The footsteps of a hundred yearsHave echoed, since o'er Braddock's RoadBold Putnam and the PioneersLed History the way they strode.On wild Monongahela streamThey launched the Mayflower of the West,A perfect State their civic dream,A new New World their pilgrim quest.When April robed the Buckeye treesMuskingum's bosky shore they trod;They pitched their tents, and to the breezeFlung freedom's star-flag, thanking God.As glides theOyo's solemn flood,So fleeted their eventful years;Resurgent in their children's blood,They still live on—the Pioneers.Their fame shrinks not to names and datesOn votive stone, the prey of time;—Behold where monumental StatesImmortalize their lives sublime!William Henry Venable.
The footsteps of a hundred yearsHave echoed, since o'er Braddock's RoadBold Putnam and the PioneersLed History the way they strode.On wild Monongahela streamThey launched the Mayflower of the West,A perfect State their civic dream,A new New World their pilgrim quest.When April robed the Buckeye treesMuskingum's bosky shore they trod;They pitched their tents, and to the breezeFlung freedom's star-flag, thanking God.As glides theOyo's solemn flood,So fleeted their eventful years;Resurgent in their children's blood,They still live on—the Pioneers.Their fame shrinks not to names and datesOn votive stone, the prey of time;—Behold where monumental StatesImmortalize their lives sublime!William Henry Venable.
The footsteps of a hundred yearsHave echoed, since o'er Braddock's RoadBold Putnam and the PioneersLed History the way they strode.
On wild Monongahela streamThey launched the Mayflower of the West,A perfect State their civic dream,A new New World their pilgrim quest.
When April robed the Buckeye treesMuskingum's bosky shore they trod;They pitched their tents, and to the breezeFlung freedom's star-flag, thanking God.
As glides theOyo's solemn flood,So fleeted their eventful years;Resurgent in their children's blood,They still live on—the Pioneers.
Their fame shrinks not to names and datesOn votive stone, the prey of time;—Behold where monumental StatesImmortalize their lives sublime!
William Henry Venable.
Ohio was admitted to the Union in 1803. The serenity of the new state was rudely shaken, in 1806, by the remarkable bugbear known as the "Burr Conspiracy." Burr had incurred the enmity of Jefferson and most of the other leading politicians of the time, and they were led to believe that he was preparing an expedition against the southwest, to set up a separate empire there. Burr had interested in his plan—which was really directed against Mexico—one Harmon Blennerhassett, who owned the island of that name in the Ohio, and who undertook to finance the expedition.
Ohio was admitted to the Union in 1803. The serenity of the new state was rudely shaken, in 1806, by the remarkable bugbear known as the "Burr Conspiracy." Burr had incurred the enmity of Jefferson and most of the other leading politicians of the time, and they were led to believe that he was preparing an expedition against the southwest, to set up a separate empire there. Burr had interested in his plan—which was really directed against Mexico—one Harmon Blennerhassett, who owned the island of that name in the Ohio, and who undertook to finance the expedition.
BLENNERHASSETT'S ISLAND
From "The New Pastoral"
Once came an exile, longing to be free,Born in the greenest island of the sea;He sought out this, the fairest blooming isleThat ever gemmed a river; and its smile,Of summer green and freedom, on his heartFell, like the light of Paradise. ApartIt lay, remote and wild; and in his breastHe fancied this an island of the blest;And here he deemed the world might never marThe tranquil air with its molesting jar.Long had his soul, among the strife of men,Gone out and fought, and fighting, failed; and thenWithdrew into itself: as when some fountFinds space within, and will no longer mount,Content to hear its own secluded wavesMake lonely music in the new-found caves.And here he brought his household; here his wife,As happy as her children, round his lifeSang as she were an echo, or a partOf the deep pleasure springing in his heart—A silken string which with the heavier cordMade music, such as well-strung harps afford.She was the embodied spirit of the man,His second self, but on a fairer plan.And here they came, and here they built their home,And set the rose and taught the vines to roam,Until the place became an isle of bowers,Where odors, mist-like, swam above the flowers.It was a place where one might lie and dream,And see the naiads, from the river-stream,Stealing among the umbrous, drooping limbs;Where Zephyr, 'mid the willows, tuned her hymnsRound rippling shores. Here would the first birds throng,In early spring-time, and their latest songWas given in autumn; when all else had fled,They half forgot to go; such beauty here was spread.It was, in sooth, a fair enchanted isle,Round which the unbroken forest, many a mile,Reached the horizon like a boundless sea;—A sea whose waves, at last, were forced to fleeOn either hand, before the westward host,To meet no more upon its ancient coast.But all things fair, save truth, are frail and doomed;And brightest beauty is the first consumedBy envious Time; as if he crowned the browWith loveliest flowers, before he gave the blowWhich laid the victim on the hungry shrine:—Such was the dreamer's fate, and such, bright isle, was thine.There came the stranger, heralded by fame,Whose eloquent soul was like a tongue of flame,Which brightened and despoiled whate'er it touched.A violet, by an iron gauntlet clutched,Were not more doomed than whosoe'er he wonTo list his plans, with glowing words o'errun:And Blennerhassett hearkened as he planned.Far in the South there was a glorious landCrowned with perpetual flowers, and where reputePictured the gold more plenteous than the fruit—The Persia of the West. There would he steerHis conquering course; and o'er the bright land rearHis far-usurping banner, till his homeShould rest beneath a wide, imperial dome,Where License, round his thronèd feet, should whirlHer dizzy mazes like an Orient girl.His followers should be lords; their ladies eachWear wreaths of gems beyond the old world's reach;And emperors, gazing to that land of bloom,With impotent fire of envy should consume.Such was the gorgeous vision which he drew.The listener saw; and, dazzled by the view,—As one in some enchanter's misty room,His senses poisoned by the strange perfume,Beholds with fierce desire the picture fair,And grasps at nothing in the painted air,—Gave acquiescence, in a fatal hour,And wealth, and hope, and peace were in the tempter's power.The isle became a rendezvous; and thenCame in the noisy rule of lawless men.Domestic calm, affrighted, fled afar,And Riot revelled 'neath the midnight star;Continuous music rustled through the trees,Where banners danced responsive on the breeze;Or in festoons, above the astonished bowers,With flaming colors shamed the modest flowers.There clanged the mimic combat of the sword,Like daily glasses round the festive board;Here lounged the chiefs, there marched the plumèd file,And martial splendor over-ran the isle.Already, the shrewd leader of the sportThe shadowy sceptre grasped, and swayed his court.In dreams, or waking, revelling or alone,Before him swam the visionary throne;Until a voice, as if the insulted woodsHad risen to claim their ancient solitudes,Broke on his spirit, like a trumpet rude,Shattering his dream to nothing where he stood!The revellers vanished, and the banners fellLike the red leaves beneath November's spell.Full of great hopes, sustained by mighty will,Urged by ambition, confident of skill,As fearless to perform as to devise,A-flush, but now he saw the glittering prizeFlame like a cloud in day's descending track;But, lo, the sun went down and left it black!Alone, despised, defiance in his eye,He heard the shout, and "treason!" was the cry;And that harsh word, with its unpitying blight,Swept o'er the island like an arctic night.Cold grew the hearthstone, withered fell the flowers,And desolation walked among the bowers.This was the mansion. Through the ruined hallThe loud winds sweep, with gusty rise and fall,Or glide, like phantoms, through the open doors;And winter drifts his snow along the floors,Blown through the yawning rafters, where the starsAnd moon look in as through dull prison bars.On yonder gable, through the nightly dark,The owl replies unto the dreary barkOf lonely fox, beside the grass-grown sill;And here, on summer eves, the whip-poor-willExalts her voice, and to the traveller's earProclaims how Ruin rules with full contentment here.Thomas Buchanan Read.
