PART III THE PERIOD OF GROWTH

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"OH MOTHER OF A MIGHTY RACE"

Oh mother of a mighty race,
Yet lovely in thy youthful grace!
The elder dames, thy haughty peers,
Admire and hate thy blooming years.
With words of shame
And taunts of scorn they join thy name.
For on thy cheeks the glow is spread
That tints thy morning hills with red;
Thy step—the wild deer's rustling feet
Within thy woods are not more fleet;
Thy hopeful eye
Is bright as thine own sunny sky.
Ay, let them rail—those haughty ones,
While safe thou dwellest with thy sons.
They do not know how loved thou art,
How many a fond and fearless heart
Would rise to throw
Its life between thee and the foe.
They know not, in their hate and pride,
What virtues with thy children bide;
How true, how good, thy graceful maids
Make bright, like flowers, the valley-shades;
What generous men
Spring, like thine oaks, by hill and glen;—
What cordial welcomes greet the guest
By thy lone rivers of the West;
How faith is kept, and truth revered,
And man is loved, and God is feared,
In woodland homes,
And where the ocean border foams.
There's freedom at thy gates and rest
For earth's down-trodden and opprest,
A shelter for the hunted head,
For the starved laborer toil and bread.
Power, at thy bounds,
Stops and calls back his baffled hounds.
Oh, fair young mother! on thy brow
Shall sit a nobler grace than now.
Deep in the brightness of the skies
The thronging years in glory rise,
And, as they fleet,
Drop strength and riches at thy feet.
William Cullen Bryant.

CHAPTER I

THE NEW NATION

The war was ended, but the five years following 1783 were perhaps the most critical in the history of the American people. The country was at the verge of bankruptcy, there was discontent everywhere. In Massachusetts, the malcontents found a leader in Daniel Shays, rose in rebellion, looted the country, and were not dispersed for nearly a year.

A RADICAL SONG OF 1786

Huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay;
Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons, and Day;
Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause;
Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws:
Constitutions and oaths, sir, we mind not a rush;
Such trifles must yield to us lads of the bush.
New laws and new charters our books shall display,
Composed by conventions and Counsellor Grey.
Since Boston and Salem so haughty have grown,
We'll make them to know we can let them alone.
Of Glasgow or Pelham we'll make a seaport,
And there we'll assemble our General Court:
Our governor, now, boys, shall turn out to work,
And live, like ourselves, on molasses and pork;
In Adams or Greenwich he'll live like a peer
On three hundred pounds, paper money, a year.
Grand jurors, and sheriffs, and lawyers we'll spurn,
As judges, we'll all take the bench in our turn,
And sit the whole term, without pension or fee,
Nor Cushing nor Sewal look graver than we.
Our wigs, though they're rusty, are decent enough;
Our aprons, though black, are of durable stuff;
Array'd in such gear, the laws we'll explain,
That poor people no more shall have cause to complain.
To Congress and impost we'll plead a release;
The French we can beat half-a-dozen apiece;
We want not their guineas, their arms, or alliance;
And as for the Dutchmen, we bid them defiance.
Then huzza, my Jo Bunkers! no taxes we'll pay;
Here's a pardon for Wheeler, Shays, Parsons and Day;
Put green boughs in your hats, and renew the old cause;
Stop the courts in each county, and bully the laws.
St. John Honeywood.

A federal convention was proposed, and in May, 1787, there assembled at Philadelphia fifty-five men appointed by the various states to devise an adequate constitution for a federal government.

THE FEDERAL CONVENTION

[May, 1787]

Concentred here th' united wisdom shines,
Of learn'd judges, and of sound divines:
Patriots, whose virtues searching time has tried,
Heroes, who fought, where brother heroes died;
Lawyers, who speak, as Tully spoke before,
Sages, deep read in philosophic lore;
Merchants, whose plans are to no realms confin'd,
Farmers—the noblest title 'mongst mankind:
Yeomen and tradesmen, pillars of the state;
On whose decision hangs Columbia's fate.
September, 1787.

George Washington was chosen president of the convention; the doors were locked, and the Herculean task of making a constitution begun. Washington himself, in a burst of noble eloquence, braced the delegates for the task before them. The problem was to devise a government which should bind all the states without impairing their sovereignty.

TO THE FEDERAL CONVENTION

[1787]

Be then your counsels, as your subject, great,
A world their sphere, and time's long reign their date.
Each party-view, each private good, disclaim,
Each petty maxim, each colonial aim;
Let all Columbia's weal your views expand,
A mighty system rule a mighty land;
Yourselves her genuine sons let Europe own,
Not the small agents of a paltry town.
Learn, cautious, what to alter, where to mend;
See to what close projected measures tend.
From pressing wants the mind averting still,
Thinks good remotest from the present ill:
From feuds anarchial to oppression's throne,
Misguided nations hence for safety run;
And through the miseries of a thousand years,
Their fatal folly mourn in bloody tears.
Ten thousand follies thro' Columbia spread;
Ten thousand wars her darling realms invade.
The private interest of each jealous state;
Of rule th' impatience and of law the hate.
But ah! from narrow springs these evils flow,
A few base wretches mingle general woe;
Still the same mind her manly race pervades;
Still the same virtues haunt the hallow'd shades.
But when the peals of war her centre shook,
All private aims the anxious mind forsook.
In danger's iron-bond her race was one,
Each separate good, each little view unknown.
Now rule, unsystem'd, drives the mind astray;
Now private interest points the downward way:
Hence civil discord pours her muddy stream,
And fools and villains float upon the brim;
O'er all, the sad spectator casts his eye,
And wonders where the gems and minerals lie.
But ne'er of freedom, glory, bliss, despond:
Uplift your eyes those little clouds beyond;
See there returning suns, with gladdening ray,
Roll on fair spring to chase this wint'ry day.
'Tis yours to bid those days of Eden shine:
First, then, and last, the federal bands entwine:
To this your every aim and effort bend:
Let all your efforts here commence and end.
O'er state concerns, let every state preside;
Its private tax controul; its justice guide;
Religion aid; the morals to secure;
And bid each private right thro' time endure.
Columbia's interests public sway demand,
Her commerce, impost, unlocated land;
Her war, her peace, her military power;
Treaties to seal with every distant shore;
To bid contending states their discord cease;
To send thro' all the calumet of peace;
Science to wing thro' every noble flight;
And lift desponding genius into light.
Be then your task to alter, aid, amend;
The weak to strengthen, and the rigid bend;
The prurient lop; what's wanted to supply;
And grant new scions from each friendly sky.
Timothy Dwight.

There was a natural antagonism between large and small states, and more than once the convention was on the verge of dissolution; but a compromise was finally reached, the constitution as we know it was evolved and signed by all the delegates, and on September 17, 1787, the convention adjourned. The constitution was familiarly styled the "new roof."

