CHAPTER III
THE WEST
At the close of the Revolution, the country west of the Alleghanies was still virtually an unbroken wilderness. Boone had pushed forward into Kentucky, drawing a few settlers after him; the trading-posts in the Illinois country, which had been captured by George Rogers Clark, still dragged on a miserable existence; but these were mere pin-points in the great stretches of virgin forest, amid which the first settlers hewed out a home.
THE SETTLER
His echoing axe the settler swung
Amid the sea-like solitude,
And, rushing, thundering, down were flung
The Titans of the wood;
Loud shrieked the eagle, as he dashed
From out his mossy nest, which crashed
With its supporting bough,
And the first sunlight, leaping, flashed
On the wolf's haunt below.
Rude was the garb and strong the frame
Of him who plied his ceaseless toil:
To form that garb the wildwood game
Contributed their spoil;
The soul that warmed that frame disdained
The tinsel, gaud, and glare that reigned
Where men their crowds collect;
The simple fur, untrimmed, unstained,
This forest-tamer decked.
The paths which wound mid gorgeous trees,
The stream whose bright lips kissed their flowers,
The winds that swelled their harmonies
Through those sun-hiding bowers,
The temple vast, the green arcade,
The nestling vale, the grassy glade,
Dark cave, and swampy lair;
These scenes and sounds majestic made
His world, his pleasures, there.
His roof adorned a pleasant spot;
Mid the black logs green glowed the grain,
And herbs and plants the woods knew not
Throve in the sun and rain.
The smoke-wreath curling o'er the dell,
The low, the bleat, the tinkling bell,
All made a landscape strange,
Which was the living chronicle
Of deeds that wrought the change.
The violet sprung at spring's first tinge,
The rose of summer spread its glow,
The maize hung out its autumn fringe,
Rude winter brought his snow;
And still the lone one labored there,
His shout and whistle broke the air,
As cheerily he plied
His garden-spade, or drove his share
Along the hillock's side.
He marked the fire-storm's blazing flood
Roaring and crackling on its path,
And scorching earth, and melting wood,
Beneath its greedy wrath;
He marked the rapid whirlwind shoot,
Trampling the pine-tree with its foot,
And darkening thick the day
With streaming bough and severed root,
Hurled whizzing on its way.
His gaunt hound yelled, his rifle flashed,
The grim bear hushed his savage growl;
In blood and foam the panther gnashed
His fangs, with dying howl;
The fleet deer ceased its flying bound,
Its snarling wolf-foe bit the ground,
And, with its moaning cry,
The beaver sunk beneath the wound
Its pond-built Venice by.
Humble the lot, yet his the race,
When Liberty sent forth her cry,
Who thronged in conflict's deadliest place,
To fight,—to bleed,—to die!
Who cumbered Bunker's height of red,
By hope through weary years were led,
And witnessed Yorktown's sun
Blaze on a nation's banner spread,
A nation's freedom won.
Alfred B. Street.
Danger was ever present—and in its most hideous form. Northwest of the Ohio dwelt the powerful Delawares and Shawanese, ever ready to march against the border settlements and to surprise isolated dwellings. In the incessant warfare against the Indians, the frontier women played no little part.
THE MOTHERS OF THE WEST
The Mothers of our Forest-Land!
Stout-hearted dames were they;
With nerve to wield the battle-brand,
And join the border-fray.
Our rough land had no braver,
In its days of blood and strife—
Aye ready for severest toil,
Aye free to peril life.
The Mothers of our Forest-Land!
On old Kan-tuc-kee's soil,
How shared they, with each dauntless band,
War's tempest and Life's toil!
They shrank not from the foeman,—
They quailed not in the fight,—
But cheered their husbands through the day,
And soothed them through the night.
The Mothers of our Forest-Land!
Their bosoms pillowed men!
And proud were they by such to stand,
In hammock, fort, or glen.
To load the sure old rifle,—
To run the leaden ball,—
To watch a battling husband's place,
And fill it should he fall.