Once came an exile, longing to be free,Born in the greenest island of the sea;He sought out this, the fairest blooming isleThat ever gemmed a river; and its smile,Of summer green and freedom, on his heartFell, like the light of Paradise. ApartIt lay, remote and wild; and in his breastHe fancied this an island of the blest;And here he deemed the world might never marThe tranquil air with its molesting jar.Long had his soul, among the strife of men,Gone out and fought, and fighting, failed; and thenWithdrew into itself: as when some fountFinds space within, and will no longer mount,Content to hear its own secluded wavesMake lonely music in the new-found caves.And here he brought his household; here his wife,As happy as her children, round his lifeSang as she were an echo, or a partOf the deep pleasure springing in his heart—A silken string which with the heavier cordMade music, such as well-strung harps afford.She was the embodied spirit of the man,His second self, but on a fairer plan.And here they came, and here they built their home,And set the rose and taught the vines to roam,Until the place became an isle of bowers,Where odors, mist-like, swam above the flowers.It was a place where one might lie and dream,And see the naiads, from the river-stream,Stealing among the umbrous, drooping limbs;Where Zephyr, 'mid the willows, tuned her hymnsRound rippling shores. Here would the first birds throng,In early spring-time, and their latest songWas given in autumn; when all else had fled,They half forgot to go; such beauty here was spread.It was, in sooth, a fair enchanted isle,Round which the unbroken forest, many a mile,Reached the horizon like a boundless sea;—A sea whose waves, at last, were forced to fleeOn either hand, before the westward host,To meet no more upon its ancient coast.But all things fair, save truth, are frail and doomed;And brightest beauty is the first consumedBy envious Time; as if he crowned the browWith loveliest flowers, before he gave the blowWhich laid the victim on the hungry shrine:—Such was the dreamer's fate, and such, bright isle, was thine.There came the stranger, heralded by fame,Whose eloquent soul was like a tongue of flame,Which brightened and despoiled whate'er it touched.A violet, by an iron gauntlet clutched,Were not more doomed than whosoe'er he wonTo list his plans, with glowing words o'errun:And Blennerhassett hearkened as he planned.Far in the South there was a glorious landCrowned with perpetual flowers, and where reputePictured the gold more plenteous than the fruit—The Persia of the West. There would he steerHis conquering course; and o'er the bright land rearHis far-usurping banner, till his homeShould rest beneath a wide, imperial dome,Where License, round his thronèd feet, should whirlHer dizzy mazes like an Orient girl.His followers should be lords; their ladies eachWear wreaths of gems beyond the old world's reach;And emperors, gazing to that land of bloom,With impotent fire of envy should consume.Such was the gorgeous vision which he drew.The listener saw; and, dazzled by the view,—As one in some enchanter's misty room,His senses poisoned by the strange perfume,Beholds with fierce desire the picture fair,And grasps at nothing in the painted air,—Gave acquiescence, in a fatal hour,And wealth, and hope, and peace were in the tempter's power.The isle became a rendezvous; and thenCame in the noisy rule of lawless men.Domestic calm, affrighted, fled afar,And Riot revelled 'neath the midnight star;Continuous music rustled through the trees,Where banners danced responsive on the breeze;Or in festoons, above the astonished bowers,With flaming colors shamed the modest flowers.There clanged the mimic combat of the sword,Like daily glasses round the festive board;Here lounged the chiefs, there marched the plumèd file,And martial splendor over-ran the isle.Already, the shrewd leader of the sportThe shadowy sceptre grasped, and swayed his court.In dreams, or waking, revelling or alone,Before him swam the visionary throne;Until a voice, as if the insulted woodsHad risen to claim their ancient solitudes,Broke on his spirit, like a trumpet rude,Shattering his dream to nothing where he stood!The revellers vanished, and the banners fellLike the red leaves beneath November's spell.Full of great hopes, sustained by mighty will,Urged by ambition, confident of skill,As fearless to perform as to devise,A-flush, but now he saw the glittering prizeFlame like a cloud in day's descending track;But, lo, the sun went down and left it black!Alone, despised, defiance in his eye,He heard the shout, and "treason!" was the cry;And that harsh word, with its unpitying blight,Swept o'er the island like an arctic night.Cold grew the hearthstone, withered fell the flowers,And desolation walked among the bowers.This was the mansion. Through the ruined hallThe loud winds sweep, with gusty rise and fall,Or glide, like phantoms, through the open doors;And winter drifts his snow along the floors,Blown through the yawning rafters, where the starsAnd moon look in as through dull prison bars.On yonder gable, through the nightly dark,The owl replies unto the dreary barkOf lonely fox, beside the grass-grown sill;And here, on summer eves, the whip-poor-willExalts her voice, and to the traveller's earProclaims how Ruin rules with full contentment here.Thomas Buchanan Read.
Once came an exile, longing to be free,Born in the greenest island of the sea;He sought out this, the fairest blooming isleThat ever gemmed a river; and its smile,Of summer green and freedom, on his heartFell, like the light of Paradise. ApartIt lay, remote and wild; and in his breastHe fancied this an island of the blest;And here he deemed the world might never marThe tranquil air with its molesting jar.Long had his soul, among the strife of men,Gone out and fought, and fighting, failed; and thenWithdrew into itself: as when some fountFinds space within, and will no longer mount,Content to hear its own secluded wavesMake lonely music in the new-found caves.And here he brought his household; here his wife,As happy as her children, round his lifeSang as she were an echo, or a partOf the deep pleasure springing in his heart—A silken string which with the heavier cordMade music, such as well-strung harps afford.She was the embodied spirit of the man,His second self, but on a fairer plan.And here they came, and here they built their home,And set the rose and taught the vines to roam,Until the place became an isle of bowers,Where odors, mist-like, swam above the flowers.It was a place where one might lie and dream,And see the naiads, from the river-stream,Stealing among the umbrous, drooping limbs;Where Zephyr, 'mid the willows, tuned her hymnsRound rippling shores. Here would the first birds throng,In early spring-time, and their latest songWas given in autumn; when all else had fled,They half forgot to go; such beauty here was spread.It was, in sooth, a fair enchanted isle,Round which the unbroken forest, many a mile,Reached the horizon like a boundless sea;—A sea whose waves, at last, were forced to fleeOn either hand, before the westward host,To meet no more upon its ancient coast.But all things fair, save truth, are frail and doomed;And brightest beauty is the first consumedBy envious Time; as if he crowned the browWith loveliest flowers, before he gave the blowWhich laid the victim on the hungry shrine:—Such was the dreamer's fate, and such, bright isle, was thine.There came the stranger, heralded by fame,Whose eloquent soul was like a tongue of flame,Which brightened and despoiled whate'er it touched.A violet, by an iron gauntlet clutched,Were not more doomed than whosoe'er he wonTo list his plans, with glowing words o'errun:And Blennerhassett hearkened as he planned.Far in the South there was a glorious landCrowned with perpetual flowers, and where reputePictured the gold more plenteous than the fruit—The Persia of the West. There would he steerHis conquering course; and o'er the bright land rearHis far-usurping banner, till his homeShould rest beneath a wide, imperial dome,Where License, round his thronèd feet, should whirlHer dizzy mazes like an Orient girl.His followers should be lords; their ladies eachWear wreaths of gems beyond the old world's reach;And emperors, gazing to that land of bloom,With impotent fire of envy should consume.Such was the gorgeous vision which he drew.The listener saw; and, dazzled by the view,—As one in some enchanter's misty room,His senses poisoned by the strange perfume,Beholds with fierce desire the picture fair,And grasps at nothing in the painted air,—Gave acquiescence, in a fatal hour,And wealth, and hope, and peace were in the tempter's power.The isle became a rendezvous; and thenCame in the noisy rule of lawless men.Domestic calm, affrighted, fled afar,And Riot revelled 'neath the midnight star;Continuous music rustled through the trees,Where banners danced responsive on the breeze;Or in festoons, above the astonished bowers,With flaming colors shamed the modest flowers.There clanged the mimic combat of the sword,Like daily glasses round the festive board;Here lounged the chiefs, there marched the plumèd file,And martial splendor over-ran the isle.Already, the shrewd leader of the sportThe shadowy sceptre grasped, and swayed his court.In dreams, or waking, revelling or alone,Before him swam the visionary throne;Until a voice, as if the insulted woodsHad risen to claim their ancient solitudes,Broke on his spirit, like a trumpet rude,Shattering his dream to nothing where he stood!The revellers vanished, and the banners fellLike the red leaves beneath November's spell.Full of great hopes, sustained by mighty will,Urged by ambition, confident of skill,As fearless to perform as to devise,A-flush, but now he saw the glittering prizeFlame like a cloud in day's descending track;But, lo, the sun went down and left it black!Alone, despised, defiance in his eye,He heard the shout, and "treason!" was the cry;And that harsh word, with its unpitying blight,Swept o'er the island like an arctic night.Cold grew the hearthstone, withered fell the flowers,And desolation walked among the bowers.This was the mansion. Through the ruined hallThe loud winds sweep, with gusty rise and fall,Or glide, like phantoms, through the open doors;And winter drifts his snow along the floors,Blown through the yawning rafters, where the starsAnd moon look in as through dull prison bars.On yonder gable, through the nightly dark,The owl replies unto the dreary barkOf lonely fox, beside the grass-grown sill;And here, on summer eves, the whip-poor-willExalts her voice, and to the traveller's earProclaims how Ruin rules with full contentment here.
Thomas Buchanan Read.
Soon word got abroad that a great expedition was being fitted out at Blennerhassett; the governor of Ohio called out the sheriffs and militia, who gathered in force, seized ten boats laden with corn-meal, but permitted the boats containing Blennerhassett and his followers to get away. A mob destroyed Blennerhassett's beautiful home and desolated the "fairy isle."
Soon word got abroad that a great expedition was being fitted out at Blennerhassett; the governor of Ohio called out the sheriffs and militia, who gathered in force, seized ten boats laden with corn-meal, but permitted the boats containing Blennerhassett and his followers to get away. A mob destroyed Blennerhassett's beautiful home and desolated the "fairy isle."
