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.