The Mothers of our Forest-Land!
Such were their daily deeds.
Their monument!—where does it stand?
Their epitaph!—who reads?
No braver dames had Sparta,
No nobler matrons Rome,—
Yet who or lauds or honors them,
E'en in their own green home!
The Mothers of our Forest-Land!
They sleep in unknown graves:
And had they borne and nursed a band
Of ingrates, or of slaves,
They had not been more neglected!
But their graves shall yet be found,
And their monuments dot here and there
"The Dark and Bloody Ground."
William D. Gallagher.
In 1784 Virginia ceded to the national government her claim to the lands west of the mountains. New York, Massachusetts, and Connecticut soon followed suit, and the tide of emigration to the West set in with steady and ever-increasing volume.
ON THE EMIGRATION TO AMERICA AND PEOPLING THE WESTERN COUNTRY
[1784]
To western woods and lonely plains,
Palemon from the crowd departs,
Where Nature's wildest genius reigns,
To tame the soil, and plant the arts—
What wonders there shall freedom show,
What mighty states successive grow!
From Europe's proud, despotic shores
Hither the stranger takes his way,
And in our new-found world explores
A happier soil, a milder sway,
Where no proud despot holds him down,
No slaves insult him with a crown.
What charming scenes attract the eye,
On wild Ohio's savage stream!
There Nature reigns, whose works outvie
The boldest pattern art can frame;
There ages past have rolled away,
And forests bloomed but to decay.
From these fair plains, these rural seats,
So long concealed, so lately known,
The unsocial Indian far retreats,
To make some other clime his own,
Where other streams, less pleasing, flow,
And darker forests round him grow.
Great Sire of floods! whose varied wave
Through climes and countries takes its way,
To whom creating Nature gave
Ten thousand streams to swell thy sway!
No longer shall they useless prove,
Nor idly through the forests rove;
Nor longer shall your princely flood
From distant lakes be swelled in vain,
Nor longer through a darksome wood
Advance unnoticed to the main;
Far other ends the heavens decree—
And commerce plans new freights for thee.
While virtue warms the generous breast,
There heaven-born freedom shall reside,
Nor shall the voice of war molest,
Nor Europe's all-aspiring pride—
There Reason shall new laws devise,
And order from confusion rise.
Forsaking kings and regal state,
With all their pomp and fancied bliss,
The traveller owns, convinced though late,
No realm so free, so blest as this—
The east is half to slaves consigned,
Where kings and priests enchain the mind.
O come the time, and haste the day,
When man shall man no longer crush,
When Reason shall enforce her sway,
Nor these fair regions raise our blush,
Where still the African complains,
And mourns his yet unbroken chains.
Far brighter scenes a future age,
The muse predicts, these States will hail,
Whose genius may the world engage,
Whose deeds may over death prevail,
And happier systems bring to view
Than all the eastern sages knew.
Philip Freneau.
In 1788 Marietta was founded at the mouth of the Muskingum by the Ohio Company, which had bought a great tract of land extending to the Scioto. Later in the same year, Matthias Denman, Robert Patterson, and John Filson laid out the town of Losantiville, now Cincinnati. Filson had been a schoolmaster and was responsible for the strange name, which he thought indicated that the town was opposite the mouth of the Licking. He was soon afterwards killed by the Indians while on an exploring expedition.
JOHN FILSON
[1788]
John Filson was a pedagogue—
A pioneer was he;
I know not what his nation was,
Nor what his pedigree.
Tradition's scanty records tell
But little of the man,
Save that he to the frontier came
In immigration's van.
Perhaps with phantoms of reform
His busy fancy teemed,
Perhaps of new Utopias
Hesperian he dreamed.
John Filson and companions bold
A frontier village planned,
In forest wild, on sloping hills,
By fair Ohio's strand.
John Filson from three languages
With pedant skill did frame
The novel word Losantiville
To be the new town's name.
Said Filson: "Comrades, hear my words:
Ere threescore years have flown
Our town will be a city vast."