THE NEW ROOF

A SONG FOR FEDERAL MECHANICS

[1787]


I
Come muster, my lads, your mechanical tools,
Your saws and your axes, your hammers and rules;
Bring your mallets and planes, your level and line,
And plenty of pins of American pine:
For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,
Our government firm, and our citizens free.

II
Come, up with the plates, lay them firm on the wall,
Like the people at large, they're the groundwork of all;
Examine them well, and see that they're sound,
Let no rotten part in our building be found:
For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be
A government firm, and our citizens free.


III
Now hand up the girders, lay each in his place,
Between them the joists, must divide all the space;
Like assemblymen these should lie level along,
Like girders, our senate prove loyal and strong:
For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be
A government firm over citizens free.

IV
The rafters now frame; your king-posts and braces,
And drive your pins home, to keep all in their places;
Let wisdom and strength in the fabric combine,
And your pins be all made of American pine:
For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,
A government firm over citizens free.

V
Our king-posts are judges; how upright they stand,
Supporting the braces; the laws of the land:
The laws of the land, which divide right from wrong,
And strengthen the weak, by weak'ning the strong:
For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,
Laws equal and just, for a people that's free.

VI
Up! up! with the rafters; each frame is a state:
How nobly they rise! their span, too, how great!
From the north to the south, o'er the whole they extend,
And rest on the walls, whilst the walls they defend:
For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be
Combined in strength, yet as citizens free.

VII
Now enter the purlins, and drive your pins through;
And see that your joints are drawn home and all true.
The purlins will bind all the rafters together:
The strength of the whole shall defy wind and weather:
For our roof we will raise, and our song still shall be,
United as states, but as citizens free.

VIII
Come, raise up the turret; our glory and pride;
In the centre it stands, o'er the whole to preside:
The sons of Columbia shall view with delight
Its pillars, and arches, and towering height:
Our roof is now rais'd, and our song still shall be,
A federal head o'er a people that's free.

IX
Huzza! my brave boys, our work is complete;
The world shall admire Columbia's fair seat;
Its strength against tempest and time shall be proof,
And thousands shall come to dwell under our roof:
Whilst we drain the deep bowl, our toast still shall be,
Our government firm, and our citizens free.
Francis Hopkinson.

The new constitution had still to be submitted to the several states for ratification. One after another they fell into line, but Massachusetts held back. On January 9, 1788, the convention met, and week after week dragged by in fierce debate; but finally, on February 6, 1788, the Constitution was ratified by a majority of nineteen votes.

CONVENTION SONG

[February 6, 1788]

Hot battles were still to be fought in some of the other states,—hottest of all in New York,—but by midsummer of 1788 all the states had ratified the Constitution, and it stood an accomplished fact.

THE FEDERAL CONSTITUTION

Poets may sing of their Helicon streams;
Their gods and their heroes are fabulous dreams!
They ne'er sang a line
Half so grand, so divine
As the glorious toast
We Columbians boast—
The Federal Constitution, boys, and Liberty forever.
The man of our choice presides at the helm;
No tempest can harm us, no storm overwhelm;
Our sheet anchor's sure,
And our bark rides secure;
So here's to the toast
We Columbians boast—
The Federal Constitution and the President forever.
A free navigation, commerce, and trade,
We'll seek for no foe, of no foe be afraid;
Our frigates shall ride,
Our defence and our pride;
Our tars guard our coast,
And huzza for our toast—
The Federal Constitution, trade and commerce forever.
Montgomery and Warren still live in our songs;
Like them our young heroes shall spurn at our wrongs:
The world shall admire
The zeal and the fire,
Which blaze in the toast
We Columbians boast—
The Federal Constitution and its advocates forever.
When an enemy threats, all party shall cease;
We bribe no intruders to buy a mean peace;
Columbia will scorn
Friends and foes to suborn;
We'll ne'er stain the toast
Which as freemen we boast—
The Federal Constitution, and integrity forever.
Fame's trumpet shall swell in Washington's praise,
And time grant a furlough to lengthen his days;
May health weave the thread
Of delight round his head.
No nation can boast
Such a name, such a toast,
The Federal Constitution, boys, and Washington forever.
William Milns.

The Continental Congress, in putting an end to its troubled existence, decreed that the first presidential election should be held on the first Wednesday of January, 1789, and that the Senate and House of Representatives should assemble on the first Wednesday in March.

THE FIRST AMERICAN CONGRESS

[April 6, 1789]

Columbus looked; and still around them spread,
From south to north, th' immeasurable shade;
At last, the central shadows burst away,
And rising regions open'd on the day.
He saw, once more, bright Del'ware's silver stream,
And Penn's throng'd city cast a cheerful gleam;
The dome of state, that met his eager eye,
Now heav'd its arches in a loftier sky.
The bursting gates unfold: and lo, within,
A solemn train in conscious glory shine.
The well-known forms his eye had trac'd before,
In diff'rent realms along th' extended shore;
Here, grac'd with nobler fame, and rob'd in state,
They look'd and mov'd magnificently great.
High on the foremost seat, in living light,
Majestic Randolph caught the hero's sight:
Fair on his head, the civic crown was plac'd,
And the first dignity his sceptre grac'd.
He opes the cause, and points in prospect far,
Thro' all the toils that wait th' impending war—
But, hapless sage, thy reign must soon be o'er,
To lend thy lustre, and to shine no more.
So the bright morning star, from shades of ev'n,
Leads up the dawn, and lights the front of heav'n,
Points to the waking world the sun's broad way,
Then veils his own, and shines above the day.
And see great Washington behind thee rise,
Thy following sun, to gild our morning skies;
O'er shadowy climes to pour the enliv'ning flame,
The charms of freedom and the fire of fame.
Th' ascending chief adorn'd his splendid seat,
Like Randolph, ensign'd with a crown of state;
Where the green patriot bay beheld, with pride,
The hero's laurel springing by its side;
His sword, hung useless, on his graceful thigh,
On Britain still he cast a filial eye;
But sov'reign fortitude his visage bore,
To meet their legions on th' invaded shore.
Sage Franklin next arose, in awful mien,
And smil'd, unruffled, o'er th' approaching scene;
High, on his locks of age, a wreath was brac'd,
Palm of all arts, that e'er a mortal grac'd;
Beneath him lies the sceptre kings have borne,
And crowns and laurels from their temples torn.
Nash, Rutledge, Jefferson, in council great,
And Jay and Laurens op'd the rolls of fate.
The Livingstons, fair Freedom's gen'rous band,
The Lees, the Houstons, fathers of the land,
O'er climes and kingdoms turn'd their ardent eyes,
Bade all th' oppressed to speedy vengeance rise;
All pow'rs of state, in their extended plan,
Rise from consent to shield the rights of man.
Bold Wolcott urg'd the all-important cause;
With steady hand the solemn scene he draws;
Undaunted firmness with his wisdom join'd,
Nor kings nor worlds could warp his stedfast mind.
Now, graceful rising from his purple throne,
In radiant robes, immortal Hosmer shone;
Myrtles and bays his learned temples bound,
The statesman's wreath, the poet's garland crown'd:
Morals and laws expand his liberal soul,
Beam from his eyes, and in his accents roll.
But lo! an unseen hand the curtain drew,
And snatch'd the patriot from the hero's view;
Wrapp'd in the shroud of death, he sees descend
The guide of nations and the muses' friend.
Columbus dropp'd a tear. The angel's eye
Trac'd the freed spirit mounting thro' the sky.
Adams, enrag'd, a broken charter bore,
And lawless acts of ministerial pow'r;
Some injur'd right in each loose leaf appears,
A king in terrors and a land in tears;
From all the guileful plots the veil he drew,
With eye retortive look'd creation through;
Op'd the wide range of nature's boundless plan,
Trac'd all the steps of liberty and man;
Crowds rose to vengeance while his accents rung,
And Independence thunder'd from his tongue.
Joel Barlow.

