Good Junipero, the Padre,Slowly read the King's commands,In relation to the missionsTo be built in heathen lands.And he said: "The good Saint FrancisSurely has some little claim,Yet I find that here no missionIs assigned unto his name."Then theVisitadoranswered:"If the holy Francis careFor a mission to his honor,Surely he will lead you there;And it may be by the harborThat the Indian legends sayLies by greenest hills surroundedTo the north of Monterey."Spoke Junipero the Padre:"It is not for me to tellOf the truth of Indian legends,Yet of this I know full well—If there be such hidden harbor,And our hope and trust we placeIn the care of good Saint Francis,He will guide us to the place."Soon, the Governor PortalaStarted northward, on his wayOverland, to rediscoverThe lost port of Monterey.Since the time within its watersViscainoanchor cast,It remained unknown to Spaniards,Though a century had passed.On his journey went PortalaWith his band of pioneers,Padres, Indian guides, and soldiers,And a train of muleteers;And said Serra, as he blessed them,As he wished them all Godspeed:"Trust Saint Francis—he will guide youIn your direst hour of need."On his journey went PortalaTill he reached the crescent bay;But he dreamed not he was gazingOn the wished-for Monterey.So a cross on shore he planted,And the ground about he blessed,And then he and his companionsNorthward went upon their quest.On his journey went Portala,And his army northward on,And methinks I see them marching,Or in camp when day was done;Or at night when stars were twinkling,As that travel-weary bandBy the log-fire's light would gather,Telling of their far-off land.And they told weird Indian legends,Tales of Cortes, too, they told,And of peaceful reign of Incas,And of Montezuma's gold;And they sang, as weary exilesSing of home and vanished years,Sweet, heart-treasured songs that alwaysBring the dumb applause of tears.When the day was sunk in ocean,And the land around was dim,On the tranquil air of midnightRose the sweet Franciscan hymn;And when bugle told the dawning,And the matin prayers were done,On his journey went Portala,And his army northward on.Far away they saw sierras,Clothed with an eternal spring,While at times the mighty oceanIn their path her spray would fling;On amid such scenes they journeyed,Through the dreary wastes of sand,Through ravines dark, deep, and narrow,And through cañons wild and grand.And with what a thrill of pleasure,All their toils and dangers through,Gazed they on this scene of beautyWhen it burst upon their view,As Portala and his army,Standing where I stand to-day,Saw before them spread in beautyGreen-clad hills and noble bay.Then the Governor PortalaBroke the spell of silence thus:"To this place, through Padre Serra,Hath Saint Francis guided us;So the bay and all around itFor the Spanish King I claim,And forever, in the future,Let it bear Saint Francis' name."Thus he spoke, and I am standingOn the self-same spot to-day,And my eyes rest on the landscape,And the green hills, and the bay,And upon Saint Francis' city,As, with youth and hope elate,She is gazing toward the ocean,Sitting by the Golden Gate.Needless were such gifts as heavenGave to holy seers of yore,To foretell the meed of glory,Fairest town, for thee in store!To foretell the seat of empireHere will be, nor for a day,Where Balboa's sea doth mingleWith the waters of thy bay!Richard Edward White.
Good Junipero, the Padre,Slowly read the King's commands,In relation to the missionsTo be built in heathen lands.And he said: "The good Saint FrancisSurely has some little claim,Yet I find that here no missionIs assigned unto his name."Then theVisitadoranswered:"If the holy Francis careFor a mission to his honor,Surely he will lead you there;And it may be by the harborThat the Indian legends sayLies by greenest hills surroundedTo the north of Monterey."Spoke Junipero the Padre:"It is not for me to tellOf the truth of Indian legends,Yet of this I know full well—If there be such hidden harbor,And our hope and trust we placeIn the care of good Saint Francis,He will guide us to the place."Soon, the Governor PortalaStarted northward, on his wayOverland, to rediscoverThe lost port of Monterey.Since the time within its watersViscainoanchor cast,It remained unknown to Spaniards,Though a century had passed.On his journey went PortalaWith his band of pioneers,Padres, Indian guides, and soldiers,And a train of muleteers;And said Serra, as he blessed them,As he wished them all Godspeed:"Trust Saint Francis—he will guide youIn your direst hour of need."On his journey went PortalaTill he reached the crescent bay;But he dreamed not he was gazingOn the wished-for Monterey.So a cross on shore he planted,And the ground about he blessed,And then he and his companionsNorthward went upon their quest.On his journey went Portala,And his army northward on,And methinks I see them marching,Or in camp when day was done;Or at night when stars were twinkling,As that travel-weary bandBy the log-fire's light would gather,Telling of their far-off land.And they told weird Indian legends,Tales of Cortes, too, they told,And of peaceful reign of Incas,And of Montezuma's gold;And they sang, as weary exilesSing of home and vanished years,Sweet, heart-treasured songs that alwaysBring the dumb applause of tears.When the day was sunk in ocean,And the land around was dim,On the tranquil air of midnightRose the sweet Franciscan hymn;And when bugle told the dawning,And the matin prayers were done,On his journey went Portala,And his army northward on.Far away they saw sierras,Clothed with an eternal spring,While at times the mighty oceanIn their path her spray would fling;On amid such scenes they journeyed,Through the dreary wastes of sand,Through ravines dark, deep, and narrow,And through cañons wild and grand.And with what a thrill of pleasure,All their toils and dangers through,Gazed they on this scene of beautyWhen it burst upon their view,As Portala and his army,Standing where I stand to-day,Saw before them spread in beautyGreen-clad hills and noble bay.Then the Governor PortalaBroke the spell of silence thus:"To this place, through Padre Serra,Hath Saint Francis guided us;So the bay and all around itFor the Spanish King I claim,And forever, in the future,Let it bear Saint Francis' name."Thus he spoke, and I am standingOn the self-same spot to-day,And my eyes rest on the landscape,And the green hills, and the bay,And upon Saint Francis' city,As, with youth and hope elate,She is gazing toward the ocean,Sitting by the Golden Gate.Needless were such gifts as heavenGave to holy seers of yore,To foretell the meed of glory,Fairest town, for thee in store!To foretell the seat of empireHere will be, nor for a day,Where Balboa's sea doth mingleWith the waters of thy bay!Richard Edward White.
Good Junipero, the Padre,Slowly read the King's commands,In relation to the missionsTo be built in heathen lands.And he said: "The good Saint FrancisSurely has some little claim,Yet I find that here no missionIs assigned unto his name."
Then theVisitadoranswered:"If the holy Francis careFor a mission to his honor,Surely he will lead you there;And it may be by the harborThat the Indian legends sayLies by greenest hills surroundedTo the north of Monterey."
Spoke Junipero the Padre:"It is not for me to tellOf the truth of Indian legends,Yet of this I know full well—If there be such hidden harbor,And our hope and trust we placeIn the care of good Saint Francis,He will guide us to the place."
Soon, the Governor PortalaStarted northward, on his wayOverland, to rediscoverThe lost port of Monterey.Since the time within its watersViscainoanchor cast,It remained unknown to Spaniards,Though a century had passed.
On his journey went PortalaWith his band of pioneers,Padres, Indian guides, and soldiers,And a train of muleteers;And said Serra, as he blessed them,As he wished them all Godspeed:"Trust Saint Francis—he will guide youIn your direst hour of need."
On his journey went PortalaTill he reached the crescent bay;But he dreamed not he was gazingOn the wished-for Monterey.So a cross on shore he planted,And the ground about he blessed,And then he and his companionsNorthward went upon their quest.
On his journey went Portala,And his army northward on,And methinks I see them marching,Or in camp when day was done;Or at night when stars were twinkling,As that travel-weary bandBy the log-fire's light would gather,Telling of their far-off land.
