THE SONG OF LANCASTER.
CANTO I.
PRIMEVAL DAYS.
Hear a song of ancient story,
Of a city on a hillside,
Of the valleys all about it,
Of the forest and the wildwood,
Of the deer that stalked within it,
And the birds that flew above it,
And the wolves and bears around it,
Sole possessors and retainers
Of the silent territory.
Hear the song of its high mountains
Of its gushing rills and streamlets,
Of its leaping, rolling rivers,
Of the meadows still and lonely,
Of the groves all solitary,
Of the land of cunning fables.
Should you ask me of this city,
With its legends and its stories,
With its tales of peace and plenty,
With its tales of Indian warfare,
With its nights and days of watching,
With the camp-fires all a-gleaming,
And the white man’s deadly peril,
I should answer, I should tell you,
’Tis the city of Lancaster,
In the county we call Garrard,
In the State of old Kentucky,
In America, the nation
On the continent Northwestern,
Found by Christopher Columbus.
Once a tangled, gloomy woodland,
With the music of its rivers,
As they wound along the grasses,
With the singing of its birdlings,
As they flew among the maples,
With the hissing of its reptiles,
Crawling o’er the sylvan meadows,
With the growling of its wild beasts,
Lurking in the dells and caverns.
Angels gazed with pleasure on it,
On this Eden habitation,
On this work so calm and lovely;
On the moonlit, velvet carpet,
Where the fairies held their revels,
On the broad expanse of verdure,
With the sunbeams slanting o’er it,
On the rugged mountain eyrie,
Where the eagle reared her nestlings,
On the tiny brooks that trickled
Down the glens so cool and shaded.
Green and fresh the ferns and mosses,
Clinging close to rock and crevice,
Pure and bright the silver waters,
Dancing o’er the shelving limestone.
Angels saw and angels praised it,
For the gracious Spirit made it,
“Very good” the Spirit called it.
Happy valley! Peaceful shadows!
Glorious sunlight of an epoch,
Which the latter days can know not!
For the stride of man’s progression
Desecrates these pristine beauties,
Bends these gorgeous land-scape beauties,
To his purposes of profit.
And the cycle brought its changes,
As the moons were waxing, waning.
The still tract of virgin woodland,
Was invaded by the demon
That the sweet primeval ages
Soon were destined to encounter,
The remorseless Indian demon,
The bold red man of the forest.
Then the wigwam and the peace-pipe
Sent aloft the smoke of welcome,
Welcome to the roving brothers,
To the tribes that wandered restless,
To the sachem and the chieftain,
To the warrior and the maiden.
I have said the tribes invaded
The sweet haunts of Nature’s children,
Of her birds and beasts and reptiles,
Of her rivers, rills, and streamlets;
Of her trees and flowers and grasses,
Yet the song of peace continued.
Peaceful still, yet no more silent;
For where man, with human passion,
Dwells in all this wide creation,
Strife is ever slumb’ring, waiting,
Waiting for the magic touchstone,
For the trouble he is born to,
“Trouble, as the sparks fly upward.”
So there rose a reign of terror,
Of dismay and cruel bloodshed,
When the white man came among them,
The all-potent, dreaded pale-face,
He, another bold invader,
An usurper of the woodland.
When he came with might and fury,
And the hatchet was uplifted,
When the war-cry sounded louder,
And the wigwam smoked in ashes,
And the peace-pipe fell forever,
From the lips all stiff and gory;
And the sachem and the chieftain,
And the warrior and the maiden,
Fled for safety from the woodland,
Roaming restless, ever moving,
To the land of deer and bison,
To the rolling, grassy prairies,
To the distant unknown regions,
To the placid, broad Pacific,
To the setting of the sunlight.
CANTO II.
1769-1796.
PIONEERS.
In the days my Muse is singing,
In the days of early settlers
On the “dark and bloody ground,” there
Came a pioneer so famous
For his greatness and his goodness,
For his sterling sense of honor,
For his frame of strength and vigor,
For his nature, bold and hardy,
And his spirit, firm and steady,
That the annals of the nation,
The proud archives of the country,
Shout his name in stirring pæans,
Blazon forth his fame and glory,
From the rising to the setting
Of the sun he loved to follow.