THE BATTLE OF MUSKINGUM
OR, THE DEFEAT OF THE BURRITES
[November 30, 1806]
Ye jovial throng, come join the songI sing of glorious feats, sirs;Of bloodless wounds, of laurels, crowns,Of charges, and retreats, sirs;Of thundering guns, and honors won,By men of daring courage;Of such as dine on beef and wine,And such as sup their porridge.WhenBlanny's fleet, so snug and neat,Came floating down the tide, sirs,Ahead was seen one-eyed Clark Green,To work them, or to guide, sirs.Our General bravethe order gave,"To arms! To arms, in season!Old Blanny's boats most careless float,Brim-full of death and treason!"A few young boys, their mothers' joys,And five men there were found, sirs,Floating at ease—each little seesOr dreams of death and wound, sirs."Fly to the bank! on either flank!We'll fire from every corner;We'll stain with blood Muskingum's flood,And gain immortal honor."The cannon there shall rend the air,Loaded with broken spikes, boys;While our cold lead, hurled by each head,Shall give the knaves the gripes, boys."Let not maids sigh, or children cry,Or mothers drop a tear, boys;I have the Baron in my head,Therefore you've nought to fear, boys."Now to your posts, this numerous host,Be manly, firm, and steady.But do not fire till I retireAnd say when I am ready."The DeputycourageouslyRode forth in power and pride, sirs;Twitching his reins, the man of brainsWas posted by his side, sirs.The men in ranks stood on the banks,While, distant from its border,The active aid scours the paradeAnd gives the general order:"First, at command, bid them to stand;Then, if one rascal gains outOr lifts his poll, why, damn his soulAnd blow the traitor's brains out."The night was dark, silent came ClarkWith twelve or fifteen more, sirs;While Paddy Hill, with voice most shrill,Whooped! as was said before, sirs.The trembling ranks along the banksFly into Shipman's manger;While old Clark Green, with voice serene,Cried, "Soldiers, there's no danger."Our guns, good souls, are setting-poles,Deadhogs I'm sure can't bite you;Along each keel is Indian meal;There's nothing here need fright you."Out of the barn, still in alarm,Came fifty men or more, sirs,And seized each boat and other floatAnd tied them to the shore, sirs.This plunder rare, they sport and share,And each a portion grapples.'Twas half a kneel of Indian meal,And ten of Putnam's apples.The boats they drop to Allen's shop,Commanded by O'Flannon,Where, lashed ashore, without an oar,They lay beneath the cannon.This band so bold, the night being cold,And blacksmith's shop being handy,Around the forge they drink and gorgeOn whiskey and peach-brandy.Two honest tars, who had some scars,Beheld their trepidation;Cries Tom, "Come, Jack, let's fire a crack;'Twill fright them like damnation."Tyler, they say, lies at Belpré,Snug in old Blanny's quarters;Yet this pale host tremble like ghostsFor fear he'll walk on waters."No more was said, but off they spedTo fix what they'd begun on;At one o'clock, firm as a rock,They fired the spun-yarn cannon.Trembling and wan stood every man;Then bounced and shouted murder,While Sergeant Morse squealed like a horseTo get the folks to order.Ten men went out and looked about—A hardy set of fellows;Some hid in holes behind the coals,And some behind the bellows.The Cor'nerswore the western shoreHe saw with muskets bristle;Some stamp'd the ground;—'twas cannon sound,They heard the grape-shot whistle.The Deputy mounted "Old Bay,"When first he heard the rattle,Then changed his course—"Great men are scarce,I'd better keep from battle."The General flew to meet the crew,His jacket flying loose, sirs;Instead of sword, he seized his board;—Instead of hat, his goose, sirs."Tyler's" he cried, "on t'other side,Your spikes will never do it;The cannon's bore will hold some more,"Then thrust his goose into it.Sol raised his head, cold spectres fled;Each man resumed his courage;Captain O'Flan dismissed each manTo breakfast on cold porridge.William Harrison Safford.
Ye jovial throng, come join the songI sing of glorious feats, sirs;Of bloodless wounds, of laurels, crowns,Of charges, and retreats, sirs;Of thundering guns, and honors won,By men of daring courage;Of such as dine on beef and wine,And such as sup their porridge.WhenBlanny's fleet, so snug and neat,Came floating down the tide, sirs,Ahead was seen one-eyed Clark Green,To work them, or to guide, sirs.Our General bravethe order gave,"To arms! To arms, in season!Old Blanny's boats most careless float,Brim-full of death and treason!"A few young boys, their mothers' joys,And five men there were found, sirs,Floating at ease—each little seesOr dreams of death and wound, sirs."Fly to the bank! on either flank!We'll fire from every corner;We'll stain with blood Muskingum's flood,And gain immortal honor."The cannon there shall rend the air,Loaded with broken spikes, boys;While our cold lead, hurled by each head,Shall give the knaves the gripes, boys."Let not maids sigh, or children cry,Or mothers drop a tear, boys;I have the Baron in my head,Therefore you've nought to fear, boys."Now to your posts, this numerous host,Be manly, firm, and steady.But do not fire till I retireAnd say when I am ready."The DeputycourageouslyRode forth in power and pride, sirs;Twitching his reins, the man of brainsWas posted by his side, sirs.The men in ranks stood on the banks,While, distant from its border,The active aid scours the paradeAnd gives the general order:"First, at command, bid them to stand;Then, if one rascal gains outOr lifts his poll, why, damn his soulAnd blow the traitor's brains out."The night was dark, silent came ClarkWith twelve or fifteen more, sirs;While Paddy Hill, with voice most shrill,Whooped! as was said before, sirs.The trembling ranks along the banksFly into Shipman's manger;While old Clark Green, with voice serene,Cried, "Soldiers, there's no danger."Our guns, good souls, are setting-poles,Deadhogs I'm sure can't bite you;Along each keel is Indian meal;There's nothing here need fright you."Out of the barn, still in alarm,Came fifty men or more, sirs,And seized each boat and other floatAnd tied them to the shore, sirs.This plunder rare, they sport and share,And each a portion grapples.'Twas half a kneel of Indian meal,And ten of Putnam's apples.The boats they drop to Allen's shop,Commanded by O'Flannon,Where, lashed ashore, without an oar,They lay beneath the cannon.This band so bold, the night being cold,And blacksmith's shop being handy,Around the forge they drink and gorgeOn whiskey and peach-brandy.Two honest tars, who had some scars,Beheld their trepidation;Cries Tom, "Come, Jack, let's fire a crack;'Twill fright them like damnation."Tyler, they say, lies at Belpré,Snug in old Blanny's quarters;Yet this pale host tremble like ghostsFor fear he'll walk on waters."No more was said, but off they spedTo fix what they'd begun on;At one o'clock, firm as a rock,They fired the spun-yarn cannon.Trembling and wan stood every man;Then bounced and shouted murder,While Sergeant Morse squealed like a horseTo get the folks to order.Ten men went out and looked about—A hardy set of fellows;Some hid in holes behind the coals,And some behind the bellows.The Cor'nerswore the western shoreHe saw with muskets bristle;Some stamp'd the ground;—'twas cannon sound,They heard the grape-shot whistle.The Deputy mounted "Old Bay,"When first he heard the rattle,Then changed his course—"Great men are scarce,I'd better keep from battle."The General flew to meet the crew,His jacket flying loose, sirs;Instead of sword, he seized his board;—Instead of hat, his goose, sirs."Tyler's" he cried, "on t'other side,Your spikes will never do it;The cannon's bore will hold some more,"Then thrust his goose into it.Sol raised his head, cold spectres fled;Each man resumed his courage;Captain O'Flan dismissed each manTo breakfast on cold porridge.William Harrison Safford.
Ye jovial throng, come join the songI sing of glorious feats, sirs;Of bloodless wounds, of laurels, crowns,Of charges, and retreats, sirs;
Of thundering guns, and honors won,By men of daring courage;Of such as dine on beef and wine,And such as sup their porridge.
WhenBlanny's fleet, so snug and neat,Came floating down the tide, sirs,Ahead was seen one-eyed Clark Green,To work them, or to guide, sirs.
Our General bravethe order gave,"To arms! To arms, in season!Old Blanny's boats most careless float,Brim-full of death and treason!"
A few young boys, their mothers' joys,And five men there were found, sirs,Floating at ease—each little seesOr dreams of death and wound, sirs.
"Fly to the bank! on either flank!We'll fire from every corner;We'll stain with blood Muskingum's flood,And gain immortal honor.
"The cannon there shall rend the air,Loaded with broken spikes, boys;While our cold lead, hurled by each head,Shall give the knaves the gripes, boys.
"Let not maids sigh, or children cry,Or mothers drop a tear, boys;I have the Baron in my head,Therefore you've nought to fear, boys.
"Now to your posts, this numerous host,Be manly, firm, and steady.But do not fire till I retireAnd say when I am ready."