Loud laughed Bob Patterson.
Still John exclaimed, with prophet-tongue,
"A city fair and proud,
The Queen of Cities in the West!"
Mat Denman laughed aloud.
Deep in the wild and solemn woods
Unknown to white man's track,
John Filson went, one autumn day,
But nevermore came back.
He struggled through the solitude
The inland to explore,
And with romantic pleasure traced
Miami's winding shore.
Across his path the startled deer
Bounds to its shelter green;
He enters every lonely vale
And cavernous ravine.
Too soon the murky twilight comes,
The boding night-winds moan;
Bewildered wanders Filson, lost,
Exhausted, and alone.
By lurking foes his steps are dogged,
A yell his ear appalls!
A ghastly corpse, upon the ground,
A murdered man, he falls.
The Indian, with instinctive hate,
In him a herald saw
Of coming hosts of pioneers,
The friends of light and law;
In him beheld the champion
Of industries and arts,
The founder of encroaching roads
And great commercial marts;
The spoiler of the hunting-ground,
The plougher of the sod,
The builder of the Christian school
And of the house of God.
And so the vengeful tomahawk
John Filson's blood did spill,—
The spirit of the pedagogue
No tomahawk could kill.
John Filson had no sepulchre,
Except the wildwood dim;
The mournful voices of the air
Made requiem for him.
The druid trees their waving arms
Uplifted o'er his head;
The moon a pallid veil of light
Upon his visage spread.
The rain and sun of many years
Have worn his bones away,
And what he vaguely prophesied
We realize to-day.
Losantiville, the prophet's word,
The poet's hope fulfils,—
She sits a stately Queen to-day
Amid her royal hills!
Then come, ye pedagogues, and join
To sing a grateful lay
For him, the martyr pioneer,
Who led for you the way.
And may my simple ballad be
A monument to save
His name from blank oblivion,
Who never had a grave.
William Henry Venable.
These pioneers found the land northwest of the Ohio remarkably fertile; but it was the hunting-ground of the warlike Delawares and Shawanese, and the man who attempted to settle there took his life in his hands. In the fall of 1791, a large force was collected at Cincinnati, under General Arthur St. Clair, and marched against the Indians. On the morning of November 4, the Americans were surprised near the Miami villages, and routed, with great loss. A ballad describing the defeat was written soon afterwards, and achieved a wide popularity.
SAINCLAIRE'S DEFEAT
[November 4, 1791]
'Twas November the fourth, in the year of ninety-one,
We had a sore engagement near to Fort Jefferson;
Sainclaire was our commander, which may remembered be,
For there we left nine hundred men in t' West'n Ter'tory.
At Bunker's Hill and Quebeck, there many a hero fell,
Likewise at Long Island (it is I the truth can tell),
But such a dreadful carnage may I never see again
As hap'ned near St. Mary's, upon the river plain.
Our army was attacked just as the day did dawn,
And soon was overpowered and driven from the lawn.
They killed Major Ouldham, Levin and Briggs likewise,
And horrid yells of savages resounded through the skies.
Major Butler was wounded the very second fire;
His manly bosom swell'd with rage when forc'd to retire;
And as he lay in anguish, nor scarcely could he see,
Exclaim'd, "Ye hounds of hell! Oh, revenged I will be!"
We had not been long broken when General Butler found
Himself so badly wounded, was forced to quit the ground;
"My God!" says he, "what shall we do? we're wounded every man;
Go charge them, valiant heroes, and beat them if you can."
He leaned his back against a tree, and there resigned his breath,
And like a valiant soldier sunk in the arms of death;
When blessed angels did await his spirit to convey,
And unto the celestial fields he quickly bent his way.
We charg'd again with courage firm, but soon again gave ground;
The war-whoop then redoubled, as did the foes around.
They killed Major Ferguson, which caused his men to cry,
"Our only safety is in flight, or fighting here to die."
