er she list, and gaze around,
Where winding stream, or past'ral vale is found,
Chase the wild butterfly on vagrant wing,
And haunt cool shades, where buxom warblers sing;
Or gaze upon the moon, and starry-lights,
And lose herself in wild and wayward flights,
Among the unmapp'd regions of the air,
Doffing each grov'ling thought, and sordid care;
There track the milky-way across the sky,
Through which aloft the souls of heroes fly,
Reach the bright regions of eternal day
And shed a glorious lustre on their way.

Thrice was the savage driven from the field,
Thrice he return'd, disdaining still to yield;
The prophet seem'd by madness' self enslav'd,
And through the fight like maniac yell'd and rav'd,
Invok'd the Indian spirits to his aid,
And curs'd the coward who his god betray'd,

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Adjur'd, reproach'd, and threatened and besought,
Like prophet preach'd, and like a hero fought,
Till with deep wounds all seam'd, and drench'd in gore,
He fainting sunk, and yell'd and fought no more.
That moment every savage warrior quail'd,
And e'en the stoutest heart its master fail'd;
Dropping their arms, they slowly left the field,
Too hopeless now to fight, too proud to yield,
And though our soldiers, hung upon their rear,
And mow'd them like the ripen'd harvest ear,
They turn'd them not, but kept their wonted pace,
With dangling arms, and melancholy grace—
As men, who did not think it worth the strife,
To save the remnant of a worthless life.

Night came, while our brave yeomen still pursu'd
The flying Briton through the pathless wood,
The busy scene, was now but one wide grave,
Strew'd with the yet warm corses of the brave,
With faces turn'd to heav'n all deadly white,
In the pale starry lustre of that night.
Here lay, defrauded of his dear-bought fame,
A gray-beard soldier, without life or name;

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Sold by his needy prince perchance to fight,
Just as it happen'd, for the wrong, or right.
His pipe that still adorn'd its wonted place,
And light blue eyes, proclaim'd the German race;
But who he was, or what, or whence, or where,
Nobody knew in sooth, and none did care;
By parents, friends, and playmates long forgot,
No tear bewail'd his lone and wretched lot.
Yet 'tis the same belike, to him that 's dead,
Who mourns his fate, or where he rests his head:
Cold on his breast lay stretch'd a rawbon'd man,
Whose blood in friendly current mingling ran;
Born in far distant climes, in death they join'd,
And like two brothers their stout arms entwin'd;
For sweet it is, in the last pang of death,
Even in the stranger's arms to yield our breath,
Rather than die abandon'd and alone,
With none to catch the last expiring groan.
What did he here—why leave old Scotland's hills,
Pure mountain air, and purer crystal rills,
Dear to his heart by every tender tie,
To seek the western woodland shades and die,

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Grappling with those who never wish'd him ill,
Who long have lov'd, and love his country still?

Yes, rugged Scotia!—bruit us as you may,
We love thy music, and thy melting lay;
The echoes of our country know them well,
And chant by heart the soft bewitching spell—
There's not a lonely seat where maids retire,
To nurse the fluttering flame of young desire,
To dream, and hope, and wish and fear the while,
The long and listless evening to beguile,
But at the sober twilight's dewy hour,
When all the gentler feelings pant for power,
Has thrill'd respondent to thy melting strain,
Dear to the courtier, scholar, bard, and swain;
There's not a voice in this new world, but loves
To warble Scotia's tunes, in vales and groves;
Nor breathes the mortal in this western sphere,
That does not hold her Burns and Campbell dear,
And owe to their bewitching minstrel power,
The charm that sweeten'd many a weary hour.

A little onward, lo! a strapping blade
Flat on his back, beneath yon elm is laid:

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I know him well, a lone and sad exile,
From his lost Paradise, green Erin's Isle;
Hither he came, but sore against his will,
To murder those, to whom he wish'd no ill,
And when he came, in sooth he hardly knew
What brought him here, or what he had to do—
Until he fell, and with his latest sigh,
Utter'd, “I know it now—I came to die.”
Beside him lay an Indian, stript half bare,
With one hand twisted in a whiteman's hair,
While still the other grasp'd the scalping knife,
Yet smoking with the warmth of recent life.
And near the Indian sprawl'd a lusty lad,
In homespun coat, and linen trowsers clad,
Whose head bereft of half its flaxen hair,
Lay reeking with the skull exposed and bare.
This luckless lad, though but a village boy—
Was an old father's pride, a mother's joy—
And when they heard their only son was slain,
'Tis said they ne'er held up their heads again.
Full many other nameless forms lay here,
Doubtless, to some far aching bosom dear,

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Some maid betroth'd, some parent, some old friend,
Who many a year lamented their sad end,
And added to that mighty sum of wo,
We pay as tribute to this world below.

