CHAPTER III

Hear through the morning drums and trumpets sounding,Rumbling of cannon, tramp of mighty armies;Then the mist sunders, all the plain disclosingScarlet for England.Batteries roll on, halt, and flashing lightningsSearch out our earthworks, silent and portentous.Fierce on our right with crimson banners tossingTheir lines spring forward.Lanyards in hand, Americans and seamen,Gunners from warships, Lafitte's privateers-men,Roar out our thunders till the grape and shrapnelShriek through their columns.Shattered in fragments, thus their right is riven;But on our left a deadlier bolt is speeding:Wellesley's Peninsulars, never yet defeated,Charge in their valor.Closing their files, our cannon fire disdaining,Dauntless they come with vict'ry on their standards;Then slowly rise the rifles of our marksmen,Tennessee hunters.Cradles of flame and scythes of whistling bulletsLay them in windrows, war's infernal harvest.High through the onslaught Tennessee is shouting,Joying in battle.Pakenham falls there, Keane and his HighlandersClose from the centre, hopeless in their courage;Backward they stagger, dying and disabled,Gloriously routed.Stilled are our rifles as our cheers grow louder:War clouds sweep back in January breezes,Showing the dreadful proof of the great triumphGod hath vouchsafed us.That gallant war-host, England's best and bravest,Met by raw levies, scores against its hundreds,Lies at our feet, a thing for woman's weeping,Reddening the meadows.Freed are our States from European tyrants:Lift then your voices for the little armyLed by our battle-loving Andrew Jackson,Blest of Jehovah.Wallace Rice.

Hear through the morning drums and trumpets sounding,Rumbling of cannon, tramp of mighty armies;Then the mist sunders, all the plain disclosingScarlet for England.

Batteries roll on, halt, and flashing lightningsSearch out our earthworks, silent and portentous.Fierce on our right with crimson banners tossingTheir lines spring forward.

Lanyards in hand, Americans and seamen,Gunners from warships, Lafitte's privateers-men,Roar out our thunders till the grape and shrapnelShriek through their columns.

Shattered in fragments, thus their right is riven;But on our left a deadlier bolt is speeding:Wellesley's Peninsulars, never yet defeated,Charge in their valor.

Closing their files, our cannon fire disdaining,Dauntless they come with vict'ry on their standards;Then slowly rise the rifles of our marksmen,Tennessee hunters.

Cradles of flame and scythes of whistling bulletsLay them in windrows, war's infernal harvest.High through the onslaught Tennessee is shouting,Joying in battle.

Pakenham falls there, Keane and his HighlandersClose from the centre, hopeless in their courage;Backward they stagger, dying and disabled,Gloriously routed.

Stilled are our rifles as our cheers grow louder:War clouds sweep back in January breezes,Showing the dreadful proof of the great triumphGod hath vouchsafed us.

That gallant war-host, England's best and bravest,Met by raw levies, scores against its hundreds,Lies at our feet, a thing for woman's weeping,Reddening the meadows.

Freed are our States from European tyrants:Lift then your voices for the little armyLed by our battle-loving Andrew Jackson,Blest of Jehovah.

Wallace Rice.

The British were permitted to retire unmolested to their ships, and the sails of that mighty fleet were soon fading away along the horizon. Neither victor nor vanquished knew that a treaty of peace had been signed at Ghent two weeks before, and that the battle need never have been fought.

TO THE DEFENDERS OF NEW ORLEANS

Hail sons of generous valor,Who now embattled stand,To wield the brand of strife and blood,For Freedom and the land.And hail to him your laurelled chief,Around whose trophied nameA nation's gratitude has twinedThe wreath of deathless fame.Now round that gallant leaderYour iron phalanx form,And throw, like Ocean's barrier rocks,Your bosoms to the storm.Though wild as Ocean's wave it rolls,Its fury shall be low,For justice guides the warrior's steel,And vengeance strikes the blow.High o'er the gleaming columns,The bannered star appears,And proud amid its martial band,His crest the eagle rears.And long as patriot valor's armShall win the battle's prize,That star shall beam triumphantly,That eagle seek the skies.Then on, ye daring spirits,To danger's tumults now,The bowl is filled and wreathed the crown,To grace the victor's brow;And they who for their country die,Shall fill an honored grave;For glory lights the soldier's tomb,And beauty weeps the brave.Joseph Rodman Drake.

Now round that gallant leaderYour iron phalanx form,And throw, like Ocean's barrier rocks,Your bosoms to the storm.Though wild as Ocean's wave it rolls,Its fury shall be low,For justice guides the warrior's steel,And vengeance strikes the blow.

High o'er the gleaming columns,The bannered star appears,And proud amid its martial band,His crest the eagle rears.And long as patriot valor's armShall win the battle's prize,That star shall beam triumphantly,That eagle seek the skies.

Then on, ye daring spirits,To danger's tumults now,The bowl is filled and wreathed the crown,To grace the victor's brow;And they who for their country die,Shall fill an honored grave;For glory lights the soldier's tomb,And beauty weeps the brave.

Joseph Rodman Drake.

Prominent among the forces under Jackson was a brigade of eight hundred Kentucky riflemen, commanded by General John Coffee. They had marched eight hundred miles through a wilderness, having covered the last hundred miles in less than two days—a march almost unequalled in history. Jackson spoke of this brigade as the right arm of his army.

THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY

Ye gentlemen and ladies fair,Who grace this famous city,Just listen, if you've time to spare,While I rehearse a ditty;And for the opportunityConceive yourselves quite lucky,For 'tis but seldom that you seeA hunter from Kentucky.Oh! Kentucky,The hunters of Kentucky.We are a hardy free-born race,Each man to fear a stranger;Whate'er the game, we join in chase,Despising toil and danger:And if a daring foe annoys,Whate'er his strength or force is,We'll show him that Kentucky boysAre Alligator-horses.I s'pose you've read it in the prints,How Pakenham attemptedTo make old Hickory Jackson wince,But soon his schemes repented;For we, with rifles ready cock'd,Thought such occasion lucky,And soon around the general flock'dThe hunters of Kentucky.I s'pose you've heard how New OrleansIs famed for wealth and beauty;They've gals of every hue, it seems,From snowy white to sooty:So Pakenham he made his bragsIf he in fight was lucky,He'd have their gals and cotton bags,In spite of Old Kentucky.But Jackson he was wide awake,And wasn't scared at trifles,For well he knew what aim we takeWith our Kentucky rifles;So he led us down to Cypress Swamp,The ground was low and mucky;There stood John Bull in martial pomp—But here was Old Kentucky.We raised a bank to hide our breasts,Not that we thought of dying,But then we always like to rest,Unless the game is flying:Behind it stood our little force—None wish'd it to be greater,For every man was half a horseAnd half an alligator.They didn't let our patience tireBefore they show'd their faces;We didn't choose to waste our fire,But snugly kept our places;And when so near we saw them wink,We thought it time to stop 'em,It would have done you good, I think,To see Kentuckians drop 'em.They found, at length, 'twas vain to fight,When lead was all their booty,And so they wisely took to flight,And left us all the beauty.And now, if danger e'er annoys,Remember what our trade is;Just send for us Kentucky boys,And we'll protect you, ladies:Oh! Kentucky,The hunters of Kentucky.

We are a hardy free-born race,Each man to fear a stranger;Whate'er the game, we join in chase,Despising toil and danger:And if a daring foe annoys,Whate'er his strength or force is,We'll show him that Kentucky boysAre Alligator-horses.

I s'pose you've read it in the prints,How Pakenham attemptedTo make old Hickory Jackson wince,But soon his schemes repented;For we, with rifles ready cock'd,Thought such occasion lucky,And soon around the general flock'dThe hunters of Kentucky.

I s'pose you've heard how New OrleansIs famed for wealth and beauty;They've gals of every hue, it seems,From snowy white to sooty:So Pakenham he made his bragsIf he in fight was lucky,He'd have their gals and cotton bags,In spite of Old Kentucky.

But Jackson he was wide awake,And wasn't scared at trifles,For well he knew what aim we takeWith our Kentucky rifles;So he led us down to Cypress Swamp,The ground was low and mucky;There stood John Bull in martial pomp—But here was Old Kentucky.

We raised a bank to hide our breasts,Not that we thought of dying,But then we always like to rest,Unless the game is flying:Behind it stood our little force—None wish'd it to be greater,For every man was half a horseAnd half an alligator.

They didn't let our patience tireBefore they show'd their faces;We didn't choose to waste our fire,But snugly kept our places;And when so near we saw them wink,We thought it time to stop 'em,It would have done you good, I think,To see Kentuckians drop 'em.

They found, at length, 'twas vain to fight,When lead was all their booty,And so they wisely took to flight,And left us all the beauty.And now, if danger e'er annoys,Remember what our trade is;Just send for us Kentucky boys,And we'll protect you, ladies:Oh! Kentucky,The hunters of Kentucky.

Another useless action, but a most remarkable one, was fought by the famous old Constitution, near Madeira, on February 20, 1815. On the afternoon of that day she sighted and overhauled the British 32-gun frigate Cyane and the 20-gun sloop Levant. She attacked them simultaneously, and after a fierce fight compelled them both to surrender.

THE CONSTITUTION'S LAST FIGHT

[February 20, 1815]

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew—Constitution, where ye bound for?Wherever, my lad, there's fight to be hadAcrost the Western ocean.Our captainwas married in Boston townAnd sailed next day to sea;For all must go when the State says so;Blow high, blow low, sailed we."Now, what shall I bring for a bridal giftWhen my home-bound pennant flies?The rarest that be on land or seaIt shall be my lady's prize.""There's never a prize on sea or landCould bring such joy to meAs my true love sound and homeward boundWith a king's ship under his lee."The Western ocean is wide and deep,And wild its tempests blow,But bravely rides "Old Ironsides,"A-cruising to and fro.We cruised to the east and we cruised to north,And southing far went we,And at last off Cape de Verd we raisedTwo frigates sailing free.Oh, God made man, and man made ships,But God makes very fewLike him who sailed our ship that day,And fought her, one to two.He gained the weather-gage of both,He held them both a-lee;And gun for gun, till set of sun,He spoke them fair and free;Till the night-fog fell on spar and sail,And ship, and sea, and shore,And our only aim was the bursting flameAnd the hidden cannon's roar.Then a long rift in the mist showed upThe stout Cyane, close-hauledTo swing in our wake and our quarter rake,And a boasting Briton bawled:"Starboard and larboard, we've got him fastWhere his heels won't take him through;Let him luff or wear, he'll find us there,—Ho, Yankee, which will you do?"We did not luff and we did not wear,But braced our topsails back,Till the sternway drew us fair and trueBroadsides athwart her track.Athwart her track and across her bowsWe raked her fore and aft,And out of the fight and into the nightDrifted the beaten craft.The slow Levant came up too late;No need had we to stir;Her decks we swept with fire, and keptThe flies from troubling her.We raked her again, and her flag came down,—The haughtiest flag that floats,—And the lime-juice dogs lay there like logs,With never a bark in their throats.With never a bark and never a bite,But only an oath to break,As we squared away for Praya BayWith our prizes in our wake.Parole they gave and parole they broke,What matters the cowardly cheat,If the captain's bride was satisfiedWith the one prize laid at her feet?A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew—Constitution, where ye bound for?Wherever the British prizes be,Though it's one to two, or one to three,—"Old Ironsides" means victory,Acrost the Western ocean.James Jeffrey Roche.