"Stand to your guns," says valiant Ford; "let's die upon them here,
Before we let the sav'ges know we ever harbored fear!"
Our cannon-balls exhausted, and artill'ry-men all slain,
Obliged were our musketmen the enemy to sustain.
Yet three hours more we fought them, and then were forc'd to yield,
When three hundred warriors lay stretched upon the field.
Says Colonel Gibson to his men, "My boys, be not dismayed;
I'm sure that true Virginians were never yet afraid.
"Ten thousand deaths I'd rather die than they should gain the field!"
With that he got a fatal shot, which causèd him to yield.
Says Major Clarke, "My heroes, I can here no longer stand;
We'll strive to form in order, and retreat the best we can."
The word "Retreat!" being passed around, there was a dismal cry,
Then helter-skelter through the woods like wolves and sheep they fly.
This well-appointed army, who but a day before
Defied and braved all danger, had like a cloud passed o'er.
Alas, the dying and wounded, how dreadful was the thought!
To the tomahawk and scalping-knife in misery are brought.
Some had a thigh and some an arm broke on the field that day,
Who writhed in torments at the stake to close the dire affray.
To mention our brave officers, is what I wish to do;
No sons of Mars e'er fought more brave, or with more courage true.
To Captain Bradford I belonged, in his artillery,
He fell that day amongst the slain, a valiant man was he.
After this victory, the Indians grew bolder than ever, and attacks on the border settlements were increasingly frequent. More than one family was saved from surprise and death by a queer character known as Johnny Appleseed, who travelled through the wilderness planting apple-seeds which in time grew into valuable orchards. The Indians thought him mad and would not harm him.
JOHNNY APPLESEED
A BALLAD OF THE OLD NORTHWEST
A midnight cry appalls the gloom,
The puncheon door is shaken:
"Awake! arouse! and flee the doom!
Man, woman, child, awaken!
"Your sky shall glow with fiery beams
Before the morn breaks ruddy!
The scalpknife in the moonlight gleams,
Athirst for vengeance bloody!"
Alarumed by the dreadful word
Some warning tongue thus utters,
The settler's wife, like mother bird,
About her young ones flutters.
Her first-born, rustling from a soft
Leaf-couch, the roof close under,
Glides down the ladder from the loft,
With eyes of dreamy wonder.
The pioneer flings open wide
The cabin door, naught fearing;
The grim woods drowse on every side,
Around the lonely clearing.
"Come in! come in! nor like an owl
Thus hoot your doleful humors;
What fiend possesses you to howl
Such crazy, coward rumors?"
The herald strode into the room;
That moment, through the ashes,
The back-log struggled into bloom
Of gold and crimson flashes.
The glimmer lighted up a face,
And o'er a figure dartled,
So eerie, of so solemn grace,
The bluff backwoodsman startled.
The brow was gathered to a frown,
The eyes were strangely glowing,
And, like a snow-fall drifting down,
The stormy beard went flowing.
The tattered cloak that round him clung
Had warred with foulest weather;
Across his shoulders broad were flung
Brown saddlebags of leather.
One pouch with hoarded seed was packed,
From Penn-land cider-presses;
The other garnered book and tract
Within its creased recesses.
A glance disdainful and austere,
Contemptuous of danger,
Cast he upon the pioneer,
Then spake the uncouth stranger:
"Heed what the Lord's anointed saith;
Hear one who would deliver
Your bodies and your souls from death;
List ye to John the Giver.
"Thou trustful boy, in spirit wise
Beyond thy father's measure,
Because of thy believing eyes
I share with thee my treasure.
"Of precious seed this handful take;
Take next this Bible Holy:
In good soil sow both gifts, for sake
Of Him, the meek and lowly.
"Farewell! I go!—the forest calls
My life to ceaseless labors;
Wherever danger's shadow falls
I fly to save my neighbors.
"I save; I neither curse nor slay;
I am a voice that crieth
In night and wilderness. Away!
Whoever doubteth, dieth!"
