University of Virginia Library

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.