Many days and nights he wandered
O’er the turf of good old Garrard,
Now in sight, perchance in hearing,
Of the birds and beasts and reptiles,
Roaming wild and roaming lonely,
In the groves of fair Lancaster.
Now in sight, perchance in hearing
Of the melancholy plover,
Of the bluebird’s thrilling whistle,
Of the redbird’s gentle chirping,
Of the blackbird’s noisy chatter,
Of the whippoorwill’s soft pleading,
And the ringdove’s tender cooing.
All these sounds, I trow, were welcome,
To the pioneer hunter,
Daniel Boone, the practiced hunter.
On the plains and hills I’m singing,
He has pitched his tent at nightfall,
And has laid him down to slumber,
With his deerskin wrapped about him,
With his household gathered ’round him.
And the creatures of the woodland,
The dumb creatures of the forest,
At the noisy crack and flashing
Of his trusty, timeworn rifle,
Fell, the prey of man’s dominion,
Formed his frugal fare and feasting.
All about the plains and hilltops,
Are his faded, sacred landmarks.
Let them linger, ever linger,
Faithful witnesses of honor;
For the hunter sleeps forever,
Daniel Boone, the sturdy hunter,
Daniel Boone, the early settler,
Sleeps beneath the waving bluegrass,
Sleeps among the hills of Benson,
On the river side at Frankfort.
Other pioneers came hither,
Other white men sought the woodland,
When the red man fled to westward,
From the scenes so fierce and gory,
Where the tomahawk uplifted
Wrought such strife and havoc deadly.
And once more the axe is lifted,
And the monarchs of the forest,
Of the forest bought with bloodshed,
Fell with echoes loud and startling,
’Mid the lonely hills and valleys.
And the white man built a city,
In the woodland once so peaceful,
In the woodland once so warlike,
Built a fair and goodly city,
’Twas the city of Lancaster,
Yes, a stranger travelled westward,
From the land of trade and commerce,
Of William Penn and “loving brothers,”
And the stranger’s name was Paulding.
With his compass, chain, and log-book,
He marked out this modest city,
On the pattern of his birthplace,
And they christened it Lancaster.
And the county was called Garrard,
For the governor and statesman,
For James Garrard of Kentucky.
Seventeen hundred six and ninety
Saw the corner-stone implanted.
And the cycle brought its changes,
As the moons were waxing, waning.
Pavéd streets and handsome houses,
Busy shops and tradesmen’s houses,
Office, inn, and people’s houses,
Cottage white and mansion costly,
Structures high and structures lowly,
Marked the once secluded valley,
Graced the once sequestered hillside.
By and by the streets were fashioned
From the model of McAdam,
And adorned the youthful city.
Richmond, Mulberry, and Paulding,
Danville, Lexington, and Water,
Stanford, Campbell, and Crab Orchard,
Were the windings of the city.
And the noisy hum of traffic,
And the roll of cart and carriage,
Told of barter and of bargain,
Told of human gains and losses,
Scared away the beasts and birdlings,
Locked and dammed and bridged the rivers,
Chained the rolling streams and rivers.
Schools were opened, where the people
Learned to read and write and cipher.
Coaches linked the growing city
With the busy world around it.
Youths and maidens joined in wedlock,
Parents knelt at family altars,
Children gamboled in the playgrounds,
Cats and dogs and cows and horses,
Swine and animals of burden,
Followed man, the master spirit,
And supplied domestic comfort.
Lawyers, doctors, merchants, traders,
Preachers, artisans, and idlers,
From afar and near flocked hither;
And the “continental coppers”
Were in speedy circulation.
Spinning, weaving, sewing, knitting,
Filled the women’s dextrous fingers,
And the homespun and the linsey
Were the choice and boasted fabrics,
Furnished strong and useful garments,
In the day of early settlers.
Social gatherings were frequent,
’Round log fires and tallow candles,
And the quaint old invitations
To some public house or “tavern,”
Call a smile to faces modern;
“Come and join a square cotillon
At the hour of four precisely,”—
Was the custom of the city,
Of the sensible young city.
Sights and sounds all strange and novel,
Filled the wood with unknown echoes;
Man, the civilized, wrought changes,
And the olden landmarks vanished.
CANTO III.
1796-1812.
ANCIENT BUILDINGS.