And they told weird Indian legends,Tales of Cortes, too, they told,And of peaceful reign of Incas,And of Montezuma's gold;And they sang, as weary exilesSing of home and vanished years,Sweet, heart-treasured songs that alwaysBring the dumb applause of tears.
When the day was sunk in ocean,And the land around was dim,On the tranquil air of midnightRose the sweet Franciscan hymn;And when bugle told the dawning,And the matin prayers were done,On his journey went Portala,And his army northward on.
Far away they saw sierras,Clothed with an eternal spring,While at times the mighty oceanIn their path her spray would fling;On amid such scenes they journeyed,Through the dreary wastes of sand,Through ravines dark, deep, and narrow,And through cañons wild and grand.
And with what a thrill of pleasure,All their toils and dangers through,Gazed they on this scene of beautyWhen it burst upon their view,As Portala and his army,Standing where I stand to-day,Saw before them spread in beautyGreen-clad hills and noble bay.
Then the Governor PortalaBroke the spell of silence thus:"To this place, through Padre Serra,Hath Saint Francis guided us;So the bay and all around itFor the Spanish King I claim,And forever, in the future,Let it bear Saint Francis' name."
Thus he spoke, and I am standingOn the self-same spot to-day,And my eyes rest on the landscape,And the green hills, and the bay,And upon Saint Francis' city,As, with youth and hope elate,She is gazing toward the ocean,Sitting by the Golden Gate.
Needless were such gifts as heavenGave to holy seers of yore,To foretell the meed of glory,Fairest town, for thee in store!To foretell the seat of empireHere will be, nor for a day,Where Balboa's sea doth mingleWith the waters of thy bay!
Richard Edward White.
In 1822 California became a province of Mexico, and in 1844 Colonel John Charles Frémont reached Sutter's Fort with an exploring expedition. Two years later, during the war with Mexico, he assumed command of the American forces in the country, and established the authority of the United States there.
In 1822 California became a province of Mexico, and in 1844 Colonel John Charles Frémont reached Sutter's Fort with an exploring expedition. Two years later, during the war with Mexico, he assumed command of the American forces in the country, and established the authority of the United States there.
JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT
Pathfinder—and Path-clincher!Who blazed the way, indeed,But more—who made the eternal FactWhereto a path had need;Who, while our Websters set at naughtThe thing that Was to Be,Whipped-out our halting, half-way mapFull to the Other Sea!'Twas well that there were some could readThe logic of the West!A Kansas-edged geography,Of provinces confessed,Became potential UnionAnd took a Nation's spanWhen God sent OpportunityAnd Benton found the Man!Charles F. Lummis.
Pathfinder—and Path-clincher!Who blazed the way, indeed,But more—who made the eternal FactWhereto a path had need;Who, while our Websters set at naughtThe thing that Was to Be,Whipped-out our halting, half-way mapFull to the Other Sea!'Twas well that there were some could readThe logic of the West!A Kansas-edged geography,Of provinces confessed,Became potential UnionAnd took a Nation's spanWhen God sent OpportunityAnd Benton found the Man!Charles F. Lummis.
Pathfinder—and Path-clincher!Who blazed the way, indeed,But more—who made the eternal FactWhereto a path had need;Who, while our Websters set at naughtThe thing that Was to Be,Whipped-out our halting, half-way mapFull to the Other Sea!
'Twas well that there were some could readThe logic of the West!A Kansas-edged geography,Of provinces confessed,Became potential UnionAnd took a Nation's spanWhen God sent OpportunityAnd Benton found the Man!
Charles F. Lummis.
In 1848 California was ceded to the United States by Mexico. In the same year gold was discovered near Coloma, and within a few months the famous rush for the new El Dorado began.
In 1848 California was ceded to the United States by Mexico. In the same year gold was discovered near Coloma, and within a few months the famous rush for the new El Dorado began.
"THE DAYS OF 'FORTY-NINE"
You are looking now on old Tom Moore,A relic of bygone days;A Bummer, too, they call me now,But what care I for praise?For my heart is filled with the days of yore,And oft I do repineFor the Days of Old, and the Days of Gold,And the Days of 'Forty-nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.I had comrades then who loved me well,A jovial, saucy crew:There were some hard cases, I must confess,But they all were brave and true;Who would never flinch, whate'er the pinch,Who never would fret nor whine,But like good old Bricks they stood the kicksIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—And my heart is filled, etc.There was Monte Pete—I'll ne'er forgetThe luck he always had.He would deal for you both day and night,So long as you had a scad.He would play you Draw, he would Ante sling,He would go you a hatfull Blind—But in a game with Death Pete lost his breathIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.There was New York Jake, a butcher boy,That was always a-getting tight;Whenever Jake got on a spree,He was spoiling for a fight.One day he ran against a knifeIn the hands of old Bob Cline—So over Jake we held a wake,In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.There was Rackensack Jim, who could out-roarA Buffalo Bull, you bet!He would roar all night, he would roar all day,And I b'lieve he's a-roaring yet!One night he fell in a prospect-hole—'Twas a roaring bad design—For in that hole he roared out his soulIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.There was Poor Lame Ches, a hard old caseWho never did repent.Ches never missed a single meal,Nor he never paid a cent.But Poor Lame Ches, like all the rest,Did to death at last resign,For all in his bloom he went up the FlumeIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.And now my comrades all are gone,Not one remains to toast;They have left me here in my misery,Like some poor wandering ghost.And as I go from place to place,Folks call me a "Travelling Sign,"Saying "There goes Tom Moore, a Bummer, sure,From the Days of 'Forty-Nine."Refrain—But my heart is filled, etc.
You are looking now on old Tom Moore,A relic of bygone days;A Bummer, too, they call me now,But what care I for praise?For my heart is filled with the days of yore,And oft I do repineFor the Days of Old, and the Days of Gold,And the Days of 'Forty-nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.I had comrades then who loved me well,A jovial, saucy crew:There were some hard cases, I must confess,But they all were brave and true;Who would never flinch, whate'er the pinch,Who never would fret nor whine,But like good old Bricks they stood the kicksIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—And my heart is filled, etc.There was Monte Pete—I'll ne'er forgetThe luck he always had.He would deal for you both day and night,So long as you had a scad.He would play you Draw, he would Ante sling,He would go you a hatfull Blind—But in a game with Death Pete lost his breathIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.There was New York Jake, a butcher boy,That was always a-getting tight;Whenever Jake got on a spree,He was spoiling for a fight.One day he ran against a knifeIn the hands of old Bob Cline—So over Jake we held a wake,In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.There was Rackensack Jim, who could out-roarA Buffalo Bull, you bet!He would roar all night, he would roar all day,And I b'lieve he's a-roaring yet!One night he fell in a prospect-hole—'Twas a roaring bad design—For in that hole he roared out his soulIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.There was Poor Lame Ches, a hard old caseWho never did repent.Ches never missed a single meal,Nor he never paid a cent.But Poor Lame Ches, like all the rest,Did to death at last resign,For all in his bloom he went up the FlumeIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.And now my comrades all are gone,Not one remains to toast;They have left me here in my misery,Like some poor wandering ghost.And as I go from place to place,Folks call me a "Travelling Sign,"Saying "There goes Tom Moore, a Bummer, sure,From the Days of 'Forty-Nine."Refrain—But my heart is filled, etc.
You are looking now on old Tom Moore,A relic of bygone days;A Bummer, too, they call me now,But what care I for praise?For my heart is filled with the days of yore,And oft I do repineFor the Days of Old, and the Days of Gold,And the Days of 'Forty-nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
I had comrades then who loved me well,A jovial, saucy crew:There were some hard cases, I must confess,But they all were brave and true;Who would never flinch, whate'er the pinch,Who never would fret nor whine,But like good old Bricks they stood the kicksIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—And my heart is filled, etc.