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew—Constitution, where ye bound for?Wherever, my lad, there's fight to be hadAcrost the Western ocean.

Our captainwas married in Boston townAnd sailed next day to sea;For all must go when the State says so;Blow high, blow low, sailed we.

"Now, what shall I bring for a bridal giftWhen my home-bound pennant flies?The rarest that be on land or seaIt shall be my lady's prize."

"There's never a prize on sea or landCould bring such joy to meAs my true love sound and homeward boundWith a king's ship under his lee."

The Western ocean is wide and deep,And wild its tempests blow,But bravely rides "Old Ironsides,"A-cruising to and fro.

We cruised to the east and we cruised to north,And southing far went we,And at last off Cape de Verd we raisedTwo frigates sailing free.

Oh, God made man, and man made ships,But God makes very fewLike him who sailed our ship that day,And fought her, one to two.

He gained the weather-gage of both,He held them both a-lee;And gun for gun, till set of sun,He spoke them fair and free;

Till the night-fog fell on spar and sail,And ship, and sea, and shore,And our only aim was the bursting flameAnd the hidden cannon's roar.

Then a long rift in the mist showed upThe stout Cyane, close-hauledTo swing in our wake and our quarter rake,And a boasting Briton bawled:

"Starboard and larboard, we've got him fastWhere his heels won't take him through;Let him luff or wear, he'll find us there,—Ho, Yankee, which will you do?"

We did not luff and we did not wear,But braced our topsails back,Till the sternway drew us fair and trueBroadsides athwart her track.

Athwart her track and across her bowsWe raked her fore and aft,And out of the fight and into the nightDrifted the beaten craft.

The slow Levant came up too late;No need had we to stir;Her decks we swept with fire, and keptThe flies from troubling her.

We raked her again, and her flag came down,—The haughtiest flag that floats,—And the lime-juice dogs lay there like logs,With never a bark in their throats.

With never a bark and never a bite,But only an oath to break,As we squared away for Praya BayWith our prizes in our wake.

Parole they gave and parole they broke,What matters the cowardly cheat,If the captain's bride was satisfiedWith the one prize laid at her feet?

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew—Constitution, where ye bound for?Wherever the British prizes be,Though it's one to two, or one to three,—"Old Ironsides" means victory,Acrost the Western ocean.

James Jeffrey Roche.

News of the peace did not reach America until February 11, 1815. It was hailed with rejoicing everywhere.

SEA AND LAND VICTORIES

With half the Western world at stake,See Perry on the midland lake,The unequal combat dare;Unawed by vastly stronger pow'rs,He met the foe and made him ours,And closed the savage war.Macdonough, too, on Lake Champlain,In ships outnumbered, guns, and men,Saw dangers thick increase;His trust in God and virtue's causeHe conquer'd in the lion's jaws,And led the way to peace.To sing each valiant hero's nameWhose deeds have swelled the files of fame,Requires immortal powers;Columbia's warriors never yieldTo equal force by sea or field,Her eagle never cowers.Long as Niagara's cataract roarsOr Erie laves our Northern shores,Great Brown, thy fame shall rise;Outnumber'd by a veteran hostOf conquering heroes, Britain's boast—Conquest was there thy prize.At Plattsburg, see the Spartan band,Where gallant Macomb held command,The unequal host oppose;Provost confounded, vanquished flies,Convinced that numbers won't sufficeWhere Freemen are the foes.Our songs to noblest strains we'll raiseWhile we attempt thy matchless praise,Carolina's godlike son;While Mississippi rolls his flood,Or Freemen's hearts move patriots' blood,The palm shall be thine own.At Orleans—lo! a savage band,In countless numbers gain the strand,"Beauty and spoil" the word—There Jackson with his fearless few,The invincibles by thousands slew,And dire destruction poured.O Britain! when the tale is toldOf Jackson's deeds by fame enrolled,Should grief and madness rise,Remember God, the avenger, reigns,Who witnessed Havre's smoking plains,And Hampton's female cries.

With half the Western world at stake,See Perry on the midland lake,The unequal combat dare;Unawed by vastly stronger pow'rs,He met the foe and made him ours,And closed the savage war.

Macdonough, too, on Lake Champlain,In ships outnumbered, guns, and men,Saw dangers thick increase;His trust in God and virtue's causeHe conquer'd in the lion's jaws,And led the way to peace.

To sing each valiant hero's nameWhose deeds have swelled the files of fame,Requires immortal powers;Columbia's warriors never yieldTo equal force by sea or field,Her eagle never cowers.

Long as Niagara's cataract roarsOr Erie laves our Northern shores,Great Brown, thy fame shall rise;Outnumber'd by a veteran hostOf conquering heroes, Britain's boast—Conquest was there thy prize.

At Plattsburg, see the Spartan band,Where gallant Macomb held command,The unequal host oppose;Provost confounded, vanquished flies,Convinced that numbers won't sufficeWhere Freemen are the foes.

Our songs to noblest strains we'll raiseWhile we attempt thy matchless praise,Carolina's godlike son;While Mississippi rolls his flood,Or Freemen's hearts move patriots' blood,The palm shall be thine own.

At Orleans—lo! a savage band,In countless numbers gain the strand,"Beauty and spoil" the word—There Jackson with his fearless few,The invincibles by thousands slew,And dire destruction poured.

O Britain! when the tale is toldOf Jackson's deeds by fame enrolled,Should grief and madness rise,Remember God, the avenger, reigns,Who witnessed Havre's smoking plains,And Hampton's female cries.