Ambition—parent of tremendous War,
Tremble, for thou hast much to answer for!
What though life be, a very worthless boon,
And bootless whether doff'd or late, or soon,
Source of small good, and mighty ills below,
Of shortliv'd happiness, and lasting wo,
To others useless, to ourselves a curse,
To-day a pest, to-morrow something worse,
Yet, since we hold the poor possession dear,
And hug it as our choicest blessing here,
'Tis cruel thus to snap the thread of life,
And sweep as from this much-lov'd scene of strife,
This cheating world, this weary vale of tears,
Which even suff'ring to our heart endears,
Just as the mother loves that child the best,
That gives most pain to her maternal breast.

All now is silent, in the scene so lone,
Save ever and anon a feeble moan,

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That at each repetition dies away,
Like the last echoes of some plaintive lay.
The watchful wolf that hears the welcome sound,
Lur'd by the signal, prowls the field around,
Licking the earth, and yelling forth the while,
His horrid joy at such a glorious spoil;
Sad music to the dying victim's ear,
Whose fainting heart still throbs such notes to hear.
What ghastly spectre, near yon heap of slain,
Wak'd by the music, comes to life again,
With desp'rate effort bravely seeks to rise,
Then sinks in silence, and in silence dies?
It is the maniac Prophet!—lo, once more
He strives to rise, but falls e'en as before,
His waning strength that heart no more sustains,
And drop by drop the life blood slowly drains.
But see! supported by that groaning wretch,
I see him toward the heav'ns his red arm stretch,
And hark! his last words tremble on mine ear,
Just faintly heard, amid the silence drear.

“'Tis past—no more I hail the rising sun—
“'Tis past—and yet the work is left undone

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“The white man triumphs, the poor Indian bleeds,
“The good cause suffers, and the bad succeeds.
“Yet how yon heavens do smile, as if in scorn
“Of wretched man, from life and kindred torn,
“As if they car'd not for the right or wrong,
“Or sided ever with the righteous strong.
“'Twas always thus—for I remember well,
“Long time ago, when my brave nation fell,
“No signs appear'd that those who dwell above,
“For one or other in the conflict strove;
“No Indian spirits battled on our side,
“To curb the bold invader's towering pride,
“Or bolster up the tottering cause of right,
“Man, man alone, decided that last fight,
“While earth, and skies smil'd at the bloody scene,
“And Nature pitiless, look'd on serene.
“Then why should I to these direct my pray'r,
“They never listen, or they never care?
“Great Spirit! ev'n in this my dying hour,
“I do defy thee, fearless of thy power,
“Be it thy want of might, or lack of will,
“Or one or both, I do defy thee still.

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“Thou did'st deceive me in thy promis'd aid,
“First rais'd our hopes, and then those hopes betray'd,
“Sold us to whitemen, battled on their side,
“Else we had not been beat, nor had I died.
“If thou hadst power, why then refuse thine aid,
“If not, then have thy vot'ries idly pray'd;
“Thou art a cheat that in the heav'ns dost dwell,
“Take my defiance, and so fare thee well.

“Yet if there be among ye one that cares
“For Indian wrongs, to thee I lift my prayers.
“Alas!—'tis now too late for me to pray
“For victory on some propitious day,
“The time is past, our rights and lands to save,
“Nor canst thou wake the tenants of the grave.
“Yet oh! if e'er their groans have reach'd thine ear,
“Hear my last adjuration—Spirit, hear!
“Let slip a race of powerful demons forth
“From the deep bosom of the blasted earth,
“To wage eternal vengeance in our name,
“To wrap the world, in one wide wasting flame,
“Sweep from their lands usurp'd the whiteman's race,
“And plant still bloodier monsters in their place.

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“But if within the bounds of Earth or Hell,
“No bloodier fiends than they are found to dwell,
“Bring thou one half of that detested race
“Against the other, marshall'd face to face,
“There let them murder, till of all the train,
“But one gash'd wretch alone like me remain,
“The venom'd spleen of all his race to nurse,
“And breathe it forth, in one last dying curse.”