The DeputycourageouslyRode forth in power and pride, sirs;Twitching his reins, the man of brainsWas posted by his side, sirs.
The men in ranks stood on the banks,While, distant from its border,The active aid scours the paradeAnd gives the general order:
"First, at command, bid them to stand;Then, if one rascal gains outOr lifts his poll, why, damn his soulAnd blow the traitor's brains out."
The night was dark, silent came ClarkWith twelve or fifteen more, sirs;While Paddy Hill, with voice most shrill,Whooped! as was said before, sirs.
The trembling ranks along the banksFly into Shipman's manger;While old Clark Green, with voice serene,Cried, "Soldiers, there's no danger.
"Our guns, good souls, are setting-poles,Deadhogs I'm sure can't bite you;Along each keel is Indian meal;There's nothing here need fright you."
Out of the barn, still in alarm,Came fifty men or more, sirs,And seized each boat and other floatAnd tied them to the shore, sirs.
This plunder rare, they sport and share,And each a portion grapples.'Twas half a kneel of Indian meal,And ten of Putnam's apples.
The boats they drop to Allen's shop,Commanded by O'Flannon,Where, lashed ashore, without an oar,They lay beneath the cannon.
This band so bold, the night being cold,And blacksmith's shop being handy,Around the forge they drink and gorgeOn whiskey and peach-brandy.
Two honest tars, who had some scars,Beheld their trepidation;Cries Tom, "Come, Jack, let's fire a crack;'Twill fright them like damnation.
"Tyler, they say, lies at Belpré,Snug in old Blanny's quarters;Yet this pale host tremble like ghostsFor fear he'll walk on waters."
No more was said, but off they spedTo fix what they'd begun on;At one o'clock, firm as a rock,They fired the spun-yarn cannon.
Trembling and wan stood every man;Then bounced and shouted murder,While Sergeant Morse squealed like a horseTo get the folks to order.
Ten men went out and looked about—A hardy set of fellows;Some hid in holes behind the coals,And some behind the bellows.
The Cor'nerswore the western shoreHe saw with muskets bristle;Some stamp'd the ground;—'twas cannon sound,They heard the grape-shot whistle.
The Deputy mounted "Old Bay,"When first he heard the rattle,Then changed his course—"Great men are scarce,I'd better keep from battle."
The General flew to meet the crew,His jacket flying loose, sirs;Instead of sword, he seized his board;—Instead of hat, his goose, sirs.
"Tyler's" he cried, "on t'other side,Your spikes will never do it;The cannon's bore will hold some more,"Then thrust his goose into it.
Sol raised his head, cold spectres fled;Each man resumed his courage;Captain O'Flan dismissed each manTo breakfast on cold porridge.
William Harrison Safford.
The whole party, including Burr, were arrested February 19, 1807 near Fort Stoddart, Ala., and taken to Richmond, Va., where Burr was put on trial for treason. The trial lasted six months, and resulted in acquittal.
The whole party, including Burr, were arrested February 19, 1807 near Fort Stoddart, Ala., and taken to Richmond, Va., where Burr was put on trial for treason. The trial lasted six months, and resulted in acquittal.
TO AARON BURR, UNDER TRIAL FOR HIGH TREASON
Thou wonder of the Atlantic shore,Whose deeds a million hearts appall;Thy fate shall pity's eye deplore,Or vengeance for thy ruin call.Thou man of soul! whose feeble formSeems as a leaf the gales defy,Though scattered in sedition's storm,Yet borne by glorious hope on high.Such did the youthful Ammon seem,And such does Europe's scourge appear,As, of the sun, a vertic beam,The brightest in the golden year.Nature, who many a gift bestowed,The strong herculean limbs denied,But gave—a mind, where genius glowed,A soul, to valor's self allied.Ambition as her curse was seen,Thy every blessing to annoy;To blight thy laurels' tender green;The banner of thy fame destroy.Ambition, by the bard definedThe fault of godlike hearts alone,Like fortune in her frenzy, blind,Heregives a prison,therea throne.Sarah Wentworth Morton.
Thou wonder of the Atlantic shore,Whose deeds a million hearts appall;Thy fate shall pity's eye deplore,Or vengeance for thy ruin call.Thou man of soul! whose feeble formSeems as a leaf the gales defy,Though scattered in sedition's storm,Yet borne by glorious hope on high.Such did the youthful Ammon seem,And such does Europe's scourge appear,As, of the sun, a vertic beam,The brightest in the golden year.Nature, who many a gift bestowed,The strong herculean limbs denied,But gave—a mind, where genius glowed,A soul, to valor's self allied.Ambition as her curse was seen,Thy every blessing to annoy;To blight thy laurels' tender green;The banner of thy fame destroy.Ambition, by the bard definedThe fault of godlike hearts alone,Like fortune in her frenzy, blind,Heregives a prison,therea throne.Sarah Wentworth Morton.
Thou wonder of the Atlantic shore,Whose deeds a million hearts appall;Thy fate shall pity's eye deplore,Or vengeance for thy ruin call.
Thou man of soul! whose feeble formSeems as a leaf the gales defy,Though scattered in sedition's storm,Yet borne by glorious hope on high.
Such did the youthful Ammon seem,And such does Europe's scourge appear,As, of the sun, a vertic beam,The brightest in the golden year.
Nature, who many a gift bestowed,The strong herculean limbs denied,But gave—a mind, where genius glowed,A soul, to valor's self allied.
Ambition as her curse was seen,Thy every blessing to annoy;To blight thy laurels' tender green;The banner of thy fame destroy.
Ambition, by the bard definedThe fault of godlike hearts alone,Like fortune in her frenzy, blind,Heregives a prison,therea throne.
Sarah Wentworth Morton.
Scarcely had this "peril" been escaped, when another far more serious threatened the state on its western border. Tecumseh, chief of the Shawanese, was working to unite the western and southern Indians in war against the United States. William Henry Harrison had been made governor of the Indiana territory, and, collecting a force of about six hundred and fifty men, he marched into the Indian country, and, on November 7, 1811, at Tippecanoe, on the Wabash, routed the Indians and destroyed their villages.
Scarcely had this "peril" been escaped, when another far more serious threatened the state on its western border. Tecumseh, chief of the Shawanese, was working to unite the western and southern Indians in war against the United States. William Henry Harrison had been made governor of the Indiana territory, and, collecting a force of about six hundred and fifty men, he marched into the Indian country, and, on November 7, 1811, at Tippecanoe, on the Wabash, routed the Indians and destroyed their villages.
THE BATTLE OF TIPPECANOE
[November 7, 1811]
Awake! awake! my gallant friends;To arms! to arms! the foe is nigh;The sentinel his warning sends;And hark! the treacherous savage cry.Awake! to arms! the word goes round;The drum's deep roll, the fife's shrill sound,The trumpet's blast, proclaim through night,An Indian band, a bloody fight.O haste thee, Baen! alas! too late;A red chief's arm now aims the blow(An early, but a glorious fate);The tomahawk has laid thee low.Dread darkness reigns. On, Daviess, on.Where's Boyd? And valiant Harrison,Commander of the Christian force?And Owen? He's a bleeding corse!"Stand, comrades brave, stand to your post:Here Wells, and Floyd, and Barton; allMust now be won, or must be lost;Ply briskly, bayonet, sword, and ball."Thus spake the general; when a yellWas heard, as though a hero fell.And, hark! the Indian whoop again—It is for daring Daviess slain!Oh! fearful is the battle's rage;No lady's hand is in the fray;But brawny limbs the contest wage,And struggle for the victor's bay.Lo! Spencer sinks, and Warwick's slain,And breathless bodies strew the plain:And yells, and groans, and clang, and roar,Echo along the Wabash shore.But mark! where breaks upon the eyeAurora's beam. The coming dayShall foil a frantic prophecy,And Christian valor well display.Ne'er did Constantine's soldiers see,With more of joy for victory,A cross the arch of heaven adorn,Than these the blushing of the morn.Bold Boyd led on his steady band,With bristling bayonets burnish'd bright:Who could their dauntless charge withstand?What stay the warriors' matchless might?Rushing amain, they clear'd the field,The savage foe constrain'd to yieldTo Harrison, who, near and far,Gave form and spirit to the war.Sound, sound the charge! spur, spur the steed,And swift the fugitives pursue—'Tis vain: rein in—your utmost speedCould not o'ertake the recreant crew.In lowland marsh, in dell, or cave,Each Indian sought his life to save;Whence, peering forth, with fear and ire,He saw his prophet's town on fire.Now the great Eagle of the WestTriumphant wing was seen to wave!And now each soldier's manly breastSigh'd o'er his fallen comrade's grave.Some dropp'd a tear, and mused the while,Then join'd in measured march their file;And here and there cast wistful eye,That might surviving friend descry.But let a foe again appear,Or east, or west, or south, or north;The soldier then shall dry his tear,And fearless, gayly sally forth.With lightning eye, and warlike front,He'll meet the battle's deadly brunt:Come Gaul or Briton; if array'dFor fight—he'll feel a freeman's blade.