There was Monte Pete—I'll ne'er forgetThe luck he always had.He would deal for you both day and night,So long as you had a scad.He would play you Draw, he would Ante sling,He would go you a hatfull Blind—But in a game with Death Pete lost his breathIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
There was New York Jake, a butcher boy,That was always a-getting tight;Whenever Jake got on a spree,He was spoiling for a fight.One day he ran against a knifeIn the hands of old Bob Cline—So over Jake we held a wake,In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
There was Rackensack Jim, who could out-roarA Buffalo Bull, you bet!He would roar all night, he would roar all day,And I b'lieve he's a-roaring yet!One night he fell in a prospect-hole—'Twas a roaring bad design—For in that hole he roared out his soulIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
There was Poor Lame Ches, a hard old caseWho never did repent.Ches never missed a single meal,Nor he never paid a cent.But Poor Lame Ches, like all the rest,Did to death at last resign,For all in his bloom he went up the FlumeIn the Days of 'Forty-Nine.Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
And now my comrades all are gone,Not one remains to toast;They have left me here in my misery,Like some poor wandering ghost.And as I go from place to place,Folks call me a "Travelling Sign,"Saying "There goes Tom Moore, a Bummer, sure,From the Days of 'Forty-Nine."Refrain—But my heart is filled, etc.
Most of the emigrants crossed the plains, encountering dangers and hardships innumerable. The trails were soon marked by the skeletons of horses and oxen, and by the graves of those who had perished from hardship or been butchered by the Indians.
Most of the emigrants crossed the plains, encountering dangers and hardships innumerable. The trails were soon marked by the skeletons of horses and oxen, and by the graves of those who had perished from hardship or been butchered by the Indians.
THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL
It wound through strange scarred hills, down cañons loneWhere wild things screamed, with winds for company;Its mile-stones were the bones of pioneers.Bronzed, haggard men, often with thirst a-moan,Lashed on their beasts of burden toward the sea:An epic quest it was of elder years,For fabled gardens or for good, red gold,The trail men strove in iron days of old.To-day the steam-god thunders through the vast,While dominant Saxons from the hurtling trainsSmile at the aliens, Mexic, Indian,Who offer wares, keen-colored, like their past;Dread dramas of immitigable plainsRebuke the softness of the modern man;No menace, now, the desert's mood of sand;Still westward lies a green and golden land.For, at the magic touch of water, bloomsThe wilderness, and where of yore the yokeTortured the toilers into dateless tombs,Lo! brightsome fruits to feed a mighty folk.Richard Burton.
It wound through strange scarred hills, down cañons loneWhere wild things screamed, with winds for company;Its mile-stones were the bones of pioneers.Bronzed, haggard men, often with thirst a-moan,Lashed on their beasts of burden toward the sea:An epic quest it was of elder years,For fabled gardens or for good, red gold,The trail men strove in iron days of old.To-day the steam-god thunders through the vast,While dominant Saxons from the hurtling trainsSmile at the aliens, Mexic, Indian,Who offer wares, keen-colored, like their past;Dread dramas of immitigable plainsRebuke the softness of the modern man;No menace, now, the desert's mood of sand;Still westward lies a green and golden land.For, at the magic touch of water, bloomsThe wilderness, and where of yore the yokeTortured the toilers into dateless tombs,Lo! brightsome fruits to feed a mighty folk.Richard Burton.
It wound through strange scarred hills, down cañons loneWhere wild things screamed, with winds for company;Its mile-stones were the bones of pioneers.Bronzed, haggard men, often with thirst a-moan,Lashed on their beasts of burden toward the sea:An epic quest it was of elder years,For fabled gardens or for good, red gold,The trail men strove in iron days of old.
To-day the steam-god thunders through the vast,While dominant Saxons from the hurtling trainsSmile at the aliens, Mexic, Indian,Who offer wares, keen-colored, like their past;Dread dramas of immitigable plainsRebuke the softness of the modern man;No menace, now, the desert's mood of sand;Still westward lies a green and golden land.
For, at the magic touch of water, bloomsThe wilderness, and where of yore the yokeTortured the toilers into dateless tombs,Lo! brightsome fruits to feed a mighty folk.
Richard Burton.
The importance of the new country grew so rapidly that on September 9, 1850, California was admitted to the Union, the thirty-first state.
The importance of the new country grew so rapidly that on September 9, 1850, California was admitted to the Union, the thirty-first state.
CALIFORNIA
[September 9, 1850]
Land of gold!—thy sisters greet thee,O'er the mountain and the main;See,—they stretch the hand to meet thee,Youngest of our household train.Many a form their love hath fosteredLingers 'neath thy sunny sky,And their spirit-tokens brightenEvery link of sympathy.We 'mid storms of war were cradled,'Mid the shock of angry foes;Thou, with sudden, dreamlike splendor,Pallas-born,—in vigor rose.Children of one common country,Strong in friendship let us stand,With united ardor earningGlory for our Mother Land.They of gold and they of iron,They who reap the bearded wheat,They who rear the snowy cotton,Pour their treasures at her feet;While with smiling exultation,She, who marks their filial part,Like the mother of the Gracchi,Folds her jewels to her heart.Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
Land of gold!—thy sisters greet thee,O'er the mountain and the main;See,—they stretch the hand to meet thee,Youngest of our household train.Many a form their love hath fosteredLingers 'neath thy sunny sky,And their spirit-tokens brightenEvery link of sympathy.We 'mid storms of war were cradled,'Mid the shock of angry foes;Thou, with sudden, dreamlike splendor,Pallas-born,—in vigor rose.Children of one common country,Strong in friendship let us stand,With united ardor earningGlory for our Mother Land.They of gold and they of iron,They who reap the bearded wheat,They who rear the snowy cotton,Pour their treasures at her feet;While with smiling exultation,She, who marks their filial part,Like the mother of the Gracchi,Folds her jewels to her heart.Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
Land of gold!—thy sisters greet thee,O'er the mountain and the main;See,—they stretch the hand to meet thee,Youngest of our household train.
Many a form their love hath fosteredLingers 'neath thy sunny sky,And their spirit-tokens brightenEvery link of sympathy.
We 'mid storms of war were cradled,'Mid the shock of angry foes;Thou, with sudden, dreamlike splendor,Pallas-born,—in vigor rose.
Children of one common country,Strong in friendship let us stand,With united ardor earningGlory for our Mother Land.
They of gold and they of iron,They who reap the bearded wheat,They who rear the snowy cotton,Pour their treasures at her feet;
While with smiling exultation,She, who marks their filial part,Like the mother of the Gracchi,Folds her jewels to her heart.
Lydia Huntley Sigourney.
THROUGH FIVE ADMINISTRATIONS
Although Aaron Burr had been acquitted of the charge of treason, the persecution of him still continued. He was practically run out of the country, and when he returned at last in 1812, it was in disguise, under the name of Arnat. Fate soon afterwards dealt him a cruel blow, for in January, 1813, his daughter, Theodosia, the idol of his heart, perished at sea while on a voyage from Charleston to New York.
Although Aaron Burr had been acquitted of the charge of treason, the persecution of him still continued. He was practically run out of the country, and when he returned at last in 1812, it was in disguise, under the name of Arnat. Fate soon afterwards dealt him a cruel blow, for in January, 1813, his daughter, Theodosia, the idol of his heart, perished at sea while on a voyage from Charleston to New York.