Down on the bleeding wretch he sunk again,
Who groan'd, as if with agonizing pain;
“Silence! thou woman”—scornfully he cried,
“Art thou the first hast suffer'd, bled, or died?
“Pale whiteman—for I know thee by thy groans,
“If thou want'st pity, go and ask yon stones;
“Or tell me over slowly, one by one,
“The favours ye to our wild race have done—
“Tell how ye sought our haunts with pious care,
“Show'd us thy way to heav'n, and pack'd us there,
“And when ye found us roving in the wood,
“Baptiz'd us Christians in our smoking blood.
“But”—and the dying energy that still
Obey'd the impulse of his master will,

171

New strung his arm—“One pleasure yet remains,
“There's yet some blood left in thy Christian veins,
“There's yet one nerve within thy treacherous heart,
“Where I may wake one keen and mortal smart;
“Come let me practise knowledge dearly bought,
“And christen thee, as I by thee was taught.
“Whoe'er thou art, I neither care, or know,
“Thou art a whiteman, and of course my foe.”

Then as the speechless victim rais'd his arm,
To supplicate, or haply shield from harm,
Deep in his bloodless heart he plung'd the knife,
And freed the last remains of struggling life—
Heav'n still is just, it was the Renegade
That suffer'd by the hand he had betray'd!
Delirious laughter rattled in his throat,
As thus the guilty caitiff dead he smote,
And ere the dying victim sunk to rest,
The murd'rer breath'd his last upon his breast.

At early dawn return'd the pious train,
To do the last rites to their brothers slain;
Sad task—amid the melancholy wild,
Where no funereal pomps their griefs beguil'd!

172

No muffled drum, with pauses sad and slow,
No melting dirge breath'd forth in cadence low,
Nor vollied thunder, from their sleep profound
Wak'd the dead echoes of the forest round;
With bayonets they dug the warrior's grave,
And cut the sod with sword of warriors brave;
The pagan Indian, and his christian foe,
Slayer and slain, slept peaceably below;
And arms, that erst in bloody tug had join'd,
In loving fellowship now lay entwin'd—
The great peace maker, Death, makes all men friends,
The league he signs and sanctions never ends!
No groans were utter'd, no ear piercing cries,
Nor silent tear, their manly grief supplies,
As bending o'er the last home of the dead,
One lifeless sadness o'er each bosom spread,
To think what pity that the honest brave,
Should sleep neglected in that lonely grave,
Without a stone to mark the sacred spot,
Their names, their heroism, and fate forgot.

And now the task of love and vengeance o'er,
The frontier free, the rustless foe no more,

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Their eager steps right winsomely they plied,
Tow'rd their dear home on fair Ohio's side,
Nor need I tell the welcome they receiv'd,
What hearts rejoic'd, or what poor matrons griev'd,
What eyes look'd bright with joy, or sorrow's tears,
Who groans in sorrow, or in triumph cheers,
Who runs to meet the pilgrims on their way,
Or who in speechless sorrow shrinks away,
As with Affection's quick and piercing gaze,
The little band advancing she surveys,
And misses one—the dearest of the train,
Her faithful breast will pillow ne'er again,
Yet dares not ask, while they the tale withhold,
For fear her heart the dreadful truth has told.
Peace to her bosom—peace and hope to all,
On whom the chast'ning hand of Heaven shall fall!

And now farewell, ye happy village train,
The tale is done—we never meet again;
Yet let me waste one line to sing the lot
Of one whom I in truth had half forgot.
Old Basil—for his head is now grown gray—
Waxes in wealth and honours every day;

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Judge, general, congressman, and half a score
Of goodly offices, and titles more
Reward his worth, while like a prince he lives,
And what he gains from heav'n to mortals gives;
His very foes are welcome to his door,
For when they come they are his foes no more.
And thus, as gently sliding tow'rd his end,
The friend of all, and every good man's friend.
Still loving life, amid the joys of health,
Still giving, yet still growing in his wealth;
Surrounded by his neighbours, dame and boys,
The old man all the sweets of life enjoys,
Wealth, honour, freedom, and his neighbours' love,
Fruition here, and Hope in Heav'n above.