Awake! awake! my gallant friends;To arms! to arms! the foe is nigh;The sentinel his warning sends;And hark! the treacherous savage cry.Awake! to arms! the word goes round;The drum's deep roll, the fife's shrill sound,The trumpet's blast, proclaim through night,An Indian band, a bloody fight.O haste thee, Baen! alas! too late;A red chief's arm now aims the blow(An early, but a glorious fate);The tomahawk has laid thee low.Dread darkness reigns. On, Daviess, on.Where's Boyd? And valiant Harrison,Commander of the Christian force?And Owen? He's a bleeding corse!"Stand, comrades brave, stand to your post:Here Wells, and Floyd, and Barton; allMust now be won, or must be lost;Ply briskly, bayonet, sword, and ball."Thus spake the general; when a yellWas heard, as though a hero fell.And, hark! the Indian whoop again—It is for daring Daviess slain!Oh! fearful is the battle's rage;No lady's hand is in the fray;But brawny limbs the contest wage,And struggle for the victor's bay.Lo! Spencer sinks, and Warwick's slain,And breathless bodies strew the plain:And yells, and groans, and clang, and roar,Echo along the Wabash shore.But mark! where breaks upon the eyeAurora's beam. The coming dayShall foil a frantic prophecy,And Christian valor well display.Ne'er did Constantine's soldiers see,With more of joy for victory,A cross the arch of heaven adorn,Than these the blushing of the morn.Bold Boyd led on his steady band,With bristling bayonets burnish'd bright:Who could their dauntless charge withstand?What stay the warriors' matchless might?Rushing amain, they clear'd the field,The savage foe constrain'd to yieldTo Harrison, who, near and far,Gave form and spirit to the war.Sound, sound the charge! spur, spur the steed,And swift the fugitives pursue—'Tis vain: rein in—your utmost speedCould not o'ertake the recreant crew.In lowland marsh, in dell, or cave,Each Indian sought his life to save;Whence, peering forth, with fear and ire,He saw his prophet's town on fire.Now the great Eagle of the WestTriumphant wing was seen to wave!And now each soldier's manly breastSigh'd o'er his fallen comrade's grave.Some dropp'd a tear, and mused the while,Then join'd in measured march their file;And here and there cast wistful eye,That might surviving friend descry.But let a foe again appear,Or east, or west, or south, or north;The soldier then shall dry his tear,And fearless, gayly sally forth.With lightning eye, and warlike front,He'll meet the battle's deadly brunt:Come Gaul or Briton; if array'dFor fight—he'll feel a freeman's blade.
Awake! awake! my gallant friends;To arms! to arms! the foe is nigh;The sentinel his warning sends;And hark! the treacherous savage cry.Awake! to arms! the word goes round;The drum's deep roll, the fife's shrill sound,The trumpet's blast, proclaim through night,An Indian band, a bloody fight.
O haste thee, Baen! alas! too late;A red chief's arm now aims the blow(An early, but a glorious fate);The tomahawk has laid thee low.Dread darkness reigns. On, Daviess, on.Where's Boyd? And valiant Harrison,Commander of the Christian force?And Owen? He's a bleeding corse!
"Stand, comrades brave, stand to your post:Here Wells, and Floyd, and Barton; allMust now be won, or must be lost;Ply briskly, bayonet, sword, and ball."Thus spake the general; when a yellWas heard, as though a hero fell.And, hark! the Indian whoop again—It is for daring Daviess slain!
Oh! fearful is the battle's rage;No lady's hand is in the fray;But brawny limbs the contest wage,And struggle for the victor's bay.Lo! Spencer sinks, and Warwick's slain,And breathless bodies strew the plain:And yells, and groans, and clang, and roar,Echo along the Wabash shore.
But mark! where breaks upon the eyeAurora's beam. The coming dayShall foil a frantic prophecy,And Christian valor well display.Ne'er did Constantine's soldiers see,With more of joy for victory,A cross the arch of heaven adorn,Than these the blushing of the morn.
Bold Boyd led on his steady band,With bristling bayonets burnish'd bright:Who could their dauntless charge withstand?What stay the warriors' matchless might?Rushing amain, they clear'd the field,The savage foe constrain'd to yieldTo Harrison, who, near and far,Gave form and spirit to the war.
Sound, sound the charge! spur, spur the steed,And swift the fugitives pursue—'Tis vain: rein in—your utmost speedCould not o'ertake the recreant crew.In lowland marsh, in dell, or cave,Each Indian sought his life to save;Whence, peering forth, with fear and ire,He saw his prophet's town on fire.
Now the great Eagle of the WestTriumphant wing was seen to wave!And now each soldier's manly breastSigh'd o'er his fallen comrade's grave.Some dropp'd a tear, and mused the while,Then join'd in measured march their file;And here and there cast wistful eye,That might surviving friend descry.
But let a foe again appear,Or east, or west, or south, or north;The soldier then shall dry his tear,And fearless, gayly sally forth.With lightning eye, and warlike front,He'll meet the battle's deadly brunt:Come Gaul or Briton; if array'dFor fight—he'll feel a freeman's blade.
THE TOMB OF THE BRAVE
IN COMMEMORATION OF THE BATTLE ON THE WABASH
[November 7, 1811]
When darkness prevail'd and aloud on the airNo war-whoop was heard through the deep silence yelling,Till, fiercely, like lions just wild from their lair,Our chiefs found the foe on their slumbers propelling.While the mantle of nightHid the savage from sight,Undismay'd were our warriors slain in the fight:But the laurel shall ever continue to wave,And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave.Brave Daviess, legitimate offspring of fame,Though new to the war, rush'd to battle undaunted;And ere, bearing death, the dread rifle-ball came,In the breast of the foe oft his weapon he planted.Gallant Daviess, adieu!Tears thy destiny drew;But yet o'er thy body shall tremble no yew,For the laurel, etc.Great Owen, too bold from the fight to remain,Rush'd on to the foe, every soldier's heart firing;But he sinks, in the blood of his foes, on the plain,The pale lamp of life in its socket expiring;Closed in death are his eyes,And lamented he lies;Yet o'er the sad spot shall no cypress arise!But the laurel, etc.Long Warwick, McMahan, and Spencer, and Baen,And Berry, 'mid darkness their banners defended,But when day drew the curtain of night, they were seenCover'd o'er with the blood of the savage, extended.Though Freedom may weepWhere they mouldering sleep,Yet shall valor their death as a jubilee keep:For the laurel, etc.Ye chiefs of the Wabash, who gallantly fought,And fearlessly heard the dread storm of war rattle,Who lived to see conquest so terribly bought,While your brothers were lost in the uproar of battle,Still fearless remain,And, though stretch'd on the plain,You shall rise on the records of freedom again:For the laurel, etc.Ye sons of Columbia, when danger is nigh,And liberty calls, round her standard to rally,For your country, your wives, and your children to die,Resolve undismay'd on oppression to sally.Every hero secureThat his fame shall endureTill eternity time in oblivion immure;For the laurel shall ever continue to wave,And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave.Joseph Hutton.
When darkness prevail'd and aloud on the airNo war-whoop was heard through the deep silence yelling,Till, fiercely, like lions just wild from their lair,Our chiefs found the foe on their slumbers propelling.While the mantle of nightHid the savage from sight,Undismay'd were our warriors slain in the fight:But the laurel shall ever continue to wave,And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave.Brave Daviess, legitimate offspring of fame,Though new to the war, rush'd to battle undaunted;And ere, bearing death, the dread rifle-ball came,In the breast of the foe oft his weapon he planted.Gallant Daviess, adieu!Tears thy destiny drew;But yet o'er thy body shall tremble no yew,For the laurel, etc.Great Owen, too bold from the fight to remain,Rush'd on to the foe, every soldier's heart firing;But he sinks, in the blood of his foes, on the plain,The pale lamp of life in its socket expiring;Closed in death are his eyes,And lamented he lies;Yet o'er the sad spot shall no cypress arise!But the laurel, etc.Long Warwick, McMahan, and Spencer, and Baen,And Berry, 'mid darkness their banners defended,But when day drew the curtain of night, they were seenCover'd o'er with the blood of the savage, extended.Though Freedom may weepWhere they mouldering sleep,Yet shall valor their death as a jubilee keep:For the laurel, etc.Ye chiefs of the Wabash, who gallantly fought,And fearlessly heard the dread storm of war rattle,Who lived to see conquest so terribly bought,While your brothers were lost in the uproar of battle,Still fearless remain,And, though stretch'd on the plain,You shall rise on the records of freedom again:For the laurel, etc.Ye sons of Columbia, when danger is nigh,And liberty calls, round her standard to rally,For your country, your wives, and your children to die,Resolve undismay'd on oppression to sally.Every hero secureThat his fame shall endureTill eternity time in oblivion immure;For the laurel shall ever continue to wave,And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave.Joseph Hutton.