More than threescore years are buried
With the ages long departed,
In the annals of Lancaster,
Of the city I am singing,
Since the place of law and justice,
Since the venerable forum,
The first court-house was erected.
Seventeen hundred eight and ninety,
Reads the record of the city.
Logs adorned its sides and summit,
Logs without and logs within it,
Building fashioned all so lowly,
That ’twas deemed unfit to linger
On its public, broad arena,
In the center of the township.
Down it fell one day thereafter,
(In eighteen hundred and eleven,
Of the ever moving cycle,)
And a nobler and a better,
Made of brick and stone and mortar,
Reared its ghostly head among us,
Reared its high and white cupola,
With its bell and towering belfry,
Clanging far and clanging nearer,
Tolling loud and tolling softly,
Ringing forth the day’s proceedings.
Strangers, coming to the region
Of the city quaintly outlined,
Of its square, right-angle outlines,
Saw from hill-tops in the distance,
Saw from valleys and from lowlands,
This great pile of architecture,
In the central broad arena,
In the middle of the township.
Fence of stone with iron railing,
By and by extended round it,
Blooming locusts brown and lofty
Cast their cooling shadows o’er it.
On its rostrum men of power
Oft declaimed to judge and jury;
At its bar were earnest pleadings
For the erring and the guilty.
In its halls were panoramas,
Lectures, shows, and exhibitions,
All the public entertainments,
All the tragic and the comic,
All the festivals and music,
All the city’s merry-making.
’Round and ’round the gorgeous structure,
(Gorgeous in that generation,)
Stood in rows the public houses,
Primitive and unpretending;
But their tenants knew no others,
They were simple, frugal tenants,
They were happy in their folly.
The year eighteen hundred, fifteen,
(Just beyond my canto’s limits,)
Saw the good work of improvement,
Still progressing, moving forward,
Still advancing, ever onward.
In the suburbs of the city,
Rose a noted house of worship,
Large and generous in model,
Called Republican and holy,
Called Old Church in eras later,
Where all Christian sects might gather,
Save the Catholics, named Roman,
And the curious Shaking Quakers.
These might not be met as fellows,
By the followers of Jesus;
These were aliens from the sheepfold.
All around the sacred building,
Slept the dead, both high and lowly,
(For death came into the city,)
All around the sacred building,
Tombs and slabs of stone and granite,
Marked the resting of the sainted,
Marked the resting of the wicked,
Of the infant and the aged,
Of the slave and of the master,
Of the mourned, the loved departed.
And the Sabbath bells came pealing,
In sweet echoes on the breezes,
As the willing feet went weekly
To the worship of Jehovah.
Nearer to the stirring places,
Near the thoroughfare of business,
In the active, growing city
I am chanting now in measures,
Was erected in this era,
In its earliest beginning,
Yet another famous building,
The Academy of Garrard.
Pile revered in ancient glory,
Pile renowned in modern story,
Ever honored Alma Mater
Of distinguished men and women.
Here the noble cause of learning
First received the great momentum
That has sent it rolling downward,
In the hands of willing helpers,
To the ages of the present.
Here on walls of polished plaster,
Were inscribed in myriad numbers,
Names of unforgotten heroes,
Names of genius and of talent,
Names beloved in social circles,
Names renowned on fields of battle,
Honored names in senate chamber.
And the sacred pile was cherished,
By each absent son and daughter.
Many years beyond this period,
(Well I ken the oft told story,)
On a sunny day in autumn,
When the leaves were “sere and yellow,”
When the woods were melancholy,
There were little children clustered
In this notable old school-room;
There were little children striving,
For the prize-book and the medal,
Children conning words in triumph,
Down the line of b-a-baker,
Children frowning o’er the problems
Of the higher rules and text-books,
When a shadow crossed the doorway,
And there followed it, a stranger.
Then the children quickly started,
At the bidding of the teacher,
And in attitude of homage,
Gravely gazed upon the stranger.
On his venerable person,
On his hair all white and silvered,
On his brow all seamed and furrowed,
On his countenance so noble,
Gazed with looks of silent wonder.
He surveyed the group with pleasure,
He beheld them with emotion;
And his heart was touched within him,
All his spirit stirred within him,
At their prompt, respectful greeting,
At their attitude of welcome.