ODE TO PEACE

Oh! breathe upon this hapless world,And bid our pains and sorrows cease;Broad be thy snowy flag unfurl'd,And may we hail thy coming, peace!For long enough has ruin stalk'd,With force and terror o'er our earth;Around them hideous spectres walk'd,And evil nurs'd his monstrous birth.Ah! banish'd from these happy skies,By thee, be soon these boding stars,Which erring made mankind arise,To deeds of sin, to blood and wars.Philadelphia, 1816.

Oh! breathe upon this hapless world,And bid our pains and sorrows cease;Broad be thy snowy flag unfurl'd,And may we hail thy coming, peace!

For long enough has ruin stalk'd,With force and terror o'er our earth;Around them hideous spectres walk'd,And evil nurs'd his monstrous birth.

Ah! banish'd from these happy skies,By thee, be soon these boding stars,Which erring made mankind arise,To deeds of sin, to blood and wars.

Philadelphia, 1816.

THE WEST

At the close of the Revolution, the country west of the Alleghanies was still virtually an unbroken wilderness. Boone had pushed forward into Kentucky, drawing a few settlers after him; the trading-posts in the Illinois country, which had been captured by George Rogers Clark, still dragged on a miserable existence; but these were mere pin-points in the great stretches of virgin forest, amid which the first settlers hewed out a home.

THE SETTLER

His echoing axe the settler swungAmid the sea-like solitude,And, rushing, thundering, down were flungThe Titans of the wood;Loud shrieked the eagle, as he dashedFrom out his mossy nest, which crashedWith its supporting bough,And the first sunlight, leaping, flashedOn the wolf's haunt below.Rude was the garb and strong the frameOf him who plied his ceaseless toil:To form that garb the wildwood gameContributed their spoil;The soul that warmed that frame disdainedThe tinsel, gaud, and glare that reignedWhere men their crowds collect;The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained,This forest-tamer decked.The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees,The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers,The winds that swelled their harmoniesThrough those sun-hiding bowers,The temple vast, the green arcade,The nestling vale, the grassy glade,Dark cave, and swampy lair;These scenes and sounds majestic madeHis world, his pleasures, there.His roof adorned a pleasant spot;Mid the black logs green glowed the grain,And herbs and plants the woods knew notThrove in the sun and rain.The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell,All made a landscape strange,Which was the living chronicleOf deeds that wrought the change.The violet sprung at spring's first tinge,The rose of summer spread its glow,The maize hung out its autumn fringe,Rude winter brought his snow;And still the lone one labored there,His shout and whistle broke the air,As cheerily he pliedHis garden-spade, or drove his shareAlong the hillock's side.He marked the fire-storm's blazing floodRoaring and crackling on its path,And scorching earth, and melting wood,Beneath its greedy wrath;He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot,Trampling the pine-tree with its foot,And darkening thick the dayWith streaming bough and severed root,Hurled whizzing on its way.His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed,The grim bear hushed his savage growl;In blood and foam the panther gnashedHis fangs, with dying howl;The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground,And, with its moaning cry,The beaver sunk beneath the woundIts pond-built Venice by.Humble the lot, yet his the race,When Liberty sent forth her cry,Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place,To fight,—to bleed,—to die!Who cumbered Bunker's height of red,By hope through weary years were led,And witnessed Yorktown's sunBlaze on a nation's banner spread,A nation's freedom won.Alfred B. Street.

Rude was the garb and strong the frameOf him who plied his ceaseless toil:To form that garb the wildwood gameContributed their spoil;The soul that warmed that frame disdainedThe tinsel, gaud, and glare that reignedWhere men their crowds collect;The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained,This forest-tamer decked.

The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees,The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers,The winds that swelled their harmoniesThrough those sun-hiding bowers,The temple vast, the green arcade,The nestling vale, the grassy glade,Dark cave, and swampy lair;These scenes and sounds majestic madeHis world, his pleasures, there.

His roof adorned a pleasant spot;Mid the black logs green glowed the grain,And herbs and plants the woods knew notThrove in the sun and rain.The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell,All made a landscape strange,Which was the living chronicleOf deeds that wrought the change.

The violet sprung at spring's first tinge,The rose of summer spread its glow,The maize hung out its autumn fringe,Rude winter brought his snow;And still the lone one labored there,His shout and whistle broke the air,As cheerily he pliedHis garden-spade, or drove his shareAlong the hillock's side.

He marked the fire-storm's blazing floodRoaring and crackling on its path,And scorching earth, and melting wood,Beneath its greedy wrath;He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot,Trampling the pine-tree with its foot,And darkening thick the dayWith streaming bough and severed root,Hurled whizzing on its way.

His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed,The grim bear hushed his savage growl;In blood and foam the panther gnashedHis fangs, with dying howl;The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground,And, with its moaning cry,The beaver sunk beneath the woundIts pond-built Venice by.

Humble the lot, yet his the race,When Liberty sent forth her cry,Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place,To fight,—to bleed,—to die!Who cumbered Bunker's height of red,By hope through weary years were led,And witnessed Yorktown's sunBlaze on a nation's banner spread,A nation's freedom won.

Alfred B. Street.

Danger was ever present—and in its most hideous form. Northwest of the Ohio dwelt the powerful Delawares and Shawanese, ever ready to march against the border settlements and to surprise isolated dwellings. In the incessant warfare against the Indians, the frontier women played no little part.

THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!Stout-hearted dames were they;With nerve to wield the battle-brand,And join the border-fray.Our rough land had no braver,In its days of blood and strife—Aye ready for severest toil,Aye free to peril life.The Mothers of our Forest-Land!On old Kan-tuc-kee's soil,How shared they, with each dauntless band,War's tempest and Life's toil!They shrank not from the foeman,—They quailed not in the fight,—But cheered their husbands through the day,And soothed them through the night.The Mothers of our Forest-Land!Their bosoms pillowedmen!And proud were they by such to stand,In hammock, fort, or glen.To load the sure old rifle,—To run the leaden ball,—To watch a battling husband's place,And fill it should he fall.The Mothers of our Forest-Land!Suchwere their daily deeds.Their monument!—where does it stand?Their epitaph!—who reads?No braver dames had Sparta,No nobler matrons Rome,—Yet who or lauds or honors them,E'en in their own green home!The Mothers of our Forest-Land!They sleep in unknown graves:And had they borne and nursed a bandOf ingrates, or of slaves,They had not been more neglected!But their graves shall yet be found,And their monuments dot here and there"The Dark and Bloody Ground."William D. Gallagher.

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!On old Kan-tuc-kee's soil,How shared they, with each dauntless band,War's tempest and Life's toil!They shrank not from the foeman,—They quailed not in the fight,—But cheered their husbands through the day,And soothed them through the night.

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!Their bosoms pillowedmen!And proud were they by such to stand,In hammock, fort, or glen.To load the sure old rifle,—To run the leaden ball,—To watch a battling husband's place,And fill it should he fall.

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!Suchwere their daily deeds.Their monument!—where does it stand?Their epitaph!—who reads?No braver dames had Sparta,No nobler matrons Rome,—Yet who or lauds or honors them,E'en in their own green home!

The Mothers of our Forest-Land!They sleep in unknown graves:And had they borne and nursed a bandOf ingrates, or of slaves,They had not been more neglected!But their graves shall yet be found,And their monuments dot here and there"The Dark and Bloody Ground."

William D. Gallagher.

In 1784 Virginia ceded to the national government her claim to the lands west of the mountains. New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut soon followed suit, and the tide of emigration to the West set in with steady and ever-increasing volume.

ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA AND PEOPLING THE WESTERN COUNTRY

[1784]

To western woods and lonely plains,Palemon from the crowd departs,Where Nature's wildest genius reigns,To tame the soil, and plant the arts—What wonders there shall freedom show,What mighty states successive grow!From Europe's proud, despotic shoresHither the stranger takes his way,And in our new-found world exploresA happier soil, a milder sway,Where no proud despot holds him down,No slaves insult him with a crown.What charming scenes attract the eye,On wild Ohio's savage stream!There Nature reigns, whose works outvieThe boldest pattern art can frame;There ages past have rolled away,And forests bloomed but to decay.From these fair plains, these rural seats,So long concealed, so lately known,The unsocial Indian far retreats,To make some other clime his own,Where other streams, less pleasing, flow,And darker forests round him grow.Great Sire of floods! whose varied waveThrough climes and countries takes its way,To whom creating Nature gaveTen thousand streams to swell thy sway!No longer shall they useless prove,Nor idly through the forests rove;Nor longer shall your princely floodFrom distant lakes be swelled in vain,Nor longer through a darksome woodAdvance unnoticed to the main;Far other ends the heavens decree—And commerce plans new freights for thee.While virtue warms the generous breast,There heaven-born freedom shall reside,Nor shall the voice of war molest,Nor Europe's all-aspiring pride—There Reason shall new laws devise,And order from confusion rise.Forsaking kings and regal state,With all their pomp and fancied bliss,The traveller owns, convinced though late,No realm so free, so blest as this—The east is half to slaves consigned,Where kings and priests enchain the mind.O come the time, and haste the day,When man shall man no longer crush,When Reason shall enforce her sway,Nor these fair regions raise our blush,Where still the African complains,And mourns his yet unbroken chains.Far brighter scenes a future age,The muse predicts, these States will hail,Whose genius may the world engage,Whose deeds may over death prevail,And happier systems bring to viewThan all the eastern sages knew.Philip Freneau.

From Europe's proud, despotic shoresHither the stranger takes his way,And in our new-found world exploresA happier soil, a milder sway,Where no proud despot holds him down,No slaves insult him with a crown.

What charming scenes attract the eye,On wild Ohio's savage stream!There Nature reigns, whose works outvieThe boldest pattern art can frame;There ages past have rolled away,And forests bloomed but to decay.

From these fair plains, these rural seats,So long concealed, so lately known,The unsocial Indian far retreats,To make some other clime his own,Where other streams, less pleasing, flow,And darker forests round him grow.

Great Sire of floods! whose varied waveThrough climes and countries takes its way,To whom creating Nature gaveTen thousand streams to swell thy sway!No longer shall they useless prove,Nor idly through the forests rove;

Nor longer shall your princely floodFrom distant lakes be swelled in vain,Nor longer through a darksome woodAdvance unnoticed to the main;Far other ends the heavens decree—And commerce plans new freights for thee.

While virtue warms the generous breast,There heaven-born freedom shall reside,Nor shall the voice of war molest,Nor Europe's all-aspiring pride—There Reason shall new laws devise,And order from confusion rise.

Forsaking kings and regal state,With all their pomp and fancied bliss,The traveller owns, convinced though late,No realm so free, so blest as this—The east is half to slaves consigned,Where kings and priests enchain the mind.

O come the time, and haste the day,When man shall man no longer crush,When Reason shall enforce her sway,Nor these fair regions raise our blush,Where still the African complains,And mourns his yet unbroken chains.

Far brighter scenes a future age,The muse predicts, these States will hail,Whose genius may the world engage,Whose deeds may over death prevail,And happier systems bring to viewThan all the eastern sages knew.

Philip Freneau.

In 1788 Marietta was founded at the mouth of the Muskingum by the Ohio Company, which had bought a great tract of land extending to the Scioto. Later in the same year, Matthias Denman, Robert Patterson, and John Filson laid out the town of Losantiville, now Cincinnati. Filson had been a schoolmaster and was responsible for the strange name, which he thought indicated that the town was opposite the mouth of the Licking. He was soon afterwards killed by the Indians while on an exploring expedition.