The first business was the counting of the electoral votes. There were sixty-nine of them, and every one was for George Washington, of Virginia.

WASHINGTON

God wills no man a slave. The man most meek,
Who saw Him face to face on Horeb's peak,
Had slain a tyrant for a bondman's wrong,
And met his Lord with sinless soul and strong.
But when, years after, overfraught with care,
His feet once trod doubt's pathway to despair,
For that one treason lapse, the guiding hand
That led so far now barred the promised land.
God makes no man a slave, no doubter free;
Abiding faith alone wins liberty.
No angel led our Chieftain's steps aright;
No pilot cloud by day, no flame by night;
No plague nor portent spake to foe or friend;
No doubt assailed him, faithful to the end.
Weaklings there were, as in the tribes of old,
Who craved for fleshpots, worshipped calves of gold,
Murmured that right would harder be than wrong,
And freedom's narrow road so steep and long;
But he who ne'er on Sinai's summit trod,
Still walked the highest heights and spake with God;
Saw with anointed eyes no promised land
By petty bounds or pettier cycles spanned,
Its people curbed and broken to the ring,
Packed with a caste and saddled with a King,—
But freedom's heritage and training school,
Where men unruled should learn to wisely rule,
Till sun and moon should see at Ajalon
King's heads in dust and freemen's feet thereon.
His work well done, the leader stepped aside,
Spurning a crown with more than kingly pride,
Content to wear the higher crown of worth,
While time endures, First Citizen of earth.
James Jeffrey Roche.

Washington left Mount Vernon on April 16, and started for New York, where, on April 30, 1789, he took the oath of office as President of the United States.

THE VOW OF WASHINGTON

[April 30, 1789]

The sword was sheathed: in April's sun
Lay green the fields by Freedom won;
And severed sections, weary of debates,
Joined hands at last and were United States.
O City sitting by the Sea!
How proud the day that dawned on thee,
When the new era, long desired, began,
And, in its need, the hour had found the man!
One thought the cannon salvos spoke,
The resonant bell-tower's vibrant stroke,
The voiceful streets, the plaudit-echoing halls,
And prayer and hymn borne heavenward from St. Paul's!
How felt the land in every part
The strong throb of a nation's heart,
As its great leader gave, with reverent awe,
His pledge to Union, Liberty, and Law!
That pledge the heavens above him heard,
That vow the sleep of centuries stirred;
In world-wide wonder listening peoples bent
Their gaze on Freedom's great experiment.
Could it succeed? Of honor sold
And hopes deceived all history told.
Above the wrecks that strewed the mournful past,
Was the long dream of ages true at last?
Thank God! the people's choice was just,
The one man equal to his trust,
Wise beyond lore, and without weakness good,
Calm in the strength of flawless rectitude!
His rule of justice, order, peace,
Made possible the world's release;
Taught prince and serf that power is but a trust,
And rule alone, which serves the ruled, is just;
That Freedom generous is, but strong
In hate of fraud and selfish wrong,
Pretence that turns her holy truth to lies,
And lawless license masking in her guise.
Land of his love! with one glad voice
Let thy great sisterhood rejoice;
A century's suns o'er thee have risen and set,
And, God be praised, we are one nation yet.
And still we trust the years to be
Shall prove his hope was destiny,
Leaving our flag, with all its added stars,
Unrent by faction and unstained by wars.
Lo! where with patient toil he nursed
And trained the new-set plant at first,
The widening branches of a stately tree
Stretch from the sunrise to the sunset sea.
And in its broad and sheltering shade,
Sitting with none to make afraid,
Were we now silent, through each mighty limb,
The winds of heaven would sing the praise of him.
Our first and best!—his ashes lie
Beneath his own Virginian sky.
Forgive, forget, O true and just and brave,
The storm that swept above thy sacred grave!
For, ever in the awful strife
And dark hours of the nation's life,
Through the fierce tumult pierced his warning word,
Their father's voice his erring children heard!
The change for which he prayed and sought
In that sharp agony was wrought;
No partial interest draws its alien line
'Twixt North and South, the cypress and the pine!
One people now, all doubt beyond,
His name shall be our Union-bond;
We lift our hands to Heaven, and here and now
Take on our lips the old Centennial vow.
For rule and trust must needs be ours;
Chooser and chosen both are powers
Equal in service as in rights; the claim
Of Duty rests on each and all the same.
Then let the sovereign millions, where
Our banner floats in sun and air,
From the warm palm-lands to Alaska's cold,
Repeat with us the pledge a century old!
John Greenleaf Whittier.

Benjamin Franklin had been in ill-health for many months, and the end came at Philadelphia, April 17, 1790. He was born at Boston, January 17, 1706.

ON THE DEATH OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN

[April 17, 1790]

Thus, some tall tree that long hath stood
The glory of its native wood,
By storms destroyed, or length of years,
Demands the tribute of our tears.
The pile, that took long time to raise,
To dust returns by slow decays;
But, when its destined years are o'er,
We must regret the loss the more.
So long accustomed to your aid,
The world laments your exit made;
So long befriended by your art,
Philosopher, 'tis hard to part!—
When monarchs tumble to the ground
Successors easily are found;
But, matchless Franklin! what a few
Can hope to rival such as you,
Who seized from kings their sceptred pride,
And turned the lightning's darts aside!
Philip Freneau.

On November 6, 1792, George Washington was again unanimously chosen President of the United States, and was inaugurated on March 4, 1793.

GEORGE WASHINGTON

This was the man God gave us when the hour
Proclaimed the dawn of Liberty begun;
Who dared a deed and died when it was done
Patient in triumph, temperate in power,—
Not striving like the Corsican to tower
To heaven, nor like great Philip's greater son
To win the world and weep for worlds unwon,
Or lose the star to revel in the flower.
The lives that serve the eternal verities
Alone do mould mankind. Pleasure and pride
Sparkle awhile and perish, as the spray
Smoking across the crests of cavernous seas
Is impotent to hasten or delay
The everlasting surges of the tide.
John Hall Ingham.

On September 19, 1796, Washington issued his "farewell address," declining a third term as President.