Turning then to front the teacher,
He said, “Madam, I am weary,
I am travel-worn and dusty,
I have wandered long and restless,
I have come from distant regions,
To behold this treasured school-house,
See again its wall all penciled,
With the names I well remember,
With the deeds of my school-fellows;
To review once more the playground,
Where my boyhood’s days were merry;
Jackman’s Cave, the pond, the meadow,
And the spring at Captain Baker’s;
All these places I have trodden,
Where we played and where we skated,
Where we loved and where we quarreled,
Where we shouted joyous laughter,
Where we fought our little battles:
All these haunts of cloud and sunshine
Are so bright on mem’ry’s pages.”
Then he paused and looked about him,
But alas! the walls were covered,
Covered o’er with paper hangings,
Of the style so new and modern,
And the names were lost forever,
To the eyes of eager mortals,
To the gaze of wand’ring schoolmates.
Yet their impress e’er must linger,
Linger on till time shall sever
All the links this earth hath given,
All the tender links of feeling.
Alexander Bruce, the stranger,
Feasted well his eyes so faithful,
On the scenes long since familiar,
On the playground of his childhood.
He was one of many others,
Who have swelled the honored columns.
He returned with heart o’erflowing,
To the spot he fondly cherished,
And with pleasurable sadness
He now gazed upon the changes.
Change was wrought on all about him,
Change was wrought on all within him,
Yet the walls beloved were standing,
’Mid the wreck of worlds beyond them,
Bearing witness to her children,
Standing monuments of witness.
And John Bruce, the great mechanic,
Was the brother of the stranger;
Was another noted scion
Of this noble house of learning.
To his genius of invention
Is the river world indebted
For the cutting of the sawyers,
Of the treach’rous snags and sawyers,
That were wont to plunge the steamer,
Boldly ploughing through the waters,
Into labyrinths of danger.
Long the line of brave descendants,
Long the line of mental giants,
From this aged Alma Mater,
From this crumbling hall of science,
The Academy of Garrard.
CANTO IV.
1812-1820.
SOLDIERS.
But the changing cycle moved on,
With the waxing, waning moonlight.
’Twas when European nations
Fell to quarreling and fighting
Over maritime dissensions,
That James Madison, the ruler
Of this glorious republic,
Felt the tread of foreign despots
On his loved and native country,
On the soil of peace and freedom,
And was driven to defend it.
For, these strange marauding parties
Ventured far from their dominion,
From their rightful sphere of labor,
From their proper place of warfare.
When a public proclamation
Called the people to the conflict,
Called the brave and hardy people
To unfurl the starry banner,
Mighty men of valor rose up,
At the cry, “To arms! To battle!”
For the seaports of the Union
Were blockaded by Great Britain,
By our alien mother country,
By the hostile British Islands.
Many battles, hot and bloody,
Many sieges and repulses,
Many victories and losses,
Stained the youthful nation’s annals.
First at Queenstown, an engagement,
Then at Frenchtown on the Raisin;
Fights at York and Sackett’s Harbor,
At Fort George and Chancey Island,
And at Williamsburg, Fort Erie,
Plattsburg, Bladensburg, Bridgewater,
And at Baltimore, the city
Lying eastward in the Union.
From eighteen twelve, to eighteen sixteen,
Troops were going forth to battle.
Then the final blow was given,
In the country stretching southward,
In the fair Louisiana,
In the land of sugar-planting,
Which the nation’s gold had purchased,
In the sum of fifteen millions,
From the French in eighteen hundred.
And the New Orleans ship harbor,
On the yellow Mississippi,
Rolling swift its turbid waters,
To the distant, mighty ocean,
Was blockaded by the English,
By Lord Packenham, the leader
Of the brave and valiant English.
Andrew Jackson led the columns
Of Columbia, the Union;
And the enemy were routed,
In the South, were whipped and routed,
Thus the troubles terminated,
And the mighty men of valor,
Who had answered to the roll-call,
Who had joined the military,
Laid aside the sword and musket,
Put away the cap and feather,
And returned to ways of quiet,
To the quiet of the hearthstone.
There were generals and captains,
In the army and the navy,
There were colonels, there were majors,
There were officers and soldiers;
Men who went from farm and fireside,
Men who went from shop and ploughshare.
All the States rose up in answer
To the martial proclamation.