THEODOSIA BURR:
THE WRECKER'S STORY
[January, 1813]
In revel and carousingWe gave the New Year housing,With wreckage for our firing,And rum to heart's desiring,Antigua and Jamaica,Flagon and stoup and breaker.Full cans and a ranting chorus;Hard hearts for the bout before us—To brave grim Death's grimacesOn dazed and staring faces.With dirks and hangers bristling,We for a gale went whistling,Tornado or pampero,To swamp the host of Pharaoh;To goad the mad Atlantic,And drive the skippers frantic;To jar the deep with thunder,And make the waste a wonder,And plunge the coasters under,And pile the banks with plunder.Then the wild rack came skirling,Ragged and crazed, and whirlingSea-stuff and sand in breakers,Frothing the shelvy acres:Over the banks high bounding,Inlet and sound confounding.Hatteras roared and rumbled,Currituck heaved and tumbled;And the sea-gulls screamed like witches,And sprawled in the briny ditches.Shelter and rest we flouted,Jorum and pipe we scouted,Fiddler and wench we routed."Fetch out the nag!" we shouted;For a craft in the offing struggled."Now for a skipper juggled;Now for a coaster stranded,And loot in the lockers landed!"With lantern cheerly rockingOn the nag's head, we went mocking—Lilting of tipsy blisses,And Bonnibel's squandered kisses.Straight for that hell-spark steering,Drove the doomed craft careering;Men on her fore-deck huddled,Sea in her wake all cruddled,Kitty Hawk sheer before her,And the breakers booming o'er her.Till the rocks in their lurking stove her,And her riven spars went over,And she lay on her side and shivered,And groaned to be delivered.Boats through the black rift storming,Foes on her quarter swarming;Dirks in the torchlight flashing,And the wicked hangers slashing;Lips that were praying mangled,Throats that were screaming, strangled;Souls in the surges tumbling,Vainly for foothold fumbling;Horror of staring faces,Gruesome in Death's grimaces—And God's wrath overpast us,With never a bolt to blast us!By the brunt of our doings daunted,We crouched where the fore-deck slanted,Scanning each other's faces,Graved with that horror's traces.One, peering aft, wild-staring,Points through the torches flaring:"Spook of the storm, or human?Angel, or wraith, or woman?"Havoc and wreck surveying,Imploring not, nor praying,Nor death nor life refusing;Stony and still—accusing!Black as our hearts the creature'sVesture, her matchless featuresWhite as the dead. Oh! wonderOf women high heaven under!So she moved down upon us(Though Death and the Fiend might shun us),And we made passage, cowering.Rigid and mute and towering,Never a frown she deigned us,Never with curse arraigned us.One, trembling, dropped his hanger,And swooned at the awful clangor;But she passed on, unharking,Her stepsourdoom-strokes marking,Straight to the plank, and mounted."One, two, three, four!" we counted;Till she paused, o'er the flood suspended,Poised, her lithe arms extended.—And the storm stood still and waitedFor the stroke of the Lord, belated!John Williamson Palmer.
In revel and carousingWe gave the New Year housing,With wreckage for our firing,And rum to heart's desiring,Antigua and Jamaica,Flagon and stoup and breaker.Full cans and a ranting chorus;Hard hearts for the bout before us—To brave grim Death's grimacesOn dazed and staring faces.With dirks and hangers bristling,We for a gale went whistling,Tornado or pampero,To swamp the host of Pharaoh;To goad the mad Atlantic,And drive the skippers frantic;To jar the deep with thunder,And make the waste a wonder,And plunge the coasters under,And pile the banks with plunder.Then the wild rack came skirling,Ragged and crazed, and whirlingSea-stuff and sand in breakers,Frothing the shelvy acres:Over the banks high bounding,Inlet and sound confounding.Hatteras roared and rumbled,Currituck heaved and tumbled;And the sea-gulls screamed like witches,And sprawled in the briny ditches.Shelter and rest we flouted,Jorum and pipe we scouted,Fiddler and wench we routed."Fetch out the nag!" we shouted;For a craft in the offing struggled."Now for a skipper juggled;Now for a coaster stranded,And loot in the lockers landed!"With lantern cheerly rockingOn the nag's head, we went mocking—Lilting of tipsy blisses,And Bonnibel's squandered kisses.Straight for that hell-spark steering,Drove the doomed craft careering;Men on her fore-deck huddled,Sea in her wake all cruddled,Kitty Hawk sheer before her,And the breakers booming o'er her.Till the rocks in their lurking stove her,And her riven spars went over,And she lay on her side and shivered,And groaned to be delivered.Boats through the black rift storming,Foes on her quarter swarming;Dirks in the torchlight flashing,And the wicked hangers slashing;Lips that were praying mangled,Throats that were screaming, strangled;Souls in the surges tumbling,Vainly for foothold fumbling;Horror of staring faces,Gruesome in Death's grimaces—And God's wrath overpast us,With never a bolt to blast us!By the brunt of our doings daunted,We crouched where the fore-deck slanted,Scanning each other's faces,Graved with that horror's traces.One, peering aft, wild-staring,Points through the torches flaring:"Spook of the storm, or human?Angel, or wraith, or woman?"Havoc and wreck surveying,Imploring not, nor praying,Nor death nor life refusing;Stony and still—accusing!Black as our hearts the creature'sVesture, her matchless featuresWhite as the dead. Oh! wonderOf women high heaven under!So she moved down upon us(Though Death and the Fiend might shun us),And we made passage, cowering.Rigid and mute and towering,Never a frown she deigned us,Never with curse arraigned us.One, trembling, dropped his hanger,And swooned at the awful clangor;But she passed on, unharking,Her stepsourdoom-strokes marking,Straight to the plank, and mounted."One, two, three, four!" we counted;Till she paused, o'er the flood suspended,Poised, her lithe arms extended.—And the storm stood still and waitedFor the stroke of the Lord, belated!John Williamson Palmer.
In revel and carousingWe gave the New Year housing,With wreckage for our firing,And rum to heart's desiring,Antigua and Jamaica,Flagon and stoup and breaker.Full cans and a ranting chorus;Hard hearts for the bout before us—To brave grim Death's grimacesOn dazed and staring faces.
With dirks and hangers bristling,We for a gale went whistling,Tornado or pampero,To swamp the host of Pharaoh;To goad the mad Atlantic,And drive the skippers frantic;To jar the deep with thunder,And make the waste a wonder,And plunge the coasters under,And pile the banks with plunder.
Then the wild rack came skirling,Ragged and crazed, and whirlingSea-stuff and sand in breakers,Frothing the shelvy acres:Over the banks high bounding,Inlet and sound confounding.Hatteras roared and rumbled,Currituck heaved and tumbled;And the sea-gulls screamed like witches,And sprawled in the briny ditches.
Shelter and rest we flouted,Jorum and pipe we scouted,Fiddler and wench we routed."Fetch out the nag!" we shouted;For a craft in the offing struggled."Now for a skipper juggled;Now for a coaster stranded,And loot in the lockers landed!"With lantern cheerly rockingOn the nag's head, we went mocking—Lilting of tipsy blisses,And Bonnibel's squandered kisses.
Straight for that hell-spark steering,Drove the doomed craft careering;Men on her fore-deck huddled,Sea in her wake all cruddled,Kitty Hawk sheer before her,And the breakers booming o'er her.Till the rocks in their lurking stove her,And her riven spars went over,And she lay on her side and shivered,And groaned to be delivered.
Boats through the black rift storming,Foes on her quarter swarming;Dirks in the torchlight flashing,And the wicked hangers slashing;Lips that were praying mangled,Throats that were screaming, strangled;Souls in the surges tumbling,Vainly for foothold fumbling;Horror of staring faces,Gruesome in Death's grimaces—And God's wrath overpast us,With never a bolt to blast us!
By the brunt of our doings daunted,We crouched where the fore-deck slanted,Scanning each other's faces,Graved with that horror's traces.One, peering aft, wild-staring,Points through the torches flaring:"Spook of the storm, or human?Angel, or wraith, or woman?"Havoc and wreck surveying,Imploring not, nor praying,Nor death nor life refusing;Stony and still—accusing!