When darkness prevail'd and aloud on the airNo war-whoop was heard through the deep silence yelling,Till, fiercely, like lions just wild from their lair,Our chiefs found the foe on their slumbers propelling.While the mantle of nightHid the savage from sight,Undismay'd were our warriors slain in the fight:But the laurel shall ever continue to wave,And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave.
Brave Daviess, legitimate offspring of fame,Though new to the war, rush'd to battle undaunted;And ere, bearing death, the dread rifle-ball came,In the breast of the foe oft his weapon he planted.Gallant Daviess, adieu!Tears thy destiny drew;But yet o'er thy body shall tremble no yew,For the laurel, etc.
Great Owen, too bold from the fight to remain,Rush'd on to the foe, every soldier's heart firing;But he sinks, in the blood of his foes, on the plain,The pale lamp of life in its socket expiring;Closed in death are his eyes,And lamented he lies;Yet o'er the sad spot shall no cypress arise!But the laurel, etc.
Long Warwick, McMahan, and Spencer, and Baen,And Berry, 'mid darkness their banners defended,But when day drew the curtain of night, they were seenCover'd o'er with the blood of the savage, extended.Though Freedom may weepWhere they mouldering sleep,Yet shall valor their death as a jubilee keep:For the laurel, etc.
Ye chiefs of the Wabash, who gallantly fought,And fearlessly heard the dread storm of war rattle,Who lived to see conquest so terribly bought,While your brothers were lost in the uproar of battle,Still fearless remain,And, though stretch'd on the plain,You shall rise on the records of freedom again:For the laurel, etc.
Ye sons of Columbia, when danger is nigh,And liberty calls, round her standard to rally,For your country, your wives, and your children to die,Resolve undismay'd on oppression to sally.Every hero secureThat his fame shall endureTill eternity time in oblivion immure;For the laurel shall ever continue to wave,And glory thus bloom o'er the tomb of the brave.
Joseph Hutton.
While this struggle was waging for the country between the Alleghanies and the Mississippi, two daring explorers traversed the country to the west of the great river. On May 14, 1804, Captain Meriwether Lewis and Lieutenant William Clark, of the First Infantry, who had been appointed to seek water communication with the Pacific Coast, entered the Missouri River and started westward.
While this struggle was waging for the country between the Alleghanies and the Mississippi, two daring explorers traversed the country to the west of the great river. On May 14, 1804, Captain Meriwether Lewis and Lieutenant William Clark, of the First Infantry, who had been appointed to seek water communication with the Pacific Coast, entered the Missouri River and started westward.
SA-CÁ-GA-WE-A
THE INDIAN GIRL WHO GUIDED LEWIS AND CLARK IN THEIR EXPEDITION TO THE PACIFIC
Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a—captive and wife was sheOn the grassy plains of Dakota in the land of the Minnetaree;But she heard the west wind calling, and longed to follow the sunBack to the shining mountains and the glens where her life begun.So, when the valiant Captains, fain for the Asian sea,Stayed their marvellous journey in the land of the Minnetaree(The Red Men wondering, wary—Omaha, Mandan, Sioux—Friendly now, now hostile, as they toiled the wilderness through),Glad she turned from the grassy plains and led their way to the West,Her course as true as the swan's that flew north to its reedy nest;Her eye as keen as the eagle's when the young lambs feed below;Her ear alert as the stag's at morn guarding the fawn and doe.Straight was she as a hillside fir, lithe as the willow-tree,And her foot as fleet as the antelope's when the hunter rides the lea;In broidered tunic and moccasins, with braided raven hair,And closely belted buffalo robe with her baby nestling there—Girl of but sixteen summers, the homing bird of the quest,Free of the tongues of the mountains, deep on her heart imprest,—Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a led the way to the West!—To Missouri's broad savannas dark with bison and deer,While the grizzly roamed the savage shore and cougar and wolf prowled near;To the cataract's leap, and the meadows with lily and rose abloom;The sunless trails of the forest, and the canyon's hush and gloom;By the veins of gold and silver, and the mountains vast and grim—Their snowy summits lost in clouds on the wide horizon's brim;Through sombre pass, by soaring peak, till the Asian wind blew free,And lo! the roar of the Oregon and the splendor of the Sea!Some day, in the lordly upland where the snow-fed streams divide—Afoam for the far Atlantic, afoam for Pacific's tide—There, by the valiant Captains whose glory will never dimWhile the sun goes down to the Asian sea and the stars in ether swim,She will stand in bronze as richly brown as the hue of her girlish cheek,With broidered robe and braided hair and lips just curved to speak;And the mountain winds will murmur as they linger along the crest,"Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a, who led the way to the West!"Edna Dean Proctor.
Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a—captive and wife was sheOn the grassy plains of Dakota in the land of the Minnetaree;But she heard the west wind calling, and longed to follow the sunBack to the shining mountains and the glens where her life begun.So, when the valiant Captains, fain for the Asian sea,Stayed their marvellous journey in the land of the Minnetaree(The Red Men wondering, wary—Omaha, Mandan, Sioux—Friendly now, now hostile, as they toiled the wilderness through),Glad she turned from the grassy plains and led their way to the West,Her course as true as the swan's that flew north to its reedy nest;Her eye as keen as the eagle's when the young lambs feed below;Her ear alert as the stag's at morn guarding the fawn and doe.Straight was she as a hillside fir, lithe as the willow-tree,And her foot as fleet as the antelope's when the hunter rides the lea;In broidered tunic and moccasins, with braided raven hair,And closely belted buffalo robe with her baby nestling there—Girl of but sixteen summers, the homing bird of the quest,Free of the tongues of the mountains, deep on her heart imprest,—Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a led the way to the West!—To Missouri's broad savannas dark with bison and deer,While the grizzly roamed the savage shore and cougar and wolf prowled near;To the cataract's leap, and the meadows with lily and rose abloom;The sunless trails of the forest, and the canyon's hush and gloom;By the veins of gold and silver, and the mountains vast and grim—Their snowy summits lost in clouds on the wide horizon's brim;Through sombre pass, by soaring peak, till the Asian wind blew free,And lo! the roar of the Oregon and the splendor of the Sea!Some day, in the lordly upland where the snow-fed streams divide—Afoam for the far Atlantic, afoam for Pacific's tide—There, by the valiant Captains whose glory will never dimWhile the sun goes down to the Asian sea and the stars in ether swim,She will stand in bronze as richly brown as the hue of her girlish cheek,With broidered robe and braided hair and lips just curved to speak;And the mountain winds will murmur as they linger along the crest,"Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a, who led the way to the West!"Edna Dean Proctor.
Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a—captive and wife was sheOn the grassy plains of Dakota in the land of the Minnetaree;But she heard the west wind calling, and longed to follow the sunBack to the shining mountains and the glens where her life begun.So, when the valiant Captains, fain for the Asian sea,Stayed their marvellous journey in the land of the Minnetaree(The Red Men wondering, wary—Omaha, Mandan, Sioux—Friendly now, now hostile, as they toiled the wilderness through),Glad she turned from the grassy plains and led their way to the West,Her course as true as the swan's that flew north to its reedy nest;Her eye as keen as the eagle's when the young lambs feed below;Her ear alert as the stag's at morn guarding the fawn and doe.Straight was she as a hillside fir, lithe as the willow-tree,And her foot as fleet as the antelope's when the hunter rides the lea;In broidered tunic and moccasins, with braided raven hair,And closely belted buffalo robe with her baby nestling there—Girl of but sixteen summers, the homing bird of the quest,Free of the tongues of the mountains, deep on her heart imprest,—Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a led the way to the West!—To Missouri's broad savannas dark with bison and deer,While the grizzly roamed the savage shore and cougar and wolf prowled near;To the cataract's leap, and the meadows with lily and rose abloom;The sunless trails of the forest, and the canyon's hush and gloom;By the veins of gold and silver, and the mountains vast and grim—Their snowy summits lost in clouds on the wide horizon's brim;Through sombre pass, by soaring peak, till the Asian wind blew free,And lo! the roar of the Oregon and the splendor of the Sea!
Some day, in the lordly upland where the snow-fed streams divide—Afoam for the far Atlantic, afoam for Pacific's tide—There, by the valiant Captains whose glory will never dimWhile the sun goes down to the Asian sea and the stars in ether swim,She will stand in bronze as richly brown as the hue of her girlish cheek,With broidered robe and braided hair and lips just curved to speak;And the mountain winds will murmur as they linger along the crest,"Sho-shó-ne Sa-cá-ga-we-a, who led the way to the West!"
Edna Dean Proctor.
They ascended the Missouri, crossed the mountains, and descended the Columbia, reaching its mouth November 15, 1805. They started on the return journey in March, 1806, and reached St. Louis in September. On January 14, 1807, a dinner was given at Washington to the explorers, in the course of which the following stanzas were recited.