JOHN FILSON

[1788]

John Filson was a pedagogue—A pioneer was he;I know not what his nation was,Nor what his pedigree.Tradition's scanty records tellBut little of the man,Save that he to the frontier cameIn immigration's van.Perhaps with phantoms of reformHis busy fancy teemed,Perhaps of new UtopiasHesperian he dreamed.John Filson and companions boldA frontier village planned,In forest wild, on sloping hills,By fair Ohio's strand.John Filson from three languagesWith pedant skill did frameThe novel word LosantivilleTo be the new town's name.Said Filson: "Comrades, hear my words:Ere threescore years have flownOur town will be a city vast."Loud laughed Bob Patterson.Still John exclaimed, with prophet-tongue,"A city fair and proud,The Queen of Cities in the West!"Mat Denman laughed aloud.Deep in the wild and solemn woodsUnknown to white man's track,John Filson went, one autumn day,But nevermore came back.He struggled through the solitudeThe inland to explore,And with romantic pleasure tracedMiami's winding shore.Across his path the startled deerBounds to its shelter green;He enters every lonely valeAnd cavernous ravine.Too soon the murky twilight comes,The boding night-winds moan;Bewildered wanders Filson, lost,Exhausted, and alone.By lurking foes his steps are dogged,A yell his ear appalls!A ghastly corpse, upon the ground,A murdered man, he falls.The Indian, with instinctive hate,In him a herald sawOf coming hosts of pioneers,The friends of light and law;In him beheld the championOf industries and arts,The founder of encroaching roadsAnd great commercial marts;The spoiler of the hunting-ground,The plougher of the sod,The builder of the Christian schoolAnd of the house of God.And so the vengeful tomahawkJohn Filson's blood did spill,—The spirit of the pedagogueNo tomahawk could kill.John Filson had no sepulchre,Except the wildwood dim;The mournful voices of the airMade requiem for him.The druid trees their waving armsUplifted o'er his head;The moon a pallid veil of lightUpon his visage spread.The rain and sun of many yearsHave worn his bones away,And what he vaguely prophesiedWe realize to-day.Losantiville, the prophet's word,The poet's hope fulfils,—She sits a stately Queen to-dayAmid her royal hills!Then come, ye pedagogues, and joinTo sing a grateful layFor him, the martyr pioneer,Who led for you the way.And may my simple ballad beA monument to saveHis name from blank oblivion,Who never had a grave.William Henry Venable.

John Filson was a pedagogue—A pioneer was he;I know not what his nation was,Nor what his pedigree.

Tradition's scanty records tellBut little of the man,Save that he to the frontier cameIn immigration's van.

Perhaps with phantoms of reformHis busy fancy teemed,Perhaps of new UtopiasHesperian he dreamed.

John Filson and companions boldA frontier village planned,In forest wild, on sloping hills,By fair Ohio's strand.

John Filson from three languagesWith pedant skill did frameThe novel word LosantivilleTo be the new town's name.

Said Filson: "Comrades, hear my words:Ere threescore years have flownOur town will be a city vast."Loud laughed Bob Patterson.

Still John exclaimed, with prophet-tongue,"A city fair and proud,The Queen of Cities in the West!"Mat Denman laughed aloud.

Deep in the wild and solemn woodsUnknown to white man's track,John Filson went, one autumn day,But nevermore came back.

He struggled through the solitudeThe inland to explore,And with romantic pleasure tracedMiami's winding shore.

Across his path the startled deerBounds to its shelter green;He enters every lonely valeAnd cavernous ravine.

Too soon the murky twilight comes,The boding night-winds moan;Bewildered wanders Filson, lost,Exhausted, and alone.

By lurking foes his steps are dogged,A yell his ear appalls!A ghastly corpse, upon the ground,A murdered man, he falls.

The Indian, with instinctive hate,In him a herald sawOf coming hosts of pioneers,The friends of light and law;

In him beheld the championOf industries and arts,The founder of encroaching roadsAnd great commercial marts;

The spoiler of the hunting-ground,The plougher of the sod,The builder of the Christian schoolAnd of the house of God.

And so the vengeful tomahawkJohn Filson's blood did spill,—The spirit of the pedagogueNo tomahawk could kill.

John Filson had no sepulchre,Except the wildwood dim;The mournful voices of the airMade requiem for him.

The druid trees their waving armsUplifted o'er his head;The moon a pallid veil of lightUpon his visage spread.

The rain and sun of many yearsHave worn his bones away,And what he vaguely prophesiedWe realize to-day.

Losantiville, the prophet's word,The poet's hope fulfils,—She sits a stately Queen to-dayAmid her royal hills!

Then come, ye pedagogues, and joinTo sing a grateful layFor him, the martyr pioneer,Who led for you the way.

And may my simple ballad beA monument to saveHis name from blank oblivion,Who never had a grave.

William Henry Venable.

These pioneers found the land northwest of the Ohio remarkably fertile; but it was the hunting-ground of the warlike Delawares and Shawanese, and the man who attempted to settle there took his life in his hands. In the fall of 1791, a large force was collected at Cincinnati, under General Arthur St. Clair, and marched against the Indians. On the morning of November 4, the Americans were surprised near the Miami villages, and routed, with great loss. A ballad describing the defeat was written soon afterwards, and achieved a wide popularity.