Black as our hearts the creature'sVesture, her matchless featuresWhite as the dead. Oh! wonderOf women high heaven under!So she moved down upon us(Though Death and the Fiend might shun us),And we made passage, cowering.Rigid and mute and towering,Never a frown she deigned us,Never with curse arraigned us.One, trembling, dropped his hanger,And swooned at the awful clangor;But she passed on, unharking,Her stepsourdoom-strokes marking,Straight to the plank, and mounted."One, two, three, four!" we counted;Till she paused, o'er the flood suspended,Poised, her lithe arms extended.—And the storm stood still and waitedFor the stroke of the Lord, belated!
John Williamson Palmer.
Oliver Hazard Perry, the victor of Lake Erie, while in command of a squadron in the West Indies, in the summer of 1819, was attacked by yellow fever, and died after a brief illness. His body was brought to the United States in 1826 and buried at Newport.
Oliver Hazard Perry, the victor of Lake Erie, while in command of a squadron in the West Indies, in the summer of 1819, was attacked by yellow fever, and died after a brief illness. His body was brought to the United States in 1826 and buried at Newport.
ON THE DEATH OF COMMODORE OLIVER H. PERRY
By strangers honor'd, and by strangers mourn'd.
[August 23, 1819]
How sad the note of that funereal drum,That's muffled by indifference to the dead!And how reluctantly the echoes come,On air that sighs not o'er that stranger's bed,Who sleeps with death alone. O'er his young headHis native breezes never more shall sigh;On his lone grave the careless step shall tread,And pestilential vapors soon shall dryEach shrub that buds around—each flow'r that blushes nigh.Let Genius, poising on her full-fledg'd wing,Fill the charm'd air with thy deserved praise!Of war, and blood, and carnage let her sing,Of victory and glory!—let her gazeOn the dark smoke that shrouds the cannon's blaze,On the red foam that crests the bloody billow;Then mourn the sad close of thy shorten'd days—Place on thy country's brow the weeping willow,And plant the laurels thick around thy last cold pillow.No sparks of Grecian fire to me belong:Alike uncouth the poet and the lay;Unskill'd to turn the mighty tide of song,He floats along the current as he may,The humble tribute of a tear to pay.Another hand may choose another theme,May sing of Nelson's last and brightest day,Of Wolfe's unequall'd and unrivall'd fame,The wave of Trafalgar—the fields of Abraham:But if the wild winds of thy western lakeMight teach a harp that fain would mourn the brave,And sweep those strings the minstrel may not wake,Or give an echo from some secret caveThat opens on romantic Erie's wave,The feeble cord would not be swept in vain;And though the sound might never reach thy grave,Yet there are spirits here that to the strainWould send a still small voice responsive back again.John G. C. Brainard.
How sad the note of that funereal drum,That's muffled by indifference to the dead!And how reluctantly the echoes come,On air that sighs not o'er that stranger's bed,Who sleeps with death alone. O'er his young headHis native breezes never more shall sigh;On his lone grave the careless step shall tread,And pestilential vapors soon shall dryEach shrub that buds around—each flow'r that blushes nigh.Let Genius, poising on her full-fledg'd wing,Fill the charm'd air with thy deserved praise!Of war, and blood, and carnage let her sing,Of victory and glory!—let her gazeOn the dark smoke that shrouds the cannon's blaze,On the red foam that crests the bloody billow;Then mourn the sad close of thy shorten'd days—Place on thy country's brow the weeping willow,And plant the laurels thick around thy last cold pillow.No sparks of Grecian fire to me belong:Alike uncouth the poet and the lay;Unskill'd to turn the mighty tide of song,He floats along the current as he may,The humble tribute of a tear to pay.Another hand may choose another theme,May sing of Nelson's last and brightest day,Of Wolfe's unequall'd and unrivall'd fame,The wave of Trafalgar—the fields of Abraham:But if the wild winds of thy western lakeMight teach a harp that fain would mourn the brave,And sweep those strings the minstrel may not wake,Or give an echo from some secret caveThat opens on romantic Erie's wave,The feeble cord would not be swept in vain;And though the sound might never reach thy grave,Yet there are spirits here that to the strainWould send a still small voice responsive back again.John G. C. Brainard.
How sad the note of that funereal drum,That's muffled by indifference to the dead!And how reluctantly the echoes come,On air that sighs not o'er that stranger's bed,Who sleeps with death alone. O'er his young headHis native breezes never more shall sigh;On his lone grave the careless step shall tread,And pestilential vapors soon shall dryEach shrub that buds around—each flow'r that blushes nigh.
Let Genius, poising on her full-fledg'd wing,Fill the charm'd air with thy deserved praise!Of war, and blood, and carnage let her sing,Of victory and glory!—let her gazeOn the dark smoke that shrouds the cannon's blaze,On the red foam that crests the bloody billow;Then mourn the sad close of thy shorten'd days—Place on thy country's brow the weeping willow,And plant the laurels thick around thy last cold pillow.
No sparks of Grecian fire to me belong:Alike uncouth the poet and the lay;Unskill'd to turn the mighty tide of song,He floats along the current as he may,The humble tribute of a tear to pay.Another hand may choose another theme,May sing of Nelson's last and brightest day,Of Wolfe's unequall'd and unrivall'd fame,The wave of Trafalgar—the fields of Abraham:
But if the wild winds of thy western lakeMight teach a harp that fain would mourn the brave,And sweep those strings the minstrel may not wake,Or give an echo from some secret caveThat opens on romantic Erie's wave,The feeble cord would not be swept in vain;And though the sound might never reach thy grave,Yet there are spirits here that to the strainWould send a still small voice responsive back again.
John G. C. Brainard.
The death of Joseph Rodman Drake, on September 21, 1820, deserves mention here, not so much because of Drake's prominence as a poet as because of the admirable lyric which it called forth—one of the most perfect in American literature.
The death of Joseph Rodman Drake, on September 21, 1820, deserves mention here, not so much because of Drake's prominence as a poet as because of the admirable lyric which it called forth—one of the most perfect in American literature.
ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE
[September 21, 1820]
Green be the turf above thee,Friend of my better days!None knew thee but to love thee,Nor named thee but to praise.Tears fell, when thou wert dying,From eyes unused to weep,And long where thou art lying,Will tears the cold turf steep.When hearts, whose truth was proven,Like thine, are laid in earth,There should a wreath be wovenTo tell the world their worth;And I, who woke each morrowTo clasp thy hand in mine,Who shared thy joy and sorrow,Whose weal and woe were thine:It should be mine to braid itAround thy faded brow,But I've in vain essayed it,And feel I cannot now.While memory bids me weep thee,Nor thoughts nor words are free,The grief is fixed too deeplyThat mourns a man like thee.Fitz-Greene Halleck.
Green be the turf above thee,Friend of my better days!None knew thee but to love thee,Nor named thee but to praise.Tears fell, when thou wert dying,From eyes unused to weep,And long where thou art lying,Will tears the cold turf steep.When hearts, whose truth was proven,Like thine, are laid in earth,There should a wreath be wovenTo tell the world their worth;And I, who woke each morrowTo clasp thy hand in mine,Who shared thy joy and sorrow,Whose weal and woe were thine:It should be mine to braid itAround thy faded brow,But I've in vain essayed it,And feel I cannot now.While memory bids me weep thee,Nor thoughts nor words are free,The grief is fixed too deeplyThat mourns a man like thee.Fitz-Greene Halleck.
Green be the turf above thee,Friend of my better days!None knew thee but to love thee,Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell, when thou wert dying,From eyes unused to weep,And long where thou art lying,Will tears the cold turf steep.
When hearts, whose truth was proven,Like thine, are laid in earth,There should a wreath be wovenTo tell the world their worth;
And I, who woke each morrowTo clasp thy hand in mine,Who shared thy joy and sorrow,Whose weal and woe were thine:
It should be mine to braid itAround thy faded brow,But I've in vain essayed it,And feel I cannot now.