There were Pike and Brown and Chandler,
Boyd, Macomb, and Scott and Winder,
Dudley, Harrison, and Hampton,
Miller, Wilkinson, and Bainbridge,
Hull and Perry, Jones, Decatur—
All these names adorn the record,
Mark the record of the contest.
And brave men from good old Garrard
Rallied to their country’s standard,
And with spirits firm and steady,
Cheerful smiles and hearts undaunted,
Ready for the fitful changes,
Fortune’s wheel was turning for them,
They put on their trusty armor,
And went forth to win or perish,
Went from Lancaster, Kentucky.
Captain Faulkner led to battle
Men and arms from Garrard county:
And the muster-roll is headed,
“Mounted Volunteer Militia,
Rendezvoused at Newport Barracks,
August, eighteen hundred thirteen.”
Men who number nine and sixty,
In the stained and dusty archives,
Men who travelled near one hundred
Five and twenty miles to Newport.
Stephen Richardson, Lieutenant,
Meets us first upon the roll-call,
Isaac Renfro, next as Ensign,
Samuel Smith, and William Dunkard,
A. McQuea, and William Poor,
Rank as Sergeants next in order,
Then J. Nicholson, D. Perkins,
B. F. Smith, and William Truelove,
Are the Corporals, four in number;
For the Privates, see appendix,
In the chorus of my ditty.
Their commander’s martial title,
Rose to General from Captain,
When the famous State militia
Held its reign in all the counties.
And ’twas thus with many others,
Of these veteran commanders.
William Woods enrolled a column
Of the warriors of Garrard;
“Mounted Volunteer Militia,
Seventh Regiment,”—its title.
First is Thomas Brown, Lieutenant,
Then is Arthur Progg, Lieutenant,
Then comes Edward Beck as Ensign;
J—n Smith and W. Talbot,
Are the first and second Sergeants;
Sergeants third and fourth then follow,
Samuel Scott, S. Long, in order.
Joseph Brady and James Lackey,
J—s Brunt and C—s Silvers,
Are the Corporals, four in number.
[Forty Privates are recorded],
At the closing of my cantos.
Other soldiers went from Garrard,
Other citizens enlisted,
Of whose names no record lingers,
Save the register of mem’ry.
General William Jennings figured
In the battle on the Raisin;
And the soldier, Robert Elkin,
And our well-remembered Buford,
Are among the names familiar,
To the vet’rans of the city.
Michael Salter was Drum-major,
In the country’s earlier struggle;
Was our one surviving scion,
Of the famous Revolution.
When their knell of death was sounded,
When they one by one went from us,
They were buried with the honors
Of the military calling;
They were followed to their resting
By the requiem fife of wailing,
By the muffled drum of sorrow,
By the solemn tramp of mourners,
By the fun’ral march of soldiers.
We are rearing brilliant guide-posts,
To the brave men of this era;
We are pointing to their actions,
With indelible mementos.
Thus may generations rescue
Sleeping heroes from oblivion;
May no recreant prove wanting,
In a sacred trust of homage.
Let the archives of the city,
The proud city of Lancaster,
Still perpetuate her warriors,
Still preserve her men of valor.
They are resting on their laurels,
In an everlasting quiet;
They have passed the rolling river,
To the arméd hosts of heaven;
They have joined another Captain,
While we linger in the rearguard.
Yet their deeds are all emblazoned,
In the hearts they left behind them,
Hearts that gratefully award them
Tributes that shall never perish.
Fare ye well, ye gallant soldiers,
Who have fought our country’s battles;
Whether soon or whether later,
Whether north or whether southern,
Whether east or west or foreign,
Ye have fought them well and bravely
In the ever changing cycle.
Bear, ye echoes, to our patriots,
Waft, ye breezes, our sad parting.
CANTO V.
1820-1833.
STATESMEN.
We are looking down the vista,
Of two scores of years departed,
We are searching ancient data,
For the story of the decade—
For the fourth decade recorded,
In the annals of Lancaster.
Peace and quiet leave no footprints
On the true historian’s pages,
’Tis in action we remember
The career of our forefathers.
In the chapters now unfolded,
Rare memorials await us;
Of the principal achievements,
And the men who made them famous,
Some have floated down unto us,
Some shall live forever with us.