They ascended the Missouri, crossed the mountains, and descended the Columbia, reaching its mouth November 15, 1805. They started on the return journey in March, 1806, and reached St. Louis in September. On January 14, 1807, a dinner was given at Washington to the explorers, in the course of which the following stanzas were recited.
ON THE DISCOVERIES OF CAPTAIN LEWIS
[January 14, 1807]
Let the Nile cloak his head in the clouds, and defyThe researches of science and time;Let the Niger escape the keen traveller's eye,By plunging or changing his clime.Columbus! not so shall thy boundless domainDefraud thy brave sons of their right;Streams, midlands, and shorelands elude us in vain.We shall drag their dark regions to light.Look down, sainted sage, from thy synod of Gods;See, inspired by thy venturous soul,Mackenzie roll northward his earth-draining floods,And surge the broad waves to the pole.With the same soaring genius thy Lewis ascends,And, seizing the car of the sun,O'er the sky-propping hills and high waters he bends,And gives the proud earth a new zone.Potowmak, Ohio, Missouri had feltHalf her globe in their cincture comprest;His long curving course has completed the belt,And tamed the last tide of the west.Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaim,And all ages resound the decree:Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name,Who taught him his path to the sea.These four brother floods, like a garland of flowers,Shall entwine all our states in a bandConform and confederate their wide-spreading powers,And their wealth and their wisdom expand.From Darien to Davis one garden shall bloom,Where war's weary banners are furl'd,And the far scenting breezes that waft its perfume,Shall settle the storms of the world.Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaimAnd all ages resound the decree:Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name,Who taught him his path to the sea.Joel Barlow.
Let the Nile cloak his head in the clouds, and defyThe researches of science and time;Let the Niger escape the keen traveller's eye,By plunging or changing his clime.Columbus! not so shall thy boundless domainDefraud thy brave sons of their right;Streams, midlands, and shorelands elude us in vain.We shall drag their dark regions to light.Look down, sainted sage, from thy synod of Gods;See, inspired by thy venturous soul,Mackenzie roll northward his earth-draining floods,And surge the broad waves to the pole.With the same soaring genius thy Lewis ascends,And, seizing the car of the sun,O'er the sky-propping hills and high waters he bends,And gives the proud earth a new zone.Potowmak, Ohio, Missouri had feltHalf her globe in their cincture comprest;His long curving course has completed the belt,And tamed the last tide of the west.Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaim,And all ages resound the decree:Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name,Who taught him his path to the sea.These four brother floods, like a garland of flowers,Shall entwine all our states in a bandConform and confederate their wide-spreading powers,And their wealth and their wisdom expand.From Darien to Davis one garden shall bloom,Where war's weary banners are furl'd,And the far scenting breezes that waft its perfume,Shall settle the storms of the world.Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaimAnd all ages resound the decree:Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name,Who taught him his path to the sea.Joel Barlow.
Let the Nile cloak his head in the clouds, and defyThe researches of science and time;Let the Niger escape the keen traveller's eye,By plunging or changing his clime.
Columbus! not so shall thy boundless domainDefraud thy brave sons of their right;Streams, midlands, and shorelands elude us in vain.We shall drag their dark regions to light.
Look down, sainted sage, from thy synod of Gods;See, inspired by thy venturous soul,Mackenzie roll northward his earth-draining floods,And surge the broad waves to the pole.
With the same soaring genius thy Lewis ascends,And, seizing the car of the sun,O'er the sky-propping hills and high waters he bends,And gives the proud earth a new zone.
Potowmak, Ohio, Missouri had feltHalf her globe in their cincture comprest;His long curving course has completed the belt,And tamed the last tide of the west.
Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaim,And all ages resound the decree:Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name,Who taught him his path to the sea.
These four brother floods, like a garland of flowers,Shall entwine all our states in a bandConform and confederate their wide-spreading powers,And their wealth and their wisdom expand.
From Darien to Davis one garden shall bloom,Where war's weary banners are furl'd,And the far scenting breezes that waft its perfume,Shall settle the storms of the world.
Then hear the loud voice of the nation proclaimAnd all ages resound the decree:Let our occident stream bear the young hero's name,Who taught him his path to the sea.
Joel Barlow.
For many years, the East showed little interest in this far western land—it was too indistinct, too distant. The British Hudson Bay Company had its eye on the country, and in October, 1842, prepared to bring in a large body of immigrants to occupy it. Dr. Marcus Whitman, of the American Board of Missions, learned of this design, and started to ride across the country to Washington, D. C., in order to lay the plot before the United States government. After enduring almost incredible fatigue and hardship, he reached Washington March 3, 1843. The tidings he brought spurred the government to retain this great territory.
For many years, the East showed little interest in this far western land—it was too indistinct, too distant. The British Hudson Bay Company had its eye on the country, and in October, 1842, prepared to bring in a large body of immigrants to occupy it. Dr. Marcus Whitman, of the American Board of Missions, learned of this design, and started to ride across the country to Washington, D. C., in order to lay the plot before the United States government. After enduring almost incredible fatigue and hardship, he reached Washington March 3, 1843. The tidings he brought spurred the government to retain this great territory.
WHITMAN'S RIDE FOR OREGON
[October, 1842-March 3, 1843]
I"An empire to be lost or won!"And who four thousand miles will rideAnd climb to heaven the Great Divide,And find the way to Washington,Through mountain cañons, winter snows,O'er streams where free the north wind blows?Who, who will ride from Walla-Walla,Four thousand miles for Oregon?II"An empire to be lost or won?In youth to man I gave my all,And nought is yonder mountain wall;If but the will of Heaven be done,It is not mine to live or die,Or count the mountains low or high,Or count the miles from Walla-Walla.I, I will ride for Oregon.III"An empire to be lost or won?Bring me my Cayuse pony then,And I will thread old ways again,Beneath the gray skies' crystal sun.'Twas on these altars of the airI raised the flag, and saw belowThe measureless Columbia flow;The Bible oped, and bowed in prayer,And gave myself to God anew,And felt my spirit newly born;And to my mission I'll be true,And from the vale of Walla-Walla,I'll ride again for Oregon.IV"I'm not my own, myself I've given,To bear to savage hordes the word;If on the altars of the heavenI'm called to die, it is the Lord.The herald may not wait or choose,'Tis his the summons to obey;To do his best, or gain or lose,To seek the Guide and not the way.He must not miss the cross, and IHave ceased to think of life or death;My ark I've builded—Heaven is nigh,And earth is but a morning's breath;Go, then, my Cayuse pony bring,The hopes that seek myself are gone,And from the vale of Walla-Walla,I'll ride again for Oregon."VHe disappeared, as not his own,He heard the warning ice winds sigh;The smoky sun flames o'er him shone,On whitened altars of the sky,As up the mountain sides he rose;The wandering eagle round him wheeled,The partridge fled, the gentle roes,And oft his Cayuse pony reeledUpon some dizzy crag, and gazedDown cloudy chasms, falling storms,While higher yet the peaks upraisedAgainst the winds their giant forms.On, on and on, past Idaho,On past the mighty Saline sea,His covering at night the snow,His only sentinel a tree.On, past Portneuf's basaltic heights,On where the San Juan mountains lay,Through sunless days and starless nights,Towards Taos and far Sante Fé.O'er table-lands of sleet and hail,Through pine-roofed gorges, cañons cold,Now fording streams incased in mailOf ice, like Alpine knights of old:Still on, and on, forgetful on,Till far behind lay Walla-Walla,And far the fields of Oregon.VIThe winter deepened, sharper grewThe hail and sleet, the frost and snow,Not e'en the eagle o'er him flew,And scarce the partridge's wing below.The land became a long white sea,And then a deep with scarce a coast,The stars refused their light, till heWas in the wildering mazes lost.He dropped the rein, his stiffened handWas like a statue's hand of clay;"My trusty beast, 'tis the command,Go on, I leave to thee the way.I must go on, I must go on,Whatever lot may fall to me,On, 'tis for others' sake I ride,—For others I may never see,—And dare thy clouds, O Great Divide;Not for myself, O Walla-Walla,Not for myself, O Washington,But for thy future, Oregon."VIIAnd on and on the dumb beast pressed,Uncertain, and without a guide,And found the mountain's curves of restAnd sheltered ways of the Divide.His feet grew firm, he found the wayWith storm-beat limbs and frozen breath,As keen his instincts to obeyAs was his master's eye of faith.Still on and on, still on and on,And far and far grew Walla-Walla,And far the fields of Oregon.VIIIThat spring, a man with frozen feetCame to the marble halls of State,And told his mission but to meetThe chill of scorn, the scoff of hate."Is Oregon worth saving?" askedThe treaty-makers from the coast;And him the church with questions tasked,And said, "Why did you leave your post?"Was it for this that he had bravedThe warring storms of mount and sky?Yes!—yet that empire he had saved,And to his post went back to die,—Went back to die for others' sake,Went back to die from Washington,Went back to die for Walla-Walla,For Idaho and Oregon.IXAt fair Walla-Walla one may seeThe city of the Western North,And near it graves unmarked there beThat cover souls of royal worth.The flag waves o'er them in the skyBeneath whose stars are cities born,And round them mountain-castled lieThe hundred states of Oregon.Hezekiah Butterworth.