While memory bids me weep thee,Nor thoughts nor words are free,The grief is fixed too deeplyThat mourns a man like thee.
Fitz-Greene Halleck.
In 1824, at the invitation of Congress and President Monroe, the Marquis de Lafayette, who had played so important a part in the revolution, visited the United States. He arrived in New York August 15, and for the next fourteen months travelled through the country, visiting every state, and being everywhere received with reverence and affection. On June 17, 1825, he laid the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument.
In 1824, at the invitation of Congress and President Monroe, the Marquis de Lafayette, who had played so important a part in the revolution, visited the United States. He arrived in New York August 15, and for the next fourteen months travelled through the country, visiting every state, and being everywhere received with reverence and affection. On June 17, 1825, he laid the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument.
ON LAYING THE CORNER-STONE OF THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT
[June 17, 1825]
Oh, is not this a holy spot?'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth!God of our fathers! is it notThe holiest spot of all the earth?Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;The robber roams o'er Sinai now;And those old men, thy seers, abideNo more on Zion's mournful brow.But onthishill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,Since round its head the war-cloud curled,And wrapped our fathers, where they kneltIn prayer and battle for a world.Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground:And we, the children of the brave,From the four winds are gathering round,To lay our offering on their grave.Free as the winds around us blow,Free as the waves below us spread,We rear a pile, that long shall throwIts shadow on their sacred bed.But on their deeds no shade shall fall,While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame.Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,And thy right hand shall guard their fame.John Pierpont.
Oh, is not this a holy spot?'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth!God of our fathers! is it notThe holiest spot of all the earth?Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;The robber roams o'er Sinai now;And those old men, thy seers, abideNo more on Zion's mournful brow.But onthishill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,Since round its head the war-cloud curled,And wrapped our fathers, where they kneltIn prayer and battle for a world.Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground:And we, the children of the brave,From the four winds are gathering round,To lay our offering on their grave.Free as the winds around us blow,Free as the waves below us spread,We rear a pile, that long shall throwIts shadow on their sacred bed.But on their deeds no shade shall fall,While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame.Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,And thy right hand shall guard their fame.John Pierpont.
Oh, is not this a holy spot?'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth!God of our fathers! is it notThe holiest spot of all the earth?
Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;The robber roams o'er Sinai now;And those old men, thy seers, abideNo more on Zion's mournful brow.
But onthishill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,Since round its head the war-cloud curled,And wrapped our fathers, where they kneltIn prayer and battle for a world.
Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground:And we, the children of the brave,From the four winds are gathering round,To lay our offering on their grave.
Free as the winds around us blow,Free as the waves below us spread,We rear a pile, that long shall throwIts shadow on their sacred bed.
But on their deeds no shade shall fall,While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame.Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,And thy right hand shall guard their fame.
John Pierpont.
Lafayette's sixty-eighth birthday was celebrated at the White House September 6, 1825, and he sailed next day for France, where he died May 20, 1834. The verses by Dolly Madison which follow were only recently discovered.
Lafayette's sixty-eighth birthday was celebrated at the White House September 6, 1825, and he sailed next day for France, where he died May 20, 1834. The verses by Dolly Madison which follow were only recently discovered.
LA FAYETTE
Born, nurtured, wedded, prized, within the paleOf peers and princes, high in camp—at court—He hears, in joyous youth, a wild report,Swelling the murmurs of the Western gale,Of a young people struggling to be free!Straight quitting all, across the wave he flies,Aids with his sword, wealth, blood, the high emprize!And shares the glories of its victory.Then comes for fifty years a high romanceOf toils, reverses, sufferings, in the causeOf man and justice, liberty and France,Crowned, at the last, with hope and wide applause.Champion of Freedom! Well thy race was run!All time shall hail thee,Europe's noblest Son!Dolly Madison.Washington, April 25, 1848.
Born, nurtured, wedded, prized, within the paleOf peers and princes, high in camp—at court—He hears, in joyous youth, a wild report,Swelling the murmurs of the Western gale,Of a young people struggling to be free!Straight quitting all, across the wave he flies,Aids with his sword, wealth, blood, the high emprize!And shares the glories of its victory.Then comes for fifty years a high romanceOf toils, reverses, sufferings, in the causeOf man and justice, liberty and France,Crowned, at the last, with hope and wide applause.Champion of Freedom! Well thy race was run!All time shall hail thee,Europe's noblest Son!Dolly Madison.Washington, April 25, 1848.
Born, nurtured, wedded, prized, within the paleOf peers and princes, high in camp—at court—He hears, in joyous youth, a wild report,Swelling the murmurs of the Western gale,Of a young people struggling to be free!Straight quitting all, across the wave he flies,Aids with his sword, wealth, blood, the high emprize!And shares the glories of its victory.Then comes for fifty years a high romanceOf toils, reverses, sufferings, in the causeOf man and justice, liberty and France,Crowned, at the last, with hope and wide applause.Champion of Freedom! Well thy race was run!All time shall hail thee,Europe's noblest Son!
Dolly Madison.
Washington, April 25, 1848.
John Adams, second President of the United States, died at his home in Braintree, Mass., July 4, 1826. His last words were, "Thomas Jefferson still lives." But by a curious coincidence, Jefferson had died at his home, Monticello, in Albemarle County, Va., a few hours before.
John Adams, second President of the United States, died at his home in Braintree, Mass., July 4, 1826. His last words were, "Thomas Jefferson still lives." But by a curious coincidence, Jefferson had died at his home, Monticello, in Albemarle County, Va., a few hours before.
THE DEATH OF JEFFERSON
[July 4, 1826]
I'Twas midsummer; cooling breezes all the languid forests fanned,And the angel of the evening drew her curtain o'er the land.Like an isle rose Monticello through the cooled and rippling trees,Like an isle in rippling starlight in the silence of the seas.Ceased the mocking-bird his singing; said the slaves with faltering breath,"'Tis the Third, and on the morrow Heaven will send the Angel Death."IIIn his room at Monticello, lost in dreams the statesman slept,Seeing not the still forms round him, seeing not the eyes that wept,Hearing not the old clock ticking in life's final silence loud,Knowing not when night came o'er him like the shadow of a cloud.In the past his soul is living as in fifty years ago,Hastes again to Philadelphia, hears again the Schuylkill flow—IIIMeets again the elder Adams—knowing not that far awayHeis waiting for Death's morrow, on old Massachusetts Bay;Meets with Hancock, young and courtly, meets with Hopkins, bent and old,Meets again calm Roger Sherman, fiery Lee, and Carroll bold,Meets the sturdy form of Franklin, meets the half a hundred menWho have made themselves immortal,—breathes the ancient morn again.IVOnce again the Declaration in his nerveless hands he holds,And before the waiting statesmen its prophetic hope unfolds,—Reads again the words puissant, "All men are created free,"Claims again for man his birthright, claims the world's equality;Hears the coming and the going of an hundred firm-set feet,Hears the summer breezes blowing 'mid the oak trees cool and sweet.VSees again tall Patrick Henry by the side of Henry Lee,Hears him cry, "And will ye sign it?—it will make all nations free!Fear ye not the axe or gibbet; it shall topple every throne.Sign it for the world's redemption!—all mankind its truth shall own!Stars may fall, but truth eternal shall not falter, shall not fail.Sign it, and the Declaration shall the voice of ages hail.VI"Sign, and set yon dumb bell ringing, that the people all may knowMan has found emancipation; sign, the Almighty wills it so."Sees one sign it, then another, till like magic moves the pen,Till all have signed it, and it lies there, charter of the rights of men.Hears the small bells, hears the great bell, hanging idly in the sun,Break the silence, and the people whisper, awe-struck, "It is done."VIIThen the dream began to vanish—burgesses, the war's red flames,Charging Tarleton, proud Cornwallis, navies moving on the James,Years of peace, and years of glory, all began to melt away,And the statesman woke from slumber in the night, and tranquil lay,And his lips moved; friends there gathered with love's silken footstep near,And he whispered, softly whispered in love's low and tender ear,—VIII"It is the Fourth?" "No, not yet," they answered, "but 'twill soon be early morn;We will wake you, if you slumber, when the day begins to dawn."Then the statesman left the present, lived again amid the past,Saw, perhaps, the peopled future ope its portals grand and vast,Till the flashes of the morning lit the far horizon low,And the sun's rays o'er the forests in the east began to glow.IXRose the sun, and from the woodlands fell the midnight dews like rain,In magnolias cool and shady sang the mocking-bird again;And the statesman woke from slumber, saw the risen sun, and heardRippling breezes 'mid the oak trees, and the lattice singing bird,And, his eye serene uplifted, as rejoicing in the sun,"It is the Fourth?" his only question,—to the world his final one.XSilence fell on Monticello—for the last dread hour was near,And the old clock's measured ticking only broke upon the ear.All the summer rooms were silent, where the great of earth had trod,All the summer blooms seemed silent as the messengers of God;Silent were the hall and chamber where old councils oft had met,Save the far boom of the cannon that recalled the old day yet.XISilent still is Monticello—he is breathing slowly now,In the splendors of the noon-tide, with the death-dew on his brow—Silent save the clock still ticking where his soul had given birthTo the mighty thoughts of freedom, that should free the fettered earth;Silent save the boom of cannon on the sun-filled wave afar,Bringing 'mid the peace eternal still the memory of war.XIIEvening in majestic shadows fell upon the fortress' walls;Sweetly were the last bells ringing on the James and on the Charles.'Mid the choruses of freedom two departed victors lay,One beside the blue Rivanna, one by Massachusetts Bay.Hewas gone, and night her sable curtain drew across the sky;Gone his soul into all nations, gone to live and not to die.Hezekiah Butterworth.