Again Peace shower'd her blessings o'er the land,
And Happiness and Freedom, hand in hand
Went gayly round, and knock'd at every door,
Hailing the rich, and biding with the poor,
While wondering nations watch'd our bright career,
And look'd, and long'd to seek a refuge here,
From all the countless pack of galling ills,
That slaves still suffer, when the tyrant wills.

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And oh! be such thy ever during fate,
My native land! still to be good and great!
Still to be dear to nations—doubly dear,
The people's hope, the tyrant's lasting fear,
Still to be cherish'd by the good and brave,
Still to be hated by the dastard slave,
That turns in sick'ning envy from thy face,
The mirror that reflects his deep disgrace;
Still to be fear'd for thy far beck'ning smiles,
That oft the despot of his prey beguiles,
Still to be lov'd, by those who joy to see
The race of man live happy, great and free.

Yes! lone and spotless virgin of the west,
No tyrant pillows on thy swelling breast,
Thou bow'st before no despot's guilty throne,
But bend'st the knee to God's, and his alone!
Dear imp of Freedom—may'st thou live to see,
In after days a glorious race like thee,
Whom thy example haply shall inspire,
With the pure glow of Freedom's sacred fire,
Teach them a sober way to break their chains,
Wipe from fair Freedom's brow those bloody stains

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That hair brain'd zealots sprinkled madly there,
And show what heaven made it, pure as fair,
Till in good time a train of nymphs like thee,
Blooming and happy, virtuous, wise, and free,
Shall hail thee eldest sister of the train,
And o'er regenerate earth, sweet cherubs reign.

177

NATURE AND ART.

A FABLE.

183

In days of yore when mother Earth,
Teem'd with a race of loftier birth,
When every spring a Nymph embrac'd,
And every grove a Dryad grac'd,
When every brook a Naiad trod,
And every river claim'd its God—
When Poets, like our modern kings,
Made lofty persons out of things,
And with a flourish of the pen,
Converted ideas into men—
Nature and Art, once met by chance,
Guests at a rural country dance.
Yet how the latter happen'd there,
In faith I neither know nor care.

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But there he was, a welcome guest,
And looker-on among the rest.
The strangers fell to friendly chat,
As mortals do, of this and that,
Matters of policy and state,
The little, and the little great,
The fall of states, the rise of kings,
And such like immaterial things.
Or else they talk'd a little scandal,
For which dame Venus gave a handle,
Who as the beauty of her sphere,
Pays the same price that belles do here.
Just like the sun, whose spots and stains
Are noted down with learned pains.
Or in a whisper slily told,
How Juno was an arrant scold,
And Jove, in spite of his dread nod,
A most ignoble henpeck'd god.

From this they glanc'd toward the throng
Of rosy maids that tript along,
In merry maze to music's sound,
And hardly seem'd to touch the ground—

185

So merrily they play'd their parts,
So blithesome was their buxom hearts,
Ere yet the withering blight of care,
Had kill'd the rose that budded there.
Nature admir'd a rural maid
That never from her home had stray'd,
But bred midst books, in lonely bower,
Had blossom'd like some modest flower,
Unseen, unknown, and unadmir'd,
Unwooed, unflatter'd, undesir'd.
But Art, selected for his belle
One who his precepts knew full well,
Who studied all her witching smiles,
And practis'd all the city wiles,
Whose every look and action too,
Was such as Nature never knew.

This difference, as well it might,
Soon led them to dispute outright,
If Nature's bloom or polish'd Art,
Best claim'd the homage of the heart,
And as the wrathful pair contended,
In wordy war that ne'er had ended,

186

They saw at distance in the grove
The gods of Marriage and of Love,
Just coming from a rural wedding,
And quick toward the dancers treading.
As they advanc'd the conscious grove
In whispers greeted rosy Love:
The birds in softer numbers sung,
The rocks with sweeter echoes rung,
The flowers put forth their freshest bloom,
The air became one rich perfume,
The brook that gurgled through the shade
A gentler, soothing murmur made,
Young Zephyr, drunk with am'rous bliss,
Gave every leaf a balmy kiss,
And Nature, like a lusty boy,
Sprung up and clapt her hands for joy.