WASHINGTON

Where may the wearied eye repose
When gazing on the Great;
Where neither guilty glory glows,
Nor despicable state?
Yes—one—the first—the last—the best—
The Cincinnatus of the West,
Whom envy dared not hate,
Bequeath the name of Washington,
To make men blush there was but one!
Lord Byron.

The election was held on November 8, 1796, and the electoral votes were counted February 8, 1797. John Adams received seventy-one, Thomas Jefferson sixty-eight, Thomas Pinckney fifty-nine, and Aaron Burr thirty. Adams assumed office March 4, 1797. Relations with both France and England had become more than ever strained, and a war, especially with the former, seemed certain. These circumstances gave birth to one of the most popular political songs ever written in America.

ADAMS AND LIBERTY

[1798]

Ye sons of Columbia, who bravely have fought
For those rights which unstained from your sires have descended,
May you long taste the blessings your valor has bought,
And your sons reap the soil which their fathers defended.
'Mid the reign of mild peace,
May your nation increase,
With the glory of Rome and the wisdom of Greece;
And ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
In a clime, whose rich vales feed the marts of the world,
Whose shores are unshaken by Europe's commotion,
The trident of commerce should never be hurl'd,
To incense the legitimate powers of the ocean.
But should pirates invade,
Though in thunder array'd,
Let your cannon declare the free charter of trade.
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
The fame of our arms, of our laws the mild sway,
Had justly ennobled our nation in story,
Till the dark clouds of faction obscured our young day,
And enveloped the sun of American glory.
But let traitors be told,
Who their country have sold,
And barter'd their God for his image in gold,
That ne'er will the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
While France her huge limbs bathes recumbent in blood,
And society's base threats with wide dissolution;
May peace, like the dove who return'd from the flood,
Find an ark of abode in our mild constitution.
But, though peace is our aim,
Yet the boon we disclaim,
If bought by our sovereignty, justice, or fame;
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
'Tis the fire of the flint, each American warms:
Let Rome's haughty victors beware of collision,
Let them bring all the vassals of Europe in arms,
We're a world by ourselves, and disdain a division.
While, with patriot pride,
To our laws we're allied,
No foe can subdue us, no faction divide,
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
Our mountains are crown'd with imperial oak;
Whose roots, like our liberties, ages have nourish'd;
But long ere our nation submits to the yoke,
Not a tree shall be left on the field where it flourish'd.
Should invasion impend,
Every grove would descend,
From the hill-tops, they shaded, our shores to defend.
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
Let our patriots destroy Anarch's pestilent worm;
Lest our liberty's growth should be check'd by corrosion;
Then let clouds thicken round us; we heed not the storm;
Our realm fears no shock, but the earth's own explosion.
Foes assail us in vain,
Though their fleets bridge the main,
For our altars and laws with our lives we'll maintain.
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
Should the tempest of war overshadow our land,
Its bolts could ne'er rend Freedom's temple asunder;
For, unmov'd, at its portal, would Washington stand,
And repulse, with his breast, the assaults of the thunder!
His sword from the sleep
Of its scabbard would leap,
And conduct, with its point, every flash to the deep!
For ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
Let fame to the world sound America's voice;
No intrigues can her sons from their government sever;
Her pride is her Adams; her laws are his choice,
And shall flourish, till Liberty slumbers forever.
Then unite heart and hand,
Like Leonidas' band,
And swear to the God of the ocean and land,
That ne'er shall the sons of Columbia be slaves,
While the earth bears a plant, or the sea rolls its waves.
Robert Treat Paine.

On May 28, 1798, Congress authorized a provisional army of ten thousand men and empowered the President to instruct the commanders of American ships of war to seize French armed vessels attacking American merchantmen, or hovering about the coast for that purpose. Public excitement ran high, and when Hopkinson's "Hail Columbia" was sung one night at a Philadelphia theatre, it met with instantaneous success.

HAIL COLUMBIA

[First sung at the Chestnut Street Theatre, Philadelphia, May, 1798]

Hail! Columbia, happy land!
Hail! ye heroes, heav'n-born band,
Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,
Who fought and bled in freedom's cause,
And when the storm of war was gone,
Enjoyed the peace your valor won;
Let independence be your boast,
Ever mindful what it cost,
Ever grateful for the prize,
Let its altar reach the skies.
Chorus—Firm, united let us be,
Rallying round our liberty,
As a band of brothers joined,
Peace and safety we shall find.
Immortal patriots, rise once more!
Defend your rights, defend your shore;
Let no rude foe with impious hand,
Let no rude foe with impious hand
Invade the shrine where sacred lies
Of toil and blood the well-earned prize;
While offering peace, sincere and just,
In heav'n we place a manly trust,
That truth and justice may prevail,
And ev'ry scheme of bondage fail.
Sound, sound the trump of fame!
Let Washington's great name
Ring thro' the world with loud applause!
Ring thro' the world with loud applause!
Let ev'ry clime to freedom dear
Listen with a joyful ear;
With equal skill, with steady pow'r,
He governs in the fearful hour
Of horrid war, or guides with ease
The happier time of honest peace.
Behold the chief, who now commands,
Once more to serve his country stands,
The rock on which the storm will beat!
The rock on which the storm will beat!
But armed in virtue, firm and true,
His hopes are fixed on heav'n and you.
When hope was sinking in dismay,
When gloom obscured Columbia's day,
His steady mind, from changes free,
Resolved on death or liberty.
Joseph Hopkinson.

Word crossed the ocean that Napoleon was gathering a great fleet at Toulon and it was generally believed that he intended to invade America. The fleet, of course, was intended for his expedition to Egypt, and the idea that he hoped to conquer America seems ludicrous enough, but some verses written by Thomas Green Fessenden in July, 1798, show how seriously it was entertained.

YE SONS OF COLUMBIA

AN ODE

[July, 1798]

Ye sons of Columbia, unite in the cause
Of liberty, justice, religion, and laws;
Should foes then invade us, to battle we'll hie,
For the God of our fathers will be our ally!
Let Frenchmen advance,
And all Europe join France,
Designing our conquest and plunder;
United and free
Forever we'll be,
And our cannon shall tell them in thunder,
That foes to our freedom we'll ever defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!
When Britain assail'd us, undaunted we stood,
Defended the land we had purchas'd with blood,
Our liberty won, and it shall be our boast,
If the old world united should menace our coast:—
Should millions invade,
In terrour array'd,
Our liberties bid us surrender,
Our country they'd find
With bayonets lin'd,
And Washington here to defend her,
For foes to our freedom we'll ever defy
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!
Should Buonapart' come with his sans culotte band,
And a new sort of freedom we don't understand,
And make us an offer to give us as much
As France has bestow'd on the Swiss and the Dutch,
His fraud and his force
Will be futile of course;
We wish for no Frenchified Freedom:
If folks beyond sea
Are to bid us be free,
We'll send for them when we shall need 'em.
But sans culotte Frenchmen we'll ever defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!
We're anxious that Peace may continue her reign,
We cherish the virtues which sport in her train;
Our hearts ever melt, when the fatherless sigh,
And we shiver at Horrour's funereal cry!
But still, though we prize
That child of the skies,
We'll never like slaves be accosted.
In a war of defence
Our means are immense,
And we'll fight till our all is exhausted:
For foes to our freedom we'll ever defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!
The eagle of freedom with rapture behold,
Overshadow our land with his plumage of gold!
The flood-gates of glory are open on high,
And Warren and Mercer descend from the sky!
They come from above
With a message of love,
To bid us be firm and decided;
"At Liberty's call,
Unite one and all,
For you conquer, unless you're divided.
Unite, and the foes to your freedom defy,
Till the continent sinks and the ocean is dry!
"Americans, seek no occasion for war;
The rude deeds of rapine still ever abhor:
But if in defence of your rights you should arm,
Let toils ne'er discourage, nor dangers alarm.
For foes to your peace
Will ever increase,
If freedom and fame you should barter,
Let those rights be yours,
While nature endures,
For Omnipotence gave you the charter!"
Then foes to our freedom we'll ever defy,
Till the continent sinks, and the ocean is dry!
Thomas Green Fessenden.