I'Twas midsummer; cooling breezes all the languid forests fanned,And the angel of the evening drew her curtain o'er the land.Like an isle rose Monticello through the cooled and rippling trees,Like an isle in rippling starlight in the silence of the seas.Ceased the mocking-bird his singing; said the slaves with faltering breath,"'Tis the Third, and on the morrow Heaven will send the Angel Death."IIIn his room at Monticello, lost in dreams the statesman slept,Seeing not the still forms round him, seeing not the eyes that wept,Hearing not the old clock ticking in life's final silence loud,Knowing not when night came o'er him like the shadow of a cloud.In the past his soul is living as in fifty years ago,Hastes again to Philadelphia, hears again the Schuylkill flow—IIIMeets again the elder Adams—knowing not that far awayHeis waiting for Death's morrow, on old Massachusetts Bay;Meets with Hancock, young and courtly, meets with Hopkins, bent and old,Meets again calm Roger Sherman, fiery Lee, and Carroll bold,Meets the sturdy form of Franklin, meets the half a hundred menWho have made themselves immortal,—breathes the ancient morn again.IVOnce again the Declaration in his nerveless hands he holds,And before the waiting statesmen its prophetic hope unfolds,—Reads again the words puissant, "All men are created free,"Claims again for man his birthright, claims the world's equality;Hears the coming and the going of an hundred firm-set feet,Hears the summer breezes blowing 'mid the oak trees cool and sweet.VSees again tall Patrick Henry by the side of Henry Lee,Hears him cry, "And will ye sign it?—it will make all nations free!Fear ye not the axe or gibbet; it shall topple every throne.Sign it for the world's redemption!—all mankind its truth shall own!Stars may fall, but truth eternal shall not falter, shall not fail.Sign it, and the Declaration shall the voice of ages hail.VI"Sign, and set yon dumb bell ringing, that the people all may knowMan has found emancipation; sign, the Almighty wills it so."Sees one sign it, then another, till like magic moves the pen,Till all have signed it, and it lies there, charter of the rights of men.Hears the small bells, hears the great bell, hanging idly in the sun,Break the silence, and the people whisper, awe-struck, "It is done."VIIThen the dream began to vanish—burgesses, the war's red flames,Charging Tarleton, proud Cornwallis, navies moving on the James,Years of peace, and years of glory, all began to melt away,And the statesman woke from slumber in the night, and tranquil lay,And his lips moved; friends there gathered with love's silken footstep near,And he whispered, softly whispered in love's low and tender ear,—VIII"It is the Fourth?" "No, not yet," they answered, "but 'twill soon be early morn;We will wake you, if you slumber, when the day begins to dawn."Then the statesman left the present, lived again amid the past,Saw, perhaps, the peopled future ope its portals grand and vast,Till the flashes of the morning lit the far horizon low,And the sun's rays o'er the forests in the east began to glow.IXRose the sun, and from the woodlands fell the midnight dews like rain,In magnolias cool and shady sang the mocking-bird again;And the statesman woke from slumber, saw the risen sun, and heardRippling breezes 'mid the oak trees, and the lattice singing bird,And, his eye serene uplifted, as rejoicing in the sun,"It is the Fourth?" his only question,—to the world his final one.XSilence fell on Monticello—for the last dread hour was near,And the old clock's measured ticking only broke upon the ear.All the summer rooms were silent, where the great of earth had trod,All the summer blooms seemed silent as the messengers of God;Silent were the hall and chamber where old councils oft had met,Save the far boom of the cannon that recalled the old day yet.XISilent still is Monticello—he is breathing slowly now,In the splendors of the noon-tide, with the death-dew on his brow—Silent save the clock still ticking where his soul had given birthTo the mighty thoughts of freedom, that should free the fettered earth;Silent save the boom of cannon on the sun-filled wave afar,Bringing 'mid the peace eternal still the memory of war.XIIEvening in majestic shadows fell upon the fortress' walls;Sweetly were the last bells ringing on the James and on the Charles.'Mid the choruses of freedom two departed victors lay,One beside the blue Rivanna, one by Massachusetts Bay.Hewas gone, and night her sable curtain drew across the sky;Gone his soul into all nations, gone to live and not to die.Hezekiah Butterworth.
I'Twas midsummer; cooling breezes all the languid forests fanned,And the angel of the evening drew her curtain o'er the land.Like an isle rose Monticello through the cooled and rippling trees,Like an isle in rippling starlight in the silence of the seas.Ceased the mocking-bird his singing; said the slaves with faltering breath,"'Tis the Third, and on the morrow Heaven will send the Angel Death."
IIIn his room at Monticello, lost in dreams the statesman slept,Seeing not the still forms round him, seeing not the eyes that wept,Hearing not the old clock ticking in life's final silence loud,Knowing not when night came o'er him like the shadow of a cloud.In the past his soul is living as in fifty years ago,Hastes again to Philadelphia, hears again the Schuylkill flow—
IIIMeets again the elder Adams—knowing not that far awayHeis waiting for Death's morrow, on old Massachusetts Bay;Meets with Hancock, young and courtly, meets with Hopkins, bent and old,Meets again calm Roger Sherman, fiery Lee, and Carroll bold,Meets the sturdy form of Franklin, meets the half a hundred menWho have made themselves immortal,—breathes the ancient morn again.
IVOnce again the Declaration in his nerveless hands he holds,And before the waiting statesmen its prophetic hope unfolds,—Reads again the words puissant, "All men are created free,"Claims again for man his birthright, claims the world's equality;Hears the coming and the going of an hundred firm-set feet,Hears the summer breezes blowing 'mid the oak trees cool and sweet.