The prophet vanished in the night,
Like some fleet ghost belated:
Then, awe-struck, fled with panic fright
The household, evil-fated.
They hurried on with stumbling feet,
Foreboding ambuscado;
Bewildered hope told of retreat
In frontier palisado.
But ere a mile of tangled maze
Their bleeding hands had broken,
Their home-roof set the dark ablaze,
Fulfilling doom forespoken.
The savage death-whoop rent the air!
A howl of rage infernal!
The fugitives were in Thy care,
Almighty Power eternal!
Unscathed by tomahawk or knife,
In bosky dingle nested,
The hunted pioneer, with wife
And babes, hid unmolested.
The lad, when age his locks of gold
Had changed to silver glory,
Told grandchildren, as I have told,
This western wildwood story.
Told how the fertile seeds had grown
To famous trees, and thriven;
And oft the Sacred Book was shown,
By that weird Pilgrim given.
Remember Johnny Appleseed,
All ye who love the apple;
He served his kind by Word and Deed,
In God's grand greenwood chapel.
William Henry Venable.
On August 20, 1794, General Anthony Wayne defeated the Indians on the Maumee and compelled them to sue for peace. At Greenville, in the following year, they ceded 25,000 square miles to the Americans, and settlers flocked into the fertile country thrown open to them.
THE FOUNDERS OF OHIO
The footsteps of a hundred years
Have echoed, since o'er Braddock's Road
Bold Putnam and the Pioneers
Led History the way they strode.
On wild Monongahela stream
They launched the Mayflower of the West,
A perfect State their civic dream,
A new New World their pilgrim quest.
When April robed the Buckeye trees
Muskingum's bosky shore they trod;
They pitched their tents, and to the breeze
Flung freedom's star-flag, thanking God.
As glides the [Oyo]'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 dates
On votive stone, the prey of time;—
Behold where monumental States
Immortalize 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.
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 isle
That ever gemmed a river; and its smile,
Of summer green and freedom, on his heart
Fell, like the light of Paradise. Apart
It lay, remote and wild; and in his breast
He fancied this an island of the blest;
And here he deemed the world might never mar
The tranquil air with its molesting jar.
Long had his soul, among the strife of men,
Gone out and fought, and fighting, failed; and then
Withdrew into itself: as when some fount
Finds space within, and will no longer mount,
Content to hear its own secluded waves
Make lonely music in the new-found caves.
And here he brought his household; here his wife,
As happy as her children, round his life
Sang as she were an echo, or a part
Of the deep pleasure springing in his heart—
A silken string which with the heavier cord
Made 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 hymns
Round rippling shores. Here would the first birds throng,
In early spring-time, and their latest song
Was 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 flee
On 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 consumed
By envious Time; as if he crowned the brow
With loveliest flowers, before he gave the blow
Which 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 won
To list his plans, with glowing words o'errun:
And Blennerhassett hearkened as he planned.
Far in the South there was a glorious land
Crowned with perpetual flowers, and where repute
Pictured the gold more plenteous than the fruit—
The Persia of the West. There would he steer
His conquering course; and o'er the bright land rear
His far-usurping banner, till his home
Should rest beneath a wide, imperial dome,
Where License, round his thronèd feet, should whirl
Her dizzy mazes like an Orient girl.
His followers should be lords; their ladies each
Wear 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 then
Came 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 sport
The 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 woods
Had 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 fell
Like 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 prize
Flame 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 hall
The 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 stars
And moon look in as through dull prison bars.
On yonder gable, through the nightly dark,
The owl replies unto the dreary bark
Of lonely fox, beside the grass-grown sill;
And here, on summer eves, the whip-poor-will
Exalts her voice, and to the traveller's ear
Proclaims 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."
THE BATTLE OF MUSKINGUM
OR, THE DEFEAT OF THE BURRITES
[November 30, 1806]
Ye jovial throng, come join the song
I 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.
When [Blanny]'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 brave] the 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 sees
Or 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 retire
And say when I am ready."
