And so the vengeful tomahawk
John Filson’s blood did spill,—
The spirit of the pedagogue
No tomahawk could kill.
John Filson had no sepulcher,
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 today.
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.
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!”