Though there was to be no invasion to repel, the new navy was soon to win its spurs. On February 9, 1799, the Constellation, Captain Truxton, sighted the 36-gun frigate, Insurgente, off St. Kitts, in the West Indies, and promptly gave chase. The Frenchman was overhauled about the middle of the afternoon, and after a fierce engagement was forced to surrender. Two months later, Napoleon agreed to receive the American envoy "with the respect due a powerful nation," and all danger of war was soon over.

TRUXTON'S VICTORY

[February 9, 1799]

When Freedom, fair Freedom, her banner display'd,
Defying each foe whom her rights would invade,
Columbia's brave sons swore those rights to maintain,
And o'er ocean and earth to establish her reign;
United they cry,
While that standard shall fly,
Resolved, firm, and steady,
We always are ready
To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.
Tho' Gallia through Europe has rushed like a flood,
And deluged the earth with an ocean of blood:
While by faction she's led, while she's governed by knaves,
We court not her smiles, and will ne'er be her slaves;
Her threats we defy,
While our standard shall fly,
Resolved, firm, and steady,
We always are ready
To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.
Tho' France with caprice dares our Statesmen upbraid,
A tribute demands, or sets bounds to our trade;
From our young rising Navy our thunders shall roar,
And our Commerce extend to the earth's utmost shore.
Our cannon we'll ply,
While our standard shall fly;
Resolved, firm, and steady,
We always are ready
To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.
To know we're resolved, let them think on the hour,
When Truxton, brave Truxton off Nevis's shore,
His ship mann'd for battle, the standard unfurl'd,
And at the Insurgente defiance he hurled;
And his valiant tars cry,
While our standard shall fly,
Resolved, firm, and steady,
We always are ready
To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.
Each heart beat exulting, inspir'd by the cause;
They fought for their country, their freedom and laws;
From their cannon loud volleys of vengeance they pour'd,
And the standard of France to Columbia was lower'd.
Huzza! they now cry,
Let the Eagle wave high;
Resolved, firm, and steady,
We always are ready
To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.
Then raise high the strain, pay the tribute that's due
To the fair Constellation, and all her brave Crew;
Be Truxton revered, and his name be enrolled,
'Mongst the chiefs of the ocean, the heroes of old.
Each invader defy,
While such heroes are nigh,
Who always are ready,
Resolved, firm, and steady
To fight, and to conquer, to conquer or die.

THE CONSTELLATION AND THE INSURGENTE

[February 9, 1799]

Come all ye Yankee sailors, with swords and pikes advance,
'Tis time to try your courage and humble haughty France,
The sons of France our seas invade,
Destroy our commerce and our trade,
'Tis time the reck'ning should be paid!
To brave Yankee boys.
On board the Constellation, from Baltimore we came,
We had a bold commander and Truxton was his name!
Our ship she mounted forty guns,
And on the main so swiftly runs,
To prove to France Columbia's sons
Are brave Yankee boys.
We sailed to the West Indies in order to annoy
The invaders of our commerce, to burn, sink, and destroy;
Our Constellation shone so bright,
The Frenchmen could not bear the sight,
And away they scamper'd in affright,
From the brave Yankee boys.
'Twas on the 9th of February, at Montserrat we lay,
And there we spy'd the Insurgente just at the break of day,
We raised the orange and the blue,
To see if they our signals knew,
The Constellation and her crew
Of brave Yankee boys.
Then all hands were called to quarters, while we pursued in chase,
With well-prim'd guns, our tompions out, well spliced the main brace.
Soon to the French we did draw nigh,
Compelled to fight, they were, or fly,
The word was passed, "Conquer or die,"
My brave Yankee boys.
Lord! our Cannons thunder'd with peals tremendous roar,
And death upon our bullets' wings that drenched their decks with gore,
The blood did from their scuppers run,
Their chief exclaimed, "We are undone!"
Their flag they struck, the battle won,
By the brave Yankee boys.
Then to St. Kitts we steered, we bro't her safe in port,
The grand salute was fired and answered from the fort,
John Adams in full bumpers toast,
George Washington, Columbia's boast,
And now "the girl we love the most!"
My brave Yankee boys.
1813.

On December 14, 1799, George Washington died at Mount Vernon after an illness lasting only a few days. The funeral took place four days later, with only such ceremonials as the immediate neighborhood provided.

WASHINGTON'S MONUMENT

Since 1785 it had been necessary to protect American commerce from the Barbary corsairs by paying tribute, but their demands grew so exorbitant that war was at last declared against Tripoli, and a squadron dispatched to the Mediterranean. One of this squadron was the Philadelphia, which ran aground and was captured by the pirates on October 31, 1803. The ship was towed into the harbor of Tripoli and anchored under the guns of the fortress. On the night of February 15, 1804, a party of seventy-five headed by Lieutenants Decatur and Lawrence and Midshipman Bainbridge, entered the harbor, boarded the Philadelphia, drove the Turkish crew overboard, set fire to the ship, and escaped without losing a man, having performed what Lord Nelson called "the most daring act of the age."