I"An empire to be lost or won!"And who four thousand miles will rideAnd climb to heaven the Great Divide,And find the way to Washington,Through mountain cañons, winter snows,O'er streams where free the north wind blows?Who, who will ride from Walla-Walla,Four thousand miles for Oregon?II"An empire to be lost or won?In youth to man I gave my all,And nought is yonder mountain wall;If but the will of Heaven be done,It is not mine to live or die,Or count the mountains low or high,Or count the miles from Walla-Walla.I, I will ride for Oregon.III"An empire to be lost or won?Bring me my Cayuse pony then,And I will thread old ways again,Beneath the gray skies' crystal sun.'Twas on these altars of the airI raised the flag, and saw belowThe measureless Columbia flow;The Bible oped, and bowed in prayer,And gave myself to God anew,And felt my spirit newly born;And to my mission I'll be true,And from the vale of Walla-Walla,I'll ride again for Oregon.IV"I'm not my own, myself I've given,To bear to savage hordes the word;If on the altars of the heavenI'm called to die, it is the Lord.The herald may not wait or choose,'Tis his the summons to obey;To do his best, or gain or lose,To seek the Guide and not the way.He must not miss the cross, and IHave ceased to think of life or death;My ark I've builded—Heaven is nigh,And earth is but a morning's breath;Go, then, my Cayuse pony bring,The hopes that seek myself are gone,And from the vale of Walla-Walla,I'll ride again for Oregon."VHe disappeared, as not his own,He heard the warning ice winds sigh;The smoky sun flames o'er him shone,On whitened altars of the sky,As up the mountain sides he rose;The wandering eagle round him wheeled,The partridge fled, the gentle roes,And oft his Cayuse pony reeledUpon some dizzy crag, and gazedDown cloudy chasms, falling storms,While higher yet the peaks upraisedAgainst the winds their giant forms.On, on and on, past Idaho,On past the mighty Saline sea,His covering at night the snow,His only sentinel a tree.On, past Portneuf's basaltic heights,On where the San Juan mountains lay,Through sunless days and starless nights,Towards Taos and far Sante Fé.O'er table-lands of sleet and hail,Through pine-roofed gorges, cañons cold,Now fording streams incased in mailOf ice, like Alpine knights of old:Still on, and on, forgetful on,Till far behind lay Walla-Walla,And far the fields of Oregon.VIThe winter deepened, sharper grewThe hail and sleet, the frost and snow,Not e'en the eagle o'er him flew,And scarce the partridge's wing below.The land became a long white sea,And then a deep with scarce a coast,The stars refused their light, till heWas in the wildering mazes lost.He dropped the rein, his stiffened handWas like a statue's hand of clay;"My trusty beast, 'tis the command,Go on, I leave to thee the way.I must go on, I must go on,Whatever lot may fall to me,On, 'tis for others' sake I ride,—For others I may never see,—And dare thy clouds, O Great Divide;Not for myself, O Walla-Walla,Not for myself, O Washington,But for thy future, Oregon."VIIAnd on and on the dumb beast pressed,Uncertain, and without a guide,And found the mountain's curves of restAnd sheltered ways of the Divide.His feet grew firm, he found the wayWith storm-beat limbs and frozen breath,As keen his instincts to obeyAs was his master's eye of faith.Still on and on, still on and on,And far and far grew Walla-Walla,And far the fields of Oregon.VIIIThat spring, a man with frozen feetCame to the marble halls of State,And told his mission but to meetThe chill of scorn, the scoff of hate."Is Oregon worth saving?" askedThe treaty-makers from the coast;And him the church with questions tasked,And said, "Why did you leave your post?"Was it for this that he had bravedThe warring storms of mount and sky?Yes!—yet that empire he had saved,And to his post went back to die,—Went back to die for others' sake,Went back to die from Washington,Went back to die for Walla-Walla,For Idaho and Oregon.IXAt fair Walla-Walla one may seeThe city of the Western North,And near it graves unmarked there beThat cover souls of royal worth.The flag waves o'er them in the skyBeneath whose stars are cities born,And round them mountain-castled lieThe hundred states of Oregon.Hezekiah Butterworth.
I"An empire to be lost or won!"And who four thousand miles will rideAnd climb to heaven the Great Divide,And find the way to Washington,Through mountain cañons, winter snows,O'er streams where free the north wind blows?Who, who will ride from Walla-Walla,Four thousand miles for Oregon?
II"An empire to be lost or won?In youth to man I gave my all,And nought is yonder mountain wall;If but the will of Heaven be done,It is not mine to live or die,Or count the mountains low or high,Or count the miles from Walla-Walla.I, I will ride for Oregon.
III"An empire to be lost or won?Bring me my Cayuse pony then,And I will thread old ways again,Beneath the gray skies' crystal sun.'Twas on these altars of the airI raised the flag, and saw belowThe measureless Columbia flow;The Bible oped, and bowed in prayer,And gave myself to God anew,And felt my spirit newly born;And to my mission I'll be true,And from the vale of Walla-Walla,I'll ride again for Oregon.
IV"I'm not my own, myself I've given,To bear to savage hordes the word;If on the altars of the heavenI'm called to die, it is the Lord.The herald may not wait or choose,'Tis his the summons to obey;To do his best, or gain or lose,To seek the Guide and not the way.He must not miss the cross, and IHave ceased to think of life or death;My ark I've builded—Heaven is nigh,And earth is but a morning's breath;Go, then, my Cayuse pony bring,The hopes that seek myself are gone,And from the vale of Walla-Walla,I'll ride again for Oregon."
VHe disappeared, as not his own,He heard the warning ice winds sigh;The smoky sun flames o'er him shone,On whitened altars of the sky,As up the mountain sides he rose;The wandering eagle round him wheeled,The partridge fled, the gentle roes,And oft his Cayuse pony reeledUpon some dizzy crag, and gazedDown cloudy chasms, falling storms,While higher yet the peaks upraisedAgainst the winds their giant forms.On, on and on, past Idaho,On past the mighty Saline sea,His covering at night the snow,His only sentinel a tree.On, past Portneuf's basaltic heights,On where the San Juan mountains lay,Through sunless days and starless nights,Towards Taos and far Sante Fé.O'er table-lands of sleet and hail,Through pine-roofed gorges, cañons cold,Now fording streams incased in mailOf ice, like Alpine knights of old:Still on, and on, forgetful on,Till far behind lay Walla-Walla,And far the fields of Oregon.
VIThe winter deepened, sharper grewThe hail and sleet, the frost and snow,Not e'en the eagle o'er him flew,And scarce the partridge's wing below.The land became a long white sea,And then a deep with scarce a coast,The stars refused their light, till heWas in the wildering mazes lost.He dropped the rein, his stiffened handWas like a statue's hand of clay;"My trusty beast, 'tis the command,Go on, I leave to thee the way.I must go on, I must go on,Whatever lot may fall to me,On, 'tis for others' sake I ride,—For others I may never see,—And dare thy clouds, O Great Divide;Not for myself, O Walla-Walla,Not for myself, O Washington,But for thy future, Oregon."
VIIAnd on and on the dumb beast pressed,Uncertain, and without a guide,And found the mountain's curves of restAnd sheltered ways of the Divide.His feet grew firm, he found the wayWith storm-beat limbs and frozen breath,As keen his instincts to obeyAs was his master's eye of faith.Still on and on, still on and on,And far and far grew Walla-Walla,And far the fields of Oregon.
VIIIThat spring, a man with frozen feetCame to the marble halls of State,And told his mission but to meetThe chill of scorn, the scoff of hate."Is Oregon worth saving?" askedThe treaty-makers from the coast;And him the church with questions tasked,And said, "Why did you leave your post?"Was it for this that he had bravedThe warring storms of mount and sky?Yes!—yet that empire he had saved,And to his post went back to die,—Went back to die for others' sake,Went back to die from Washington,Went back to die for Walla-Walla,For Idaho and Oregon.
IXAt fair Walla-Walla one may seeThe city of the Western North,And near it graves unmarked there beThat cover souls of royal worth.The flag waves o'er them in the skyBeneath whose stars are cities born,And round them mountain-castled lieThe hundred states of Oregon.
Hezekiah Butterworth.
Far to the south of the point reached by Lewis and Clark lay the country known as California. It had been explored by the Spaniards as early as 1540, and in 1769 an expedition under Portala discovered San Francisco Bay.
Far to the south of the point reached by Lewis and Clark lay the country known as California. It had been explored by the Spaniards as early as 1540, and in 1769 an expedition under Portala discovered San Francisco Bay.
DISCOVERY OF SAN FRANCISCO BAY
[October 31, 1769]