[The Deputy] courageously
Rode forth in power and pride, sirs;
Twitching his reins, the man of brains
Was posted by his side, sirs.
The men in ranks stood on the banks,
While, distant from its border,
The active aid scours the parade
And gives the general order:
"First, at command, bid them to stand;
Then, if one rascal gains out
Or lifts his poll, why, damn his soul
And blow the traitor's brains out."
The night was dark, silent came Clark
With twelve or fifteen more, sirs;
While Paddy Hill, with voice most shrill,
Whooped! as was said before, sirs.
The trembling ranks along the banks
Fly into Shipman's manger;
While old Clark Green, with voice serene,
Cried, "Soldiers, there's no danger.
"Our guns, good souls, are setting-poles,
Dead hogs 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 float
And 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 gorge
On 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 ghosts
For fear he'll walk on waters."
No more was said, but off they sped
To 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 horse
To 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'ner] swore the western shore
He 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 man
To 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.
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 form
Seems 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 defined
The fault of godlike hearts alone,
Like fortune in her frenzy, blind,
Here gives a prison, there a 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.
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; all
Must now be won, or must be lost;
Ply briskly, bayonet, sword, and ball."
Thus spake the general; when a yell
Was 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 eye
Aurora's beam. The coming day
Shall 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 yield
To 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 speed
Could 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 West
Triumphant wing was seen to wave!
And now each soldier's manly breast
Sigh'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'd
For 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 air
No 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 night
Hid 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 seen
Cover'd o'er with the blood of the savage, extended.
Though Freedom may weep
Where 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 secure
That his fame shall endure
Till 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.
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 she
On the grassy plains of Dakota in the land of the Minnetaree;
But she heard the west wind calling, and longed to follow the sun
Back 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 dim
While 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.
ON THE DISCOVERIES OF CAPTAIN LEWIS
[January 14, 1807]
Let the Nile cloak his head in the clouds, and defy
The 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 domain
Defraud 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 felt
Half 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 band
Conform 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 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.
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.
WHITMAN'S RIDE FOR OREGON
[October, 1842-March 3, 1843]
I
"An empire to be lost or won!"
And who four thousand miles will ride
And 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 air
I raised the flag, and saw below
The 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 heaven
I'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 I
Have 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."
V
He 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 reeled
Upon some dizzy crag, and gazed
Down cloudy chasms, falling storms,
While higher yet the peaks upraised
Against 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 mail
Of ice, like Alpine knights of old:
Still on, and on, forgetful on,
Till far behind lay Walla-Walla,
And far the fields of Oregon.
VI
The winter deepened, sharper grew
The 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 he
Was in the wildering mazes lost.
He dropped the rein, his stiffened hand
Was 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."
VII
And on and on the dumb beast pressed,
Uncertain, and without a guide,
And found the mountain's curves of rest
And sheltered ways of the Divide.
His feet grew firm, he found the way
With storm-beat limbs and frozen breath,
As keen his instincts to obey
As 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.
VIII
That spring, a man with frozen feet
Came to the marble halls of State,
And told his mission but to meet
The chill of scorn, the scoff of hate.
"Is Oregon worth saving?" asked
The 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 braved
The 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.
IX
At fair Walla-Walla one may see
The city of the Western North,
And near it graves unmarked there be
That cover souls of royal worth.
The flag waves o'er them in the sky
Beneath whose stars are cities born,
And round them mountain-castled lie
The 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.
DISCOVERY OF SAN FRANCISCO BAY
[October 31, 1769]
[Good Junipero], the Padre,
Slowly read the King's commands,
In relation to the missions
To be built in heathen lands.
And he said: "The good Saint Francis
Surely has some little claim,
Yet I find that here no mission
Is assigned unto his name."
Then the [Visitador] answered:
"If the holy Francis care
For a mission to his honor,
Surely he will lead you there;
And it may be by the harbor
That the Indian legends say
Lies by greenest hills surrounded
To the north of Monterey."