Love, like a wild and wayward child,
With idle sports his way beguil'd,
And oft would leave the beaten track,
Till sober Hymen call'd him back.
Sometimes a rolling hoop he'd drive,
Or catch a butterfly alive,

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Or when Dan Hymen's back was turn'd,
He snatch'd his torch that brightly burn'd,
And to extinguish it essay'd
In brook that murmur'd through the glade.
Sometimes he bent his desp'rate bow,
In wrath to lay some insect low,
And as he twang'd the golden string,
Would flap his little purple wing,
To see the arrow cut its way,
And butterfly or beetle slay.
Anon, the towering Eagle's flight
He watch'd with keen and wary sight,
And as the lofty monarch wound
In airy circles round and round,
Would lanch his quiv'ring arrow forth,
And strike him headlong to the earth.
Like playful boy the urchin seem'd,
Yet in his eye the Godhead beam'd.

Young Hymen look'd of lofty race,
Sober his step, and mild his face;
No boiling passions eddied there,
No withering scowl, or anxious care,

188

But in his eye, serene and mild,
Contentment bask'd, and sweetly smil'd.
A fillet bound his auburn hair,
That curl'd about his forehead fair,
A purple robe around him flow'd,
With rosy tint his cheek all glow'd,
And in his hand, of dazzling white,
He bore a torch celestial bright.

To these, the wrangling pair referr'd
The question you have just now heard,
And crav'd their Godships' high opinion,
Which o'er the heart best claim'd dominion:
She, who to Nature's precepts true,
No other guidance ever knew,
Or she, who at the shrine of Art
Had offer'd up her virgin heart.
The maids were call'd to stand the test,
Of their two Godships' high behest.

One tripping came with studied air,
With elbows, and et cetera bare,

189

And dress that told the gazer well,
What dress should never dare to tell.
Each step, each action, every look
Was studied in Art's secret book;
Her wand'ring, discontented eye
Glanc'd round and round, in hope to spy
Among the throng that gather'd there,
The buck's bold glance, the booby stare,
The silent, deep admiring pause,
Or hear the buzz of sweet applause
That thrills in Vanity's quick ear
And makes her brightest heaven here.
Upon her cheek of painted snow,
No changeful blush was seen to glow,
But one unvarying, dazzling glare
From morn till night abided there,
For no emotion of the heart
E'er ting'd that cold and senseless part.
'Twas her delight to lure the youth,
And make him break his plighted truth,
Then leave the baffled fool to prove
The pangs of conscience and of love—

190

To mourn the ill-starr'd luckless hour
He felt the cold seducer's power,
And bound in Art's most vulgar spell,
Broke the true heart that lov'd him well
To the bright pair she “louted low,”
Betwixt a curtsy and a bow,
And looking round with studied smile,
Essay'd some coxcomb to beguile.

Young Hymen eyed the nymph askance,
And Cupid cast a careless glance,
But not a single smile was there,
To greet the cold, conceited fair,
Who sat her down as legends tell us,
And mutter'd, “two such vulgar fellows!”

Next Nature, her pure taste to prove,
Beckon'd her pupil from the grove,
Where modestly she sat retir'd
Afraid to come and be admir'd.
With downcast eyes the virgin came,
While soft emotions shook her frame,

191

And modesty, and maiden pride,
Struggled the mantling cheek to hide,
That told the blood which floated there
Was pure, as she was bright and fair.
White was her robe that well conceal'd,
What Art's keen vot'ry had reveal'd;
No bold unblushing bosom there,
Wooed the volupt'ry's gloting stare,
Yet Fancy pictur'd all full well,
What caus'd that gentle panting swell.
No beauty seen, but a fair face
That shone in Nature's blooming grace—
Two hands as white as driven snow,
Two little feet that peep'd below,
Just serv'd to tell, that what was hid,
What was display'd by far outdid.
Was nothing here, to lure the eye
Of idle coxcomb lounging by;
No half side glance, or dauntless stare,
Or well conn'd attitude was there,
No charm obtrusively display'd,
Or careless as by chance betray'd.

192

She came like sweet and balmy eve,
When sunbeams all the landscape leave—
And soft'ning shades and purple hues,
A sweet and mellow charm diffuse,
That blends in one harmonious whole—
A scene that melts the gazer's soul.
For so it was, the careless eye
Oft pass'd this gentle maiden by,
But those who watch'd her winning way,
If they had souls, soon felt her sway.
And in the end it ever prov'd,
The more they look'd the more they lov'd.
So she approach'd th' admiring pair,
With downcast look and modest air,
Knelt at young Love and Hymen's feet,
Then sought a low and lonely seat.