HOW WE BURNED THE PHILADELPHIA

[February 15, 1804]

By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore
He would scourge us from the seas;
Yankees should trouble his soul no more—
By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw swore,
Then lighted his hookah, and took his ease,
And troubled his soul no more.
The moon was dim in the western sky,
And a mist fell soft on the sea,
As we slipped away from the Siren brig
And headed for Tripoli.
Behind us the hulk of the Siren lay,
Before us the empty night;
And when again we looked behind
The Siren was gone from our sight.
Nothing behind us, and nothing before,
Only the silence and rain,
As the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows
And cast us up again.
Through the rain and the silence we stole along,
Cautious and stealthy and slow,
For we knew the waters were full of those
Who might challenge the Mastico.
But nothing we saw till we saw the ghost
Of the ship we had come to see,
Her ghostly lights and her ghostly frame
Rolling uneasily.
And as we looked, the mist drew up
And the moon threw off her veil,
And we saw the ship in the pale moonlight,
Ghostly and drear and pale.
Then spoke Decatur low and said:
"To the bulwarks shadow all!
But the six who wear the Tripoli dress
Shall answer the sentinel's call."
"What ship is that?" cried the sentinel.
"No ship," was the answer free;
"But only a Malta ketch in distress
Wanting to moor in your lee.
"We have lost our anchor, and wait for day
To sail into Tripoli town,
And the sea rolls fierce and high to-night,
So cast a cable down."
Then close to the frigate's side we came,
Made fast to her unforbid—
Six of us bold in the heathen dress,
The rest of us lying hid.
But one who saw us hiding there
"Americano!" cried.
Then straight we rose and made a rush
Pellmell up the frigate's side.
Less than a hundred men were we,
And the heathen were twenty score;
But a Yankee sailor in those old days
Liked odds of one to four.
And first we cleaned the quarter-deck,
And then from stern to stem
We charged into our enemies
And quickly slaughtered them.
All around was the dreadful sound
Of corpses striking the sea,
And the awful shrieks of dying men
In their last agony.
The heathen fought like devils all,
But one by one they fell,
Swept from the deck by our cutlasses
To the water, and so to hell.
Some we found in the black of the hold,
Some to the fo'c's'le fled,
But all in vain; we sought them out
And left them lying dead;
Till at last no soul but Christian souls
Upon that ship was found;
The twenty score were dead, and we,
The hundred, safe and sound.
And, stumbling over the tangled dead,
The deck a crimson tide,
We fired the ship from keel to shrouds
And tumbled over the side.
Then out to sea we sailed once more
With the world as light as day,
And the flames revealed a hundred sail
Of the heathen there in the bay.
All suddenly the red light paled,
And the rain rang out on the sea;
Then—a dazzling flash, a deafening roar,
Between us and Tripoli!
Then, nothing behind us, and nothing before,
Only the silence and rain;
And the jaws of the sea took hold of our bows
And cast us up again.
By the beard of the Prophet the Bashaw swore
He would scourge us from the seas;
Yankees should trouble his soul no more—
By the Prophet's beard the Bashaw swore,
Then lighted his hookah and took his ease,
And troubled his soul no more.
Barrett Eastman.

Arrangements were made to bombard the port and a concerted attack was made August 3, 1804. Two gunboats were captured and three sunk, and the shore batteries badly damaged. Attack after attack followed, and the war was finally ended by Tripoli renouncing all claim to tribute and releasing all American prisoners. It was during the first assault that Reuben James saved Decatur's life.

REUBEN JAMES

[August 3, 1804]

Three ships of war had Preble when he left the Naples shore,
And the knightly king of Naples lent him seven galleys more,
And never since the Argo floated in the middle sea
Such noble men and valiant have sailed in company
As the men who went with Preble to the siege of Tripoli.
Stewart, Bainbridge, Hull, Decatur—how their names ring out like gold!—
Lawrence, Porter, Trippe, Macdonough, and a score as true and bold;
Every star that lights their banner tells the glory that they won;
But one common sailor's glory is the splendor of the sun.
Reuben James was first to follow when Decatur laid aboard
Of the lofty Turkish galley and in battle broke his sword.
Then the pirate captain smote him, till his blood was running fast,
And they grappled and they struggled, and they fell beside the mast.
Close behind him Reuben battled with a dozen, undismayed,
Till a bullet broke his sword-arm, and he dropped the useless blade.
Then a swinging Turkish sabre clove his left and brought him low,
Like a gallant bark, dismasted, at the mercy of the foe.
Little mercy knows the corsair: high his blade was raised to slay,
When a richer prize allured him where Decatur struggling lay.
"Help!" the Turkish leader shouted, and his trusty comrade sprung,
And his scimetar like lightning o'er the Yankee captain swung.
Reuben James, disabled, armless, saw the sabre flashed on high,
Saw Decatur shrink before it, heard the pirate's taunting cry,
Saw, in half the time I tell it, how a sailor brave and true
Still might show a bloody pirate what a dying man can do.
Quick he struggled, stumbling, sliding in the blood around his feet,
As the Turk a moment waited to make vengeance doubly sweet.
Swift the sabre fell, but swifter bent the sailor's head below,
And upon his 'fenceless forehead Reuben James received the blow!
So was saved our brave Decatur; so the common sailor died;
So the love that moves the lowly lifts the great to fame and pride.
Yet we grudge him not his honors, for whom love like this had birth—
For God never ranks His sailors by the Register of earth!
James Jeffrey Roche.

In the spring of 1808 the schooner Betsy, of Marblehead, commanded by "Skipper Ireson," sighted a wreck while passing Cape Cod on her way home from the West Indies. It was dark at the time, and the sea was running high, so that she was unable to render any assistance. Another vessel soon afterwards rescued the people on the wreck, and they reached shore in season for news of the occurrence to reach Marblehead before the Betsy's arrival. A crowd met the vessel at the wharf, and the sailors, when called to account, protested that Ireson would not let them go to the relief of the wrecked vessel. The mob thereupon seized the unfortunate skipper, and putting him into an old dory, started to drag him to Beverly, where they said he belonged, in order to show him to his own people.

SKIPPER IRESON'S RIDE

[1808]

Of all the rides since the birth of time,
Told in story or sung in rhyme,—
On Apuleius's Golden Ass,
Or one-eyed Calender's horse of brass,
Witch astride of a human back,
Islam's prophet on Al-BorÁk,—
The strangest ride that ever was sped
Was Ireson's out from Marblehead!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Body of turkey, head of fowl,
Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl,
Feathered and ruffled in every part,
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart.
Scores of women, old and young,
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue,
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane,
Shouting and singing the shrill refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips,
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips,
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase
Bacchus round some antique vase,
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare,
Loose of kerchief and loose of hair,
With conch-shells blowing and fish-horns' twang,
Over and over the MÆnads sang:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Small pity for him!—He sailed away
From a leaking ship in Chaleur Bay,—
Sailed away from a sinking wreck,
With his own town's-people on her deck!
"Lay by! lay by!" they called to him.
Back he answered, "Sink or swim!
Brag of your catch of fish again!"
And off he sailed through the fog and rain!
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur
That wreck shall lie forevermore.
Mother and sister, wife and maid,
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead
Over the moaning and rainy sea,—
Looked for the coming that might not be!
What did the winds and the sea-birds say
Of the cruel captain who sailed away?—
Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Through the street, on either side,
Up flew windows, doors swung wide;
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives gray,
Treble lent the fish-horn's bray.
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound,
Hulks of old sailors run aground,
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and cane,
And cracked with curses the hoarse refrain:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
Sweetly along the Salem road
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed.
Little the wicked skipper knew
Of the fields so green and the sky so blue.
Riding there in his sorry trim,
Like an Indian idol glum and grim,
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear
Of voices shouting, far and near:
"Here's Flud Oirson, fur his horrd horrt,
Torr'd an' futherr'd an' corr'd in a corrt
By the women o' Morble'ead!"
"Hear me, neighbors!" at last he cried,—
"What to me is this noisy ride?
What is the shame that clothes the skin
To the nameless horror that lives within?
Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck,
And hear a cry from a reeling deck!
Hate me and curse me,—I only dread
The hand of God and the face of the dead!"
Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
Then the wife of the skipper lost at sea
Said, "God has touched him! why should we!"
Said an old wife mourning her only son,
"Cut the rogue's tether and let him run!"
So with soft relentings and rude excuse,
Half scorn, half pity, they cut him loose,
And gave him a cloak to hide him in,
And left him alone with his shame and sin.
Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart
By the women of Marblehead!
John Greenleaf Whittier.