Spoke Junipero the Padre:
"It is not for me to tell
Of the truth of Indian legends,
Yet of this I know full well—
If there be such hidden harbor,
And our hope and trust we place
In the care of good Saint Francis,
He will guide us to the place."
Soon, the Governor Portala
Started northward, on his way
Overland, to rediscover
The lost port of Monterey.
Since the time within its waters
[Viscaino] anchor cast,
It remained unknown to Spaniards,
Though a century had passed.
On his journey went Portala
With his band of pioneers,
Padres, Indian guides, and soldiers,
And a train of muleteers;
And said Serra, as he blessed them,
As he wished them all Godspeed:
"Trust Saint Francis—he will guide you
In your direst hour of need."
On his journey went Portala
Till he reached the crescent bay;
But he dreamed not he was gazing
On the wished-for Monterey.
So a cross on shore he planted,
And the ground about he blessed,
And then he and his companions
Northward went upon their quest.
On his journey went Portala,
And his army northward on,
And methinks I see them marching,
Or in camp when day was done;
Or at night when stars were twinkling,
As that travel-weary band
By the log-fire's light would gather,
Telling of their far-off land.
And they told weird Indian legends,
Tales of Cortes, too, they told,
And of peaceful reign of Incas,
And of Montezuma's gold;
And they sang, as weary exiles
Sing of home and vanished years,
Sweet, heart-treasured songs that always
Bring the dumb applause of tears.
When the day was sunk in ocean,
And the land around was dim,
On the tranquil air of midnight
Rose the sweet Franciscan hymn;
And when bugle told the dawning,
And the matin prayers were done,
On his journey went Portala,
And his army northward on.
Far away they saw sierras,
Clothed with an eternal spring,
While at times the mighty ocean
In their path her spray would fling;
On amid such scenes they journeyed,
Through the dreary wastes of sand,
Through ravines dark, deep, and narrow,
And through cañons wild and grand.
And with what a thrill of pleasure,
All their toils and dangers through,
Gazed they on this scene of beauty
When it burst upon their view,
As Portala and his army,
Standing where I stand to-day,
Saw before them spread in beauty
Green-clad hills and noble bay.
Then the Governor Portala
Broke the spell of silence thus:
"To this place, through Padre Serra,
Hath Saint Francis guided us;
So the bay and all around it
For the Spanish King I claim,
And forever, in the future,
Let it bear Saint Francis' name."
Thus he spoke, and I am standing
On the self-same spot to-day,
And my eyes rest on the landscape,
And the green hills, and the bay,
And upon Saint Francis' city,
As, with youth and hope elate,
She is gazing toward the ocean,
Sitting by the Golden Gate.
Needless were such gifts as heaven
Gave to holy seers of yore,
To foretell the meed of glory,
Fairest town, for thee in store!
To foretell the seat of empire
Here will be, nor for a day,
Where Balboa's sea doth mingle
With the waters of thy bay!
Richard Edward White.
In 1822 California became a province of Mexico, and in 1844 Colonel John Charles Frémont reached Sutter's Fort with an exploring expedition. Two years later, during the war with Mexico, he assumed command of the American forces in the country, and established the authority of the United States there.
JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT
Pathfinder—and Path-clincher!
Who blazed the way, indeed,
But more—who made the eternal Fact
Whereto a path had need;
Who, while our Websters set at naught
The thing that Was to Be,
Whipped-out our halting, half-way map
Full to the Other Sea!
'Twas well that there were some could read
The logic of the West!
A Kansas-edged geography,
Of provinces confessed,
Became potential Union
And took a Nation's span
When God sent Opportunity
And Benton found the Man!
Charles F. Lummis.
In 1848 California was ceded to the United States by Mexico. In the same year gold was discovered near Coloma, and within a few months the famous rush for the new El Dorado began.
You are looking now on old Tom Moore,
A relic of bygone days;
A Bummer, too, they call me now,
But what care I for praise?