VSees again tall Patrick Henry by the side of Henry Lee,Hears him cry, "And will ye sign it?—it will make all nations free!Fear ye not the axe or gibbet; it shall topple every throne.Sign it for the world's redemption!—all mankind its truth shall own!Stars may fall, but truth eternal shall not falter, shall not fail.Sign it, and the Declaration shall the voice of ages hail.
VI"Sign, and set yon dumb bell ringing, that the people all may knowMan has found emancipation; sign, the Almighty wills it so."Sees one sign it, then another, till like magic moves the pen,Till all have signed it, and it lies there, charter of the rights of men.Hears the small bells, hears the great bell, hanging idly in the sun,Break the silence, and the people whisper, awe-struck, "It is done."
VIIThen the dream began to vanish—burgesses, the war's red flames,Charging Tarleton, proud Cornwallis, navies moving on the James,Years of peace, and years of glory, all began to melt away,And the statesman woke from slumber in the night, and tranquil lay,And his lips moved; friends there gathered with love's silken footstep near,And he whispered, softly whispered in love's low and tender ear,—
VIII"It is the Fourth?" "No, not yet," they answered, "but 'twill soon be early morn;We will wake you, if you slumber, when the day begins to dawn."Then the statesman left the present, lived again amid the past,Saw, perhaps, the peopled future ope its portals grand and vast,Till the flashes of the morning lit the far horizon low,And the sun's rays o'er the forests in the east began to glow.
IXRose the sun, and from the woodlands fell the midnight dews like rain,In magnolias cool and shady sang the mocking-bird again;And the statesman woke from slumber, saw the risen sun, and heardRippling breezes 'mid the oak trees, and the lattice singing bird,And, his eye serene uplifted, as rejoicing in the sun,"It is the Fourth?" his only question,—to the world his final one.
XSilence fell on Monticello—for the last dread hour was near,And the old clock's measured ticking only broke upon the ear.All the summer rooms were silent, where the great of earth had trod,All the summer blooms seemed silent as the messengers of God;Silent were the hall and chamber where old councils oft had met,Save the far boom of the cannon that recalled the old day yet.
XISilent still is Monticello—he is breathing slowly now,In the splendors of the noon-tide, with the death-dew on his brow—Silent save the clock still ticking where his soul had given birthTo the mighty thoughts of freedom, that should free the fettered earth;Silent save the boom of cannon on the sun-filled wave afar,Bringing 'mid the peace eternal still the memory of war.
XIIEvening in majestic shadows fell upon the fortress' walls;Sweetly were the last bells ringing on the James and on the Charles.'Mid the choruses of freedom two departed victors lay,One beside the blue Rivanna, one by Massachusetts Bay.Hewas gone, and night her sable curtain drew across the sky;Gone his soul into all nations, gone to live and not to die.
Hezekiah Butterworth.
On September 14, 1830, the BostonAdvertisercontained a paragraph asserting that the Secretary of the Navy had recommended to the Board of Navy Commissioners that the old frigate Constitution, popularly known as "Old Ironsides," be disposed of. Two days later appeared the famous poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes, which instantly became a sort of national battle-cry. Instead of being sold, the Constitution was rebuilt.
On September 14, 1830, the BostonAdvertisercontained a paragraph asserting that the Secretary of the Navy had recommended to the Board of Navy Commissioners that the old frigate Constitution, popularly known as "Old Ironsides," be disposed of. Two days later appeared the famous poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes, which instantly became a sort of national battle-cry. Instead of being sold, the Constitution was rebuilt.
OLD IRONSIDES
[September 14, 1830]
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar;—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more.Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;—The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!Oh better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar;—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more.Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;—The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!Oh better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!Long has it waved on high,And many an eye has danced to seeThat banner in the sky;Beneath it rung the battle shout,And burst the cannon's roar;—The meteor of the ocean airShall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,Where knelt the vanquished foe,When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,And waves were white below,No more shall feel the victor's tread,Or know the conquered knee;—The harpies of the shore shall pluckThe eagle of the sea!
Oh better that her shattered hulkShould sink beneath the wave;Her thunders shook the mighty deep,And there should be her grave;Nail to the mast her holy flag,Set every threadbare sail,And give her to the god of storms,The lightning and the gale!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
CONCORD HYMN
SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.On this green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may their deed redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.Spirit that made those heroes dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.Ralph Waldo Emerson.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.On this green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may their deed redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.Spirit that made those heroes dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.Ralph Waldo Emerson.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,Here once the embattled farmers stood,And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;And Time the ruined bridge has sweptDown the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,We set to-day a votive stone;That memory may their deed redeem,When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit that made those heroes dareTo die, and leave their children free,Bid Time and Nature gently spareThe shaft we raise to them and thee.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
On December 17, 1839, Longfellow wrote in his journal: "News of shipwrecks horrible on the coast. Twenty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe where many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus. Also the Sea-Flower on Black Rock. I must write a ballad on this." It was written twelve days later.
On December 17, 1839, Longfellow wrote in his journal: "News of shipwrecks horrible on the coast. Twenty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe where many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus. Also the Sea-Flower on Black Rock. I must write a ballad on this." It was written twelve days later.
THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS
[December 17, 1839]
It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr,To bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn budsThat ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.Then up and spake an old Sailòr,Had sailed to the Spanish Main,"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane."Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast,The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length."Come hither, come hither, my little daughtèr,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow."He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast."O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?""'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—And he steered for the open sea."O father! I hear the sound of guns,Oh say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!""O father! I see a gleaming light,Oh say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts, went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,Ho! ho! the breakers roared!At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr,To bear him company.Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn budsThat ope in the month of May.The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.Then up and spake an old Sailòr,Had sailed to the Spanish Main,"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane."Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast,The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length."Come hither, come hither, my little daughtèr,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow."He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast."O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?""'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—And he steered for the open sea."O father! I hear the sound of guns,Oh say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!""O father! I see a gleaming light,Oh say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and the hard sea-sand.The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts, went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,Ho! ho! the breakers roared!At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
It was the schooner Hesperus,That sailed the wintry sea;And the skipper had taken his little daughtèr,To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,Her cheeks like the dawn of day,And her bosom white as the hawthorn budsThat ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,His pipe was in his mouth,And he watched how the veering flaw did blowThe smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old Sailòr,Had sailed to the Spanish Main,"I pray thee, put into yonder port,For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,And to-night no moon we see!"The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,A gale from the Northeast,The snow fell hissing in the brine,And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amainThe vessel in its strength;She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither, come hither, my little daughtèr,And do not tremble so;For I can weather the roughest galeThat ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coatAgainst the stinging blast;He cut a rope from a broken spar,And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,O say, what may it be?""'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns,Oh say, what may it be?""Some ship in distress, that cannot liveIn such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light,Oh say, what may it be?"But the father answered never a word,A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,With his face turned to the skies,The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snowOn his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayedThat savèd she might be;And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,Through the whistling sleet and snow,Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel sweptTow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts betweenA sound came from the land;It was the sound of the trampling surfOn the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,She drifted a dreary wreck,And a whooping billow swept the crewLike icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy wavesLooked soft as carded wool,But the cruel rocks, they gored her sideLike the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,With the masts, went by the board;Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,A fisherman stood aghast,To see the form of a maiden fair,Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,The salt tears in her eyes;And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,In the midnight and the snow!Christ save us all from a death like this,On the reef of Norman's Woe!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
The presidential campaign of 1840 was the most exciting that had ever taken place in the United States. William Henry Harrison was the candidate of the Whigs and Martin Van Buren of the Democrats. Harrison was elected by an overwhelming majority.
The presidential campaign of 1840 was the most exciting that had ever taken place in the United States. William Henry Harrison was the candidate of the Whigs and Martin Van Buren of the Democrats. Harrison was elected by an overwhelming majority.
OLD TIPPECANOE
[October, November, 1840]