Later investigation proved that Ireson was in no way responsible for the abandonment of the disabled ship, and that his crew had lied in order to save themselves.

A PLEA FOR FLOOD IRESON

[1808]

Old Flood Ireson! all too long
Have jeer and gibe and ribald song
Done thy memory cruel wrong.
Old Flood Ireson, bending low
Under the weight of years and woe,
Crept to his refuge long ago.
Old Flood Ireson sleeps in his grave;
Howls of a mad mob, worse than the wave,
Now no more in his ear shall rave!
* * * * *
Gone is the pack and gone the prey,
Yet old Flood Ireson's ghost to-day
Is hunted still down Time's highway.
Old wife Fame, with a fish-horn's blare
Hooting and tooting the same old air,
Drags him along the old thoroughfare.
Mocked evermore with the old refrain,
Skilfully wrought to a tuneful strain,
Jingling and jolting he comes again
Over that road of old renown,
Fair broad avenue, leading down
Through South Fields to Salem town,
Scourged and stung by the Muses' thong,
Mounted high on the car of song,
Sight that cries, O Lord! how long
Shall heaven look on and not take part
With the poor old man and his fluttering heart,
Tarred and feathered and carried in a cart?
Old Flood Ireson, now when Fame
Wipes away with tears of shame
Stains from many an injured name,
Shall not, in the tuneful line,
Beams of truth and mercy shine
Through the clouds that darken thine?
Take henceforth, perturbÈd sprite,
From the fever and the fright,
Take the rest,—thy well-earned right.
Along the track of that hard ride
The form of Penitence oft shall glide,
With tender Pity by her side;
And their tears, that mingling fall
On the dark record they recall,
Shall cleanse the stain and expiate all.
Charles Timothy Brooks.

CHAPTER II

THE SECOND WAR WITH ENGLAND

The treaty of peace with England which closed the Revolution provided for the payment of English creditors and the restoration of confiscated estates, but the individual states refused to carry out this agreement, and England, in consequence, retained possession of some of the Western posts. To this were soon added other causes of annoyance, principal among which was the right claimed by England to impress into her service seamen of British birth, wherever found, and to stop and search the ships of the United States for this purpose.

THE TIMES

Ye brave sons of Freedom, come join in the chorus,
At the dangers of war do not let us repine,
But sing and rejoice at the prospect before us,
And drink it success in a bumper of wine.
At the call of the nation,
Let each to his station,
And resist depredation,
Which our country degrades;
Ere the conflict is over,
Our rights we'll recover,
Or punish whoever
Our honor invades.
We're abused and insulted, our country's degraded,
Our rights are infringed both by land and by sea;
Let us rouse up, indignant, when those rights are invaded,
And announce to the world, "We're united and free!"
By our navy's protection
We'll make our election,
And in every direction
Our trade shall be free;
No British oppression,
No Gallic aggression
Shall disturb the possession
We claim to the sea.
Then Columbia's ships shall sail on the ocean,
And the nations of Europe respect us at last:
Our stars and our stripes shall command their devotion,
And Liberty perch on the top of the mast.
Though Bona and John Bull
Continue their long pull,
Till ambition's cup-full
Be drain'd to the lees;
By wisdom directed,
By tyrants respected,
By cannon protected,
We'll traverse the seas.
Though vile combinations to sever the Union
Be projected with caution and managed with care,
Though traitors and Britons, in sweetest communion,
Their patriot virtue unite and compare,
American thunder
Shall rend it asunder,
And ages shall wonder
At the deeds we have done:
And every Tory
When he hears of the story,
Shall repine at the glory
Our heroes have won.
Let local attachments be condemn'd and discarded,
Distrust and suspicion be banish'd the mind,
Let union, our safety, be ever regarded,
When improved by example, by virtue refined.
Our ancestors brought it,
Our sages have taught it,
Our Washington bought it,
'Tis our glory and boast!
No factions shall ever
Our government sever,
But "Union forever,"
Shall be our last toast.

Measures so outrageous made war seemingly inevitable; but Washington, through the Jay Treaty, managed to patch up a peace. In 1805 England, hard-pressed by Napoleon, again asserted the "right of search," and her war-vessels stopped merchantmen and cruisers alike and took off all persons whom the British commanders chose to regard as British subjects. Congress retaliated by prohibiting commerce with England. The embargo went into effect in January, 1808, and aroused sectional feeling to such an extent that New England threatened secession from the Union.

REPARATION OR WAR

WRITTEN DURING THE EMBARGO

Rejoice, rejoice, brave patriots, rejoice!
Our martial sons take a bold and manly stand!
Rejoice, rejoice, exulting raise your voice,
Let union pervade our happy land.
The altar of Liberty shall never be polluted,
But freedom expand and flourish, firm and deeply rooted.
Our eagle, towering high,
Triumphantly shall fly,
While men like Jefferson preside to serve their country!
Huzza! huzza! boys, etc., etc.
With firmness we'll resent our wrongs sustain'd at sea;
Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.
For none but slaves will bend to tyranny.
To arms, to arms, with ardor rush to arms,
Our injured rights have long for vengeance cried.
To arms, to arms, prepare for war's alarms,
If honest reparation be denied.
Though feeble counteracting plans, or foreign combinations,
May interdict awhile our trade, against the law of nations,
The embargo on supplies
Shall open Europe's eyes;
Proclaiming unto all the world, "Columbia will be free."
Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.
With honor we'll maintain a just neutrality.
Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.
For none but slaves will bend to tyranny.
Defend, defend, ye heroes and ye sages,
The gift divine—your independency!
Transmit with joy, down to future ages,
How Washington achieved your liberty.
When freemen are insulted, they send forth vengeful thunder,
Determined to maintain their rights, strike the foe with wonder.
They cheerfully will toil,
To cultivate the soil,
And rather live on humble fare than feast ignobly.
Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.
United, firm we stand, invincible and free,
Huzza! huzza! etc., etc.
Then none but slaves shall bend to tyranny.

The opponents of the embargo termed the conflict a "terrapin war,"—the nation, by extinguishing commerce, drawing within its own shell like a terrapin; and at gatherings of the Federalists, a song by that title was very popular.