For my heart is filled with the days of yore,
And oft I do repine
For the Days of Old, and the Days of Gold,
And the Days of 'Forty-nine.
Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
I had comrades then who loved me well,
A jovial, saucy crew:
There were some hard cases, I must confess,
But they all were brave and true;
Who would never flinch, whate'er the pinch,
Who never would fret nor whine,
But like good old Bricks they stood the kicks
In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.
Refrain—And my heart is filled, etc.
There was Monte Pete—I'll ne'er forget
The luck he always had.
He would deal for you both day and night,
So long as you had a scad.
He would play you Draw, he would Ante sling,
He would go you a hatfull Blind—
But in a game with Death Pete lost his breath
In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.
Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
There was New York Jake, a butcher boy,
That was always a-getting tight;
Whenever Jake got on a spree,
He was spoiling for a fight.
One day he ran against a knife
In the hands of old Bob Cline—
So over Jake we held a wake,
In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.
Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
There was Rackensack Jim, who could out-roar
A Buffalo Bull, you bet!
He would roar all night, he would roar all day,
And I b'lieve he's a-roaring yet!
One night he fell in a prospect-hole—
'Twas a roaring bad design—
For in that hole he roared out his soul
In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.
Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
There was Poor Lame Ches, a hard old case
Who never did repent.
Ches never missed a single meal,
Nor he never paid a cent.
But Poor Lame Ches, like all the rest,
Did to death at last resign,
For all in his bloom he went up the Flume
In the Days of 'Forty-Nine.
Refrain—Oh, my heart is filled, etc.
And now my comrades all are gone,
Not one remains to toast;
They have left me here in my misery,
Like some poor wandering ghost.
And as I go from place to place,
Folks call me a "Travelling Sign,"
Saying "There goes Tom Moore, a Bummer, sure,
From the Days of 'Forty-Nine."
Refrain—But my heart is filled, etc.
Most of the emigrants crossed the plains, encountering dangers and hardships innumerable. The trails were soon marked by the skeletons of horses and oxen, and by the graves of those who had perished from hardship or been butchered by the Indians.
THE OLD SANTA FÉ TRAIL
It wound through strange scarred hills, down cañons lone
Where wild things screamed, with winds for company;
Its mile-stones were the bones of pioneers.
Bronzed, haggard men, often with thirst a-moan,
Lashed on their beasts of burden toward the sea:
An epic quest it was of elder years,
For fabled gardens or for good, red gold,
The trail men strove in iron days of old.
To-day the steam-god thunders through the vast,
While dominant Saxons from the hurtling trains
Smile at the aliens, Mexic, Indian,
Who offer wares, keen-colored, like their past;
Dread dramas of immitigable plains
Rebuke the softness of the modern man;
No menace, now, the desert's mood of sand;
Still westward lies a green and golden land.
For, at the magic touch of water, blooms
The wilderness, and where of yore the yoke
Tortured the toilers into dateless tombs,
Lo! brightsome fruits to feed a mighty folk.
Richard Burton.
The importance of the new country grew so rapidly that on September 9, 1850, California was admitted to the Union, the thirty-first state.
CALIFORNIA
[September 9, 1850]
Land of gold!—thy sisters greet thee,
O'er the mountain and the main;
See,—they stretch the hand to meet thee,
Youngest of our household train.
Many a form their love hath fostered
Lingers 'neath thy sunny sky,
And their spirit-tokens brighten
Every link of sympathy.
We 'mid storms of war were cradled,
'Mid the shock of angry foes;
Thou, with sudden, dreamlike splendor,
Pallas-born,—in vigor rose.
Children of one common country,
Strong in friendship let us stand,
With united ardor earning
Glory for our Mother Land.
They of gold and they of iron,
They who reap the bearded wheat,
They who rear the snowy cotton,
Pour their treasures at her feet;
While with smiling exultation,
She, who marks their filial part,
Like the mother of the Gracchi,
Folds her jewels to her heart.
Lydia Huntley Sigourney.