Borne along the stream of fortune,
Carried downward through the driftwood,
Come the names of learnéd statesmen,
Come the lives of men of genius,
Who were offsprings of the city,
The young city on the hillside.
Men who served the state and county,
In the schools of jurisprudence,
In the halls of Legislature,
In the House and Senate Chamber,
On the bench and legal rostrum.
There are records of their sayings,
In the books that crowd upon us;
There are fragments of their writings
In this distant generation;
There are volumes of their wisdom,
There are codes of law and practice,
Doctrines pure and bold and upright,
Which have made their names undying.
Standing first upon the columns,
Proudly distancing all rivals,
Is the veteran and jurist,
Is George Robertson, Chief Justice
Of the high court of Kentucky.
Born ’mid pioneer hardships,
Reared in schools of self-denial,
All his native force and vigor,
All his diplomatic talent,
From his youth to failing manhood,
Grew to giant strength and prowess,
Till he ably represented
Every gift the people tendered,
Till the honors of his era
Crowded thick and fast upon him.
Early sent away to Congress,
He became a rising member;
Soon his voice rang forth as Chairman
Of the famous Land Committee.
He was foremost on committees,
For improving territory;
For extending roads and railways,
All throughout the western nation;
For constructing modes of travel,
For uprooting mineral treasures,
For internal State improvement.
Sounded forth his clarion dicta,
In wise forms of litigation:
The Missouri Bill on Slav’ry,
Called the Compromise Restriction,
The Dred Scott and Home Law contest,
In the wrangles and debatings
Of the “Old Court” and the “New Court,”
All discussions of importance,
Themes of grave and weighty import,
All the mighty law decisions,
Found his tongue a bold defender,
Found his pen a busy helper.
All his aims in legal science,
Tended to the vindication,
Tended to maintain the standard
Of the country’s Constitution.
He was author, speaker, pleader,
Wrote the noted “Manifesto,”
Wrote a score of learnéd essays,
Was the founder of the movement
Giving every man a refuge,
Giving poor and homeless laborers,
Peace and comfort at the fireside.
Ere his mighty frame was stricken
By the doom of pain and weakness,
He was offered many stations,
Full of public trust and glory;
He was proffered many titles
Of distinction and of honor.
Some he served with zeal unflagging,
Some he wore with conscious merit.
Others still, he waived with firmness,
Others still, he put behind him.
In eighteen hundred eight and twenty
He declined the nomination
For the Governor of Kentucky;
And the post of Secretary
Of the State, he soon vacated,
To pursue more arduous duties.
Chief among rejected honors,
Were, the governor’s dominion
Of Arkansas Territory,
And the trust of foreign missions,
At Peru and at Colombia;
And a place among the jurists
Of the land’s Supreme Tribunal,
Of the great judicial body,
At the nation’s seat of power.
All along his pilgrim journey,
Are the thickly-showered laurels.
Now his days on earth are numbered,
As the sands are gently dropping—
—Fourscore years and four their telling—
Now his mighty brain is resting,
From the pressure of life’s burdens,
May his end be as the twilight
Of a day replete with blessings;
May he fall asleep in Jesus,
With the Father’s welcome plaudit,
“Thou hast been a faithful servant,
Enter into joys of heaven.”[1]
On the soil of Garrard county,
Lived another famous jurist,
Lived John Boyle, another member
Of the Lancaster triumvir,
Of the Letcher, Boyle, and Owsley—
Triune band of legal heroes.
Born at Castle Woods, Virginia,
Seventeen hundred four and seventy
By and by he journeyed westward,
Settling near to Whitley’s Station,
And in seventeen hundred eighty,
Emigrated thence to Garrard,
Where the sun went down upon him,
On his brilliant life of labor,
In eighteen hundred five and thirty.
Educated in the English,
In the Greek and in the Latin,
Taught the strict routine of science,
By the Rev’rend Samuel Finley,
He selected as his mission,
’Mid his striving fellow-creatures,
The career of the lawyer;
And for sixteen years and over,
Stood among the highest jurists,
Was Chief Justice of Kentucky.
He declined a marked preferment,
In the ranks of politicians,
Choosing avenues of labor
Nearer home and happier duties,
Nearer scenes of calm retirement.