Now crav'd the disputatious pair,
Decision from their worships' chair.
Dan Cupid, then with judge-like face,
First gave opinion on the case,
Since all reports and records prove,
That precedence is due to Love,

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In cases of this special kind,
Because like Justice, Love is blind;
That is to say, is blind to all
The faults that to dear woman fall.

“The maid, whose manners are retir'd,
“Who patient waits to be admir'd,
“Though overlook'd perhaps awhile,
“Her modest worth, her modest smile,
“This be her fate, or soon or late,
“To gain a true, and faithful mate,
“Who when the spring of life is gone,
“And all its blooming product flown,
“When butterflies have ta'en their flight,
“And moths flit to some newer light,
“Will bless old Time, who left behind
“The graces of a virtuous mind,
“That as the body's bloom decay'd,
“An ample retribution made—
“By adding every passing hour,
“To that pure mind's resistless power.
“But she—who seeks in vapid crowd—
“To gain all hearts by prating loud—

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“And each obtrusive art assays,
“To catch the universal gaze,
“This be the end of all her art,
“Never to win, or wear a heart:
“To worry on from day to day,
“And waste each charm of youth away;
“In search of worthless joys to roam
“Far from her friends and native home,
“To catch the coxcomb's idle gaze—
“Who flutters round her heatless blaze—
“But never feels one wish to prove
“With her the joys of virtuous love;
“To starve her heart, to feed her pride,
“And make herself so often spied,
“That like the sun we see all day,
“She shines unheeded on our way,
“Or palls us with such glaring light,
“We languish for the shades of night;
“This be the diff'rence in the two,
“One wooes all men—one all men woo.”

Hymen vouchsaf'd the boy a nod—
As he approv'd the rosy god—

195

And with severe and manly grace,
His verdict gave in this clear case:

“Men gaze on Beauty for a while,
“Allur'd by artificial smile,
“But Love shall never twang his dart
“From any string that's form'd by Art.
“'Tis Nature moulds the touching face,
“'Tis she that gives the living grace,
“The genuine charm that never dies,
“The modest air, the timid eyes,
“The stealing glance, that wins its way
“To where the soul's affections lay;
“'Tis Nature, and 'tis she alone
“That gives the bright celestial zone,
“Which virgin Venus blushing wore,
“When first she touch'd gay Cyprus' shore;
“And ere she sought her destin'd skies
“Charm'd every wondering gazer's eyes—
“The zone of modesty, the charm
“That coldest hearts can quick disarm,
“Which all our best affections gains,
“And gaining, ever still retains.”

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Then beckon'd he the blushing maid,
Who modestly at distance staid,
And reaching forth his snowy hand,
Address'd her thus in accents bland:
“Be thine the blissful lot to know
“A partner both in weal and wo;
“One who when friends shall fall around
“Like dry leaves on the barren ground,
“When father, mother, all are dead—
“And every youthful friend is fled,
“Will well supply their tenderness,
“With every act of kindness bless,
“Be unto thee, when they are gone,
“Parent, friend, lover, all in one,
“And when he looks on thee, sweet maid,
“Think all his cares are richly paid.
“But thou,” and with a withering look,
His torch he at the other shook,
Then quench'd it in the babbling brook—
“Be thine, to live, and never know
“Sweet Sympathy in joy or wo,
“To see Time rob thee, one by one,
“Of every charm thou e'er hast known,

197

“To see the moth that round thee came,
“Flit to some newer, brighter flame,
“And never know thy destin'd fate,
“Till to retrieve it is too late;
“Be thine to miss each well known face,
“And charm no new ones in their place;
“To see thy friends from life all hurl'd,
“And feel a desert in this world;
“To die, nor leave one soul to weep,
“And in the grave forgotten sleep,
“Thy spirit doom'd to wander forth,
“Curs'd with the passions of this earth,
“A viewless spectre every where,
“To witness joys thou canst not share,
“The bride's long nights of virtuous bliss,
“The lover's, and the mother's kiss,
“And thus eternal years to pine
“For transports that shall ne'er be thine.”

This said, pleas'd Nature sought the shade,
And thither led the blushing maid;
Art to the city bent his way,
To try his luck some other day;

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Hymen to bind the wounds of love,
And Cupid, to the realms above.

THE END.