SAINCLAIRE'S DEFEAT

[November 4, 1791]

'Twas November the fourth, in the year of ninety-one,We had a sore engagement near to Fort Jefferson;Sainclaire was our commander, which may remembered be,For there we left nine hundred men in t' West'n Ter'tory.At Bunker's Hill and Quebeck, there many a hero fell,Likewise at Long Island (it is I the truth can tell),But such a dreadful carnage may I never see againAs hap'ned near St. Mary's, upon the river plain.Our army was attacked just as the day did dawn,And soon was overpowered and driven from the lawn.They killed Major Ouldham, Levin and Briggs likewise,And horrid yells of savages resounded through the skies.Major Butler was wounded the very second fire;His manly bosom swell'd with rage when forc'd to retire;And as he lay in anguish, nor scarcely could he see,Exclaim'd, "Ye hounds of hell! Oh, revenged I will be!"We had not been long broken when General Butler foundHimself so badly wounded, was forced to quit the ground;"My God!" says he, "what shall we do? we're wounded every man;Go charge them, valiant heroes, and beat them if you can."He leaned his back against a tree, and there resigned his breath,And like a valiant soldier sunk in the arms of death;When blessed angels did await his spirit to convey,And unto the celestial fields he quickly bent his way.We charg'd again with courage firm, but soon again gave ground;The war-whoop then redoubled, as did the foes around.They killed Major Ferguson, which caused his men to cry,"Our only safety is in flight, or fighting here to die.""Stand to your guns," says valiant Ford; "let's die upon them here,Before we let the sav'ges know we ever harbored fear!"Our cannon-balls exhausted, and artill'ry-men all slain,Obliged were our musketmen the enemy to sustain.Yet three hours more we fought them, and then were forc'd to yield,When three hundred warriors lay stretched upon the field.Says Colonel Gibson to his men, "My boys, be not dismayed;I'm sure that true Virginians were never yet afraid."Ten thousand deaths I'd rather die than they should gain the field!"With that he got a fatal shot, which causèd him to yield.Says Major Clarke, "My heroes, I can here no longer stand;We'll strive to form in order, and retreat the best we can."The word "Retreat!" being passed around, there was a dismal cry,Then helter-skelter through the woods like wolves and sheep they fly.This well-appointed army, who but a day beforeDefied and braved all danger, had like a cloud passed o'er.Alas, the dying and wounded, how dreadful was the thought!To the tomahawk and scalping-knife in misery are brought.Some had a thigh and some an arm broke on the field that day,Who writhed in torments at the stake to close the dire affray.To mention our brave officers, is what I wish to do;No sons of Mars e'er fought more brave, or with more courage true.To Captain Bradford I belonged, in his artillery,He fell that day amongst the slain, a valiant man was he.

At Bunker's Hill and Quebeck, there many a hero fell,Likewise at Long Island (it is I the truth can tell),But such a dreadful carnage may I never see againAs hap'ned near St. Mary's, upon the river plain.

Our army was attacked just as the day did dawn,And soon was overpowered and driven from the lawn.They killed Major Ouldham, Levin and Briggs likewise,And horrid yells of savages resounded through the skies.

Major Butler was wounded the very second fire;His manly bosom swell'd with rage when forc'd to retire;And as he lay in anguish, nor scarcely could he see,Exclaim'd, "Ye hounds of hell! Oh, revenged I will be!"

We had not been long broken when General Butler foundHimself so badly wounded, was forced to quit the ground;"My God!" says he, "what shall we do? we're wounded every man;Go charge them, valiant heroes, and beat them if you can."

He leaned his back against a tree, and there resigned his breath,And like a valiant soldier sunk in the arms of death;When blessed angels did await his spirit to convey,And unto the celestial fields he quickly bent his way.

We charg'd again with courage firm, but soon again gave ground;The war-whoop then redoubled, as did the foes around.They killed Major Ferguson, which caused his men to cry,"Our only safety is in flight, or fighting here to die."

"Stand to your guns," says valiant Ford; "let's die upon them here,Before we let the sav'ges know we ever harbored fear!"Our cannon-balls exhausted, and artill'ry-men all slain,Obliged were our musketmen the enemy to sustain.

Yet three hours more we fought them, and then were forc'd to yield,When three hundred warriors lay stretched upon the field.Says Colonel Gibson to his men, "My boys, be not dismayed;I'm sure that true Virginians were never yet afraid.

"Ten thousand deaths I'd rather die than they should gain the field!"With that he got a fatal shot, which causèd him to yield.Says Major Clarke, "My heroes, I can here no longer stand;We'll strive to form in order, and retreat the best we can."

The word "Retreat!" being passed around, there was a dismal cry,Then helter-skelter through the woods like wolves and sheep they fly.This well-appointed army, who but a day beforeDefied and braved all danger, had like a cloud passed o'er.

Alas, the dying and wounded, how dreadful was the thought!To the tomahawk and scalping-knife in misery are brought.Some had a thigh and some an arm broke on the field that day,Who writhed in torments at the stake to close the dire affray.

To mention our brave officers, is what I wish to do;No sons of Mars e'er fought more brave, or with more courage true.To Captain Bradford I belonged, in his artillery,He fell that day amongst the slain, a valiant man was he.

After this victory, the Indians grew bolder than ever, and attacks on the border settlements were increasingly frequent. More than one family was saved from surprise and death by a queer character known as Johnny Appleseed, who travelled through the wilderness planting apple-seeds which in time grew into valuable orchards. The Indians thought him mad and would not harm him.