His decisions when Chief Justice
Meet the eyes of his successors,
Furnish precept and example,
State Reports, in fifteen vòlumes,
Give the purity and firmness
Of a day when vice and bribery,
Pettifogging and corruption,
Strategy and self-promotion,
Clouded not the patriot’s vision.
Our renowned Judge William Owsley,
Representative and jurist,
Lawyer, legislator, ruler,
Has a record full of glory,
From his youth to his departure
From the stage of human striving.
Boyle and Mills and Owsley, colleagues,
With George Robertson, associate,
In the “Old Court” revolution,
Which endangered brave Kentucky
With dark anarchy and ruin,
Steered the state-craft o’er the breakers,
Stood unshaken ’mid the billows,
Saved the honored Constitution
From fierce partisans and wranglers.
Owsley’s firm administration,
From the bench and bar judicial,
In the governor’s chair of power,
Comes in heraldry unsullied,
On the banner of the contest,
Of the pen and diction contest,
Mightier than the sword of battle.
He reduced the annual bugbear,
The state debt, so long amassing,
And devoted all his efforts
To the Commonwealth’s advantage.
In eighteen hundred two and sixty,
He laid down his useful manhood,
In the dust of lasting greatness,
At his home in Boyle county.
Long his psalm of life be chanted,
Long his earnest work remembered,
Long the sand retain his footprints,
Dust of dust, to earth returning.
R. P. Letcher was a lawyer,
In his native county, Garrard,
In the city of Lancaster,
Till the year of eighteen forty,
When he rose up by election
To the Governor’s high office.
Advocate and bold defender
Of the popular Whig party,
He was prominent in Congress,
In Kentucky Legislature,
Ruled the district of Arkansas,
Went to Mexico in office,
Served at home and foreign stations.
Full of genial, pleasant humor,
Anecdote and social temper,
He left many mourning comrades,
When he ended all his labors
At his residence in Frankfort,
Eighteen hundred one and sixty.
William Jordan Graves, another
Of our citizens illustrious,
Is entitled to position,
In my melody of heroes.
He was lawyer by profession,
Went from Louisville to Congress,
And was actor in a drama,
As romantic as ’twas gloomy.
Mr. Cilley from New England,
Challenged Webb to mortal combat,
Webb, the editor, to fight him,
To atone for printed libel.
Webb declined the doubtful honor
Of becoming human target,
And on Mr. Graves, his second,
Fell the duty of the duel.
His antagonist, a marksman
Of accomplished skill and practice,
Yielding up the choice of weapons,
Whether pistol, dirk, or sabre,
Graves, a novice in the science,
Promptly risked his chance for living,
On the tried Kentucky rifle.
H. A. Wise of old Virginia,
Was the other chosen second,
Formed a member of the party,
Met at dawn in mortal combat.
Cilley fell at Graves’s first fire,
The old rifle did its duty;
And a fellow-man lay rendering
Up the penalty of rashness.
George D. Prentice of the “Journal,”
Louisville editor and punster,
Called the tragical encounter
Very Grave, un Wise, and Cilley.
All the city on the hillside
Was in sympathy united,
And extended cordial welcome
To her wand’ring son and hero,
When he came among his people,
Eighteen hundred nine and thirty.
At the Mason House a dinner
Was prepared to do him honor,
All his comrades will remember
How they met to do him homage.
In eighteen hundred forty-seven,
When the soldiers of the city
Came from Mexico in safety,
Came among us with rejoicing,
A grand barbecue was given
In the wood of Gabriel Salter,
Mr. Graves, the chosen speaker,
On the glorious occasion.
Samuel McKee, the elder,
Was thro’ many years distinguished
For his services as statesman,
Was conspicuous in office,
Was a gifted, brilliant member
Of a family of statesmen,
Of a family of soldiers,
Of superior men of talent.
One of Buena Vista’s heroes,
Lying ’neath the sod at Frankfort,
’Neath the battle shaft of marble,
On Kentucky river’s margin,
Was a son of this great lawyer,—
Colonel William R. McKee, a
Gallant sacrifice to courage.
A. A. Burton’s name now meets us,
On the roll of public servants,
He, a living illustration
Of the might of patient progress.
With a mind of varied talent,
With a keen perceptive power,
With true pride and high ambition,
He endowed his human storehouse,
He provided ample weapons
For the world’s unsafe arena,
For “the bivouac” of fortune.