JOHNNY APPLESEED

A BALLAD OF THE OLD NORTHWEST

A midnight cry appalls the gloom,The puncheon door is shaken:"Awake! arouse! and flee the doom!Man, woman, child, awaken!"Your sky shall glow with fiery beamsBefore the morn breaks ruddy!The scalpknife in the moonlight gleams,Athirst for vengeance bloody!"Alarumed by the dreadful wordSome warning tongue thus utters,The settler's wife, like mother bird,About her young ones flutters.Her first-born, rustling from a softLeaf-couch, the roof close under,Glides down the ladder from the loft,With eyes of dreamy wonder.The pioneer flings open wideThe cabin door, naught fearing;The grim woods drowse on every side,Around the lonely clearing."Come in! come in! nor like an owlThus hoot your doleful humors;What fiend possesses you to howlSuch crazy, coward rumors?"The herald strode into the room;That moment, through the ashes,The back-log struggled into bloomOf gold and crimson flashes.The glimmer lighted up a face,And o'er a figure dartled,So eerie, of so solemn grace,The bluff backwoodsman startled.The brow was gathered to a frown,The eyes were strangely glowing,And, like a snow-fall drifting down,The stormy beard went flowing.The tattered cloak that round him clungHad warred with foulest weather;Across his shoulders broad were flungBrown saddlebags of leather.One pouch with hoarded seed was packed,From Penn-land cider-presses;The other garnered book and tractWithin its creased recesses.A glance disdainful and austere,Contemptuous of danger,Cast he upon the pioneer,Then spake the uncouth stranger:"Heed what the Lord's anointed saith;Hear one who would deliverYour bodies and your souls from death;List ye to John the Giver."Thou trustful boy, in spirit wiseBeyond thy father's measure,Because of thy believing eyesI share with thee my treasure."Of precious seed this handful take;Take next this Bible Holy:In good soil sow both gifts, for sakeOf Him, the meek and lowly."Farewell! I go!—the forest callsMy life to ceaseless labors;Wherever danger's shadow fallsI fly to save my neighbors."I save; I neither curse nor slay;I am a voice that criethIn night and wilderness. Away!Whoever doubteth, dieth!"The prophet vanished in the night,Like some fleet ghost belated:Then, awe-struck, fled with panic frightThe household, evil-fated.They hurried on with stumbling feet,Foreboding ambuscado;Bewildered hope told of retreatIn frontier palisado.But ere a mile of tangled mazeTheir bleeding hands had broken,Their home-roof set the dark ablaze,Fulfilling doom forespoken.The savage death-whoop rent the air!A howl of rage infernal!The fugitives were in Thy care,Almighty Power eternal!Unscathed by tomahawk or knife,In bosky dingle nested,The hunted pioneer, with wifeAnd babes, hid unmolested.The lad, when age his locks of goldHad changed to silver glory,Told grandchildren, as I have told,This western wildwood story.Told how the fertile seeds had grownTo famous trees, and thriven;And oft the Sacred Book was shown,By that weird Pilgrim given.Remember Johnny Appleseed,All ye who love the apple;He served his kind by Word and Deed,In God's grand greenwood chapel.William Henry Venable.

A midnight cry appalls the gloom,The puncheon door is shaken:"Awake! arouse! and flee the doom!Man, woman, child, awaken!

"Your sky shall glow with fiery beamsBefore the morn breaks ruddy!The scalpknife in the moonlight gleams,Athirst for vengeance bloody!"

Alarumed by the dreadful wordSome warning tongue thus utters,The settler's wife, like mother bird,About her young ones flutters.

Her first-born, rustling from a softLeaf-couch, the roof close under,Glides down the ladder from the loft,With eyes of dreamy wonder.

The pioneer flings open wideThe cabin door, naught fearing;The grim woods drowse on every side,Around the lonely clearing.

"Come in! come in! nor like an owlThus hoot your doleful humors;What fiend possesses you to howlSuch crazy, coward rumors?"

The herald strode into the room;That moment, through the ashes,The back-log struggled into bloomOf gold and crimson flashes.

The glimmer lighted up a face,And o'er a figure dartled,So eerie, of so solemn grace,The bluff backwoodsman startled.

The brow was gathered to a frown,The eyes were strangely glowing,And, like a snow-fall drifting down,The stormy beard went flowing.

The tattered cloak that round him clungHad warred with foulest weather;Across his shoulders broad were flungBrown saddlebags of leather.

One pouch with hoarded seed was packed,From Penn-land cider-presses;The other garnered book and tractWithin its creased recesses.

A glance disdainful and austere,Contemptuous of danger,Cast he upon the pioneer,Then spake the uncouth stranger:

"Heed what the Lord's anointed saith;Hear one who would deliverYour bodies and your souls from death;List ye to John the Giver.

"Thou trustful boy, in spirit wiseBeyond thy father's measure,Because of thy believing eyesI share with thee my treasure.

"Of precious seed this handful take;Take next this Bible Holy:In good soil sow both gifts, for sakeOf Him, the meek and lowly.

"Farewell! I go!—the forest callsMy life to ceaseless labors;Wherever danger's shadow fallsI fly to save my neighbors.

"I save; I neither curse nor slay;I am a voice that criethIn night and wilderness. Away!Whoever doubteth, dieth!"

The prophet vanished in the night,Like some fleet ghost belated:Then, awe-struck, fled with panic frightThe household, evil-fated.

They hurried on with stumbling feet,Foreboding ambuscado;Bewildered hope told of retreatIn frontier palisado.

But ere a mile of tangled mazeTheir bleeding hands had broken,Their home-roof set the dark ablaze,Fulfilling doom forespoken.

The savage death-whoop rent the air!A howl of rage infernal!The fugitives were in Thy care,Almighty Power eternal!

Unscathed by tomahawk or knife,In bosky dingle nested,The hunted pioneer, with wifeAnd babes, hid unmolested.

The lad, when age his locks of goldHad changed to silver glory,Told grandchildren, as I have told,This western wildwood story.

Told how the fertile seeds had grownTo famous trees, and thriven;And oft the Sacred Book was shown,By that weird Pilgrim given.

Remember Johnny Appleseed,All ye who love the apple;He served his kind by Word and Deed,In God's grand greenwood chapel.

William Henry Venable.

On August 20, 1794, General Anthony Wayne defeated the Indians on the Maumee and compelled them to sue for peace. At Greenville, in the following year, they ceded 25,000 square miles to the Americans, and settlers flocked into the fertile country thrown open to them.

THE FOUNDERS OF OHIO

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