He was lawyer, Police Judge, and
In Dacotah Territory
Was appointed Judge and ruler.
In Lincoln’s administration,
Was assigned a foreign mission,
At Colombia Republic;
And was sent as Secretary
Of the recent expedition
To the shores of San Domingo.
Other leading men among us,
Have been tendered foreign duty,
Have declined the proffered honors,
Have been popular home magnates.
These celebrities we number
With the country’s highest talent;
They, with lesser lights, illumined
Our ambition’s broad horizon;
These and they, our master spirits,
Our auspicious hillside leaders,
Offspring of the young Lancaster,
Hers by birth or by adoption.
Strong the cord of native friendship,
Firm the bond of common birthright,
Binding close the city’s children,
Linking all her sons together.
Waning moons have well attested,
Moving cycles, borne the triumphs
Of her statesmen and her rulers,
Of her public men and heroes.
Her municipal directors,
Her trustees and regulators,
Her attorneys and her judges.
Her executive comptrollers,
Her ambassadors, electors,
And her delegates intrusted,
Her mechanics and inventors,—
All her thinkers and her actors,
Join in fellowship untarnished,
Stand united in distinction.
[1]Judge Robertson died at his residence in Lexington in July, 1874.
SUPPLEMENT TO CANTO V. 1875.
MISCELLANEOUS DATES.
From stray fragments and traditions,
From authenticated pages,
From all evidence existing,
We transcribe the names of brothers
Who have served our state and county
In divergent fields of labor;
Who have lent their minds and bodies
To the profit of their fellows.
Stubborn facts and dates and figures,
Chime not smoothly in my measure,
Straggling history makes angles,
Which do sharply turn my canto—
Which transform my major canto
Into strains of minor music.
Yet the story must be perfect,
Of the city on the hillside;
Still the awkward miscellany
Must awake my bard to chanting
All the song of fair Lancaster.
’Twas in seventeen hundred eighty,
That there came from old Virginia
To the west, a gifted preacher,
Lewis Craig, a Baptist preacher,
Who became a valiant champion
Of that church in Garrard county.
Gilbert’s Creek, his chosen station,
Was the scene of great revivals,
And his voice proclaimed the Gospel,
Till its tones were hushed forever.
In seventeen hundred nine and ninety,
Nathan Hall, a Presbyterian,
Came to labor for the Master,
In this section of Kentucky.
Nathan Rice was born in Garrard,
A strict follower of Calvin,
In his doctrines of religion;
Was a zealous, constant worker,
In the vineyard of salvation,
In the field of controversy,
As debater and reviewer,
Both as pastor and as author,
Labored hard and labored steady.
The debate on modes of baptism,
Sprinkling, pouring, or immersion,
Held with Alexander Campbell,
Caused unlimited excitement
All throughout the Christian churches,
Made a stir and nine days’ wonder,
Throughout all denominations.
Universalism doctrine,
And the justice of slaveholding,
Formed two other grave discussions
In the great divine’s career.
Dr. Rice is still devoting
His enfeebled voice and gesture
To the Gospel proclamation;
Furrowed brow and locks of silver
Give the glory of religion,
In a portrait true and tender,
Speaking fluent words and holy,
Telling still the “old, old story.”
Every prominent position,
In the gift of flock or pastor,
Has been his to grace and honor,
In the field of Christian labor.
J. L. McKee, D. D., proclaimer
Of the Gospel revelation,
Gathers penitents unnumbered
To the mercy-seat of Jesus,
Gathers multitudes of brothers,
In the strait way of salvation.
Earnest, eloquent and faithful,
Heart and mind and will are ready,
Ready by devoted study,
Ready by Divine assistance,
By the milk of human kindness,
By the grace of gentle warning,
For evangelizing sinners,
For converting souls from error.
Holding Presbyterian tenets,
Orthodox in Scotland’s canons,
He proclaims a dying Saviour,
Points a crucified Redeemer,
Urges love among all brethren,
As his rule of faith and practice,
As his bulwark of dependence,
As the channel of redemption
For rebellious, wayward mortals.
Gifted orator and teacher,
Chastened learner and disciple,
May his thrilling exhortations,
May his zealous admonitions,
Long resound in old Kentucky,
Long reëcho in Lancaster.