TERRAPIN WAR

Huzza for our liberty, boys,
These are the days of our glory—
The days of true national joys,
When terrapins gallop before ye!
There's Porter and Grundy and Rhea,
In Congress who manfully vapor,
Who draw their six dollars a day,
And fight bloody battles on paper!
Ah! this is true Terrapin war.
Poor Madison the tremors has got,
'Bout this same arming the nation;
Too far to retract, he cannot
Go on—and he loses his station.
Then bring up your "regulars," lads,
In "attitude" nothing ye lack, sirs,
Ye'll frighten to death the Danads,
With fire-coals blazing aback, sirs!
Oh, this is true Terrapin war!
As to powder and bullets and swords,
For, as they were never intended,
They're a parcel of high-sounding words,
But never to action extended.
Ye must frighten the rascals away,
In "rapid descent" on their quarters;
Then the plunder divide as ye may,
And drive them headlong in the waters.
Oh, this is great Terrapin war!

But the hostility to Great Britain grew steadily more bitter, and the war party was led by such able men as Henry Clay and John C. Calhoun. Various incidents tended to fan the flames, and on June 18, 1812, war was declared.

FAREWELL, PEACE

[June 18, 1812]

Farewell, Peace! another crisis
Calls us to "the last appeal,"
Made when monarchs and their vices
Leave no argument but steel.
When injustice and oppression
Dare avow the tyrant's plea.
Who would recommend submission?
Virtue bids us to be free.
History spreads her page before us,
Time unrolls his ample scroll;
Truth unfolds them, to assure us,
States, united, ne'er can fall.
See, in annals Greek and Roman,
What immortal deeds we find;
When those gallant sons of woman
In their country's cause combined.
Sons of Freedom! brave descendants
From a race of heroes tried,
To preserve our independence
Let all Europe be defied.
Let not all the world, united,
Rob us of one sacred right:
Every patriot heart's delighted
In his country's cause to fight.
Come then, War! with hearts elated
To thy standard we will fly;
Every bosom animated
Either to live free or die.
May the wretch that shrinks from duty,
Or deserts the glorious strife,
Never know the smile of beauty,
Nor the blessing of a wife.

The Federalists claimed that war had been declared, not to avenge the country's wrongs upon the ocean, but to conquer Canada. Canada was, indeed, the first objective, and troops were enlisted and hurried forward to the various northern posts.

COME, YE LADS, WHO WISH TO SHINE

Come, ye lads, who wish to shine
Bright in future story,
Haste to arms, and form the line
That leads to martial glory.
Beat the drum, the trumpet sound,
Manly and united,
Danger face, maintain your ground,
And see your country righted.
Columbia, when her eagle's roused,
And her flag is rearing
Will always find her sons disposed
To drub the foe that's daring.
Beat the drum, etc.
Hearts of oak, protect the coast,
Pour your naval thunder,
While on shore a mighty host
Shall strike the world with wonder.
Beat the drum, etc.
Haste to Quebec's towering walls,
Through the British regions;
Hark! Montgomery's spirit calls,
Drive the hostile legions.
Beat the drum, etc.
Honor for the brave to share
Is the noblest booty;
Guard your rights, protect the fair,
For that's a soldier's duty.
Beat the drum, etc.
Charge the musket, point the lance,
Brave the worst of dangers;
Tell to Britain and to France,
That we to fear are strangers.
Beat the drum, etc.

The Canadian campaign was soon to end ignominiously enough. In July, General Hull, governor of Michigan territory, crossed from Detroit into Canada, then crossed back again, and on August 16, without striking a blow, surrendered Detroit and his entire army to the British under General Brock. Hull was afterwards tried by court-martial, convicted of cowardice, and sentenced to be shot, but the sentence was commuted.

HULL'S SURRENDER
OR, VILLANY SOMEWHERE

[August 16, 1812]

Ye Columbians so bold, attend while I sing;
Sure treason and treachery's not quite the thing,
At a time like the present, we ought, one and all,
In defence of our rights, to stand nobly or fall.
Chorus
Then let traitors be banish'd Columbia's fair shore,
And treason be known in her borders no more.
With a brave, gallant army Hull went to Detroit,
And swore he'd accomplish a noble exploit;
That the British and Indians he'd conquer outright,
And give cause to his country of joy and delight.
Chorus
But if traitors still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,
O let it be known in her borders no more.
Ah! quickly alas! defeat and disgrace
Star'd our brave noble soldiers quite full in the face,
When they thought that the victory was sure to be won,
Their general gave up, without firing a gun.
Chorus
Then do traitors still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,
If they do, let them dwell in her borders no more!
Those heroes, who bravely on the Wabash had fought,
Who for glory successfully nobly had sought,
Where the favor denied of asserting their wrongs,
And deprived of that right which to freemen belongs.
Chorus
Then if treason still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,
O let it be known in her borders no more!
Is it true that our soldiers were wrongfully us'd?
Is it true that they've been by their General abus'd?
Is it true that an army so gallant were sold?
Is it true that Columbians were barter'd for gold?
Chorus
If it is, then does treason still dwell on our shore,
But let it be known in our country no more!
Ye heroes who fought by the side of brave Floyd,
Ye heroes, conducted to glory by Boyd,
Think not that your brethren will quietly bear,
From your brows that a traitor your laurels should tear.
Chorus
No—if treason still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,
It shall soon be expell'd to reside here no more.
Then rouse ye brave freemen, and heed no alarms,
Your dear native country now calls you to arms,
Away to the battle, and count not the cost
Till the glory you gain, which so basely was lost.
Chorus
For if treason still dwell on Columbia's fair shore,
By our fathers we swear it shall dwell here no more.

The fury which the news of this disaster aroused was tempered by rejoicing for a remarkable victory on the ocean. Anxious to meet some of the famous British frigates, Captain Isaac Hull put out from Boston with the Constitution on August 2. He sailed without orders, and had the cruise resulted disastrously, he would probably have been court-martialed and shot. On the afternoon of August 19, a sail was sighted off Halifax and proved to be the British frigate GuerriÈre. Hull at once attacked, and soon reduced the enemy to a "perfect wreck." The Constitution sustained little injury and got safely back to port.

THE CONSTITUTION AND THE GUERRIÈRE

[August 19, 1812]

I often have been told
That the British seamen bold
Could beat the tars of France neat and handy O;
But they never found their match,
Till the Yankees did them catch,
For the Yankee tars for fighting are the dandy O.
O, the GuerriÈre so bold
On the foaming ocean rolled,
Commanded by Dacres the grandee O;
For the choice of British crew
That a rammer ever drew
Could beat the Frenchmen two to one quite handy O.
When the frigate hove in view,
"O," said Dacres to his crew,
"Prepare ye for action and be handy O;
On the weather-gauge we'll get her."
And to make his men fight better,
He gave to them gunpowder and good brandy O.
Now this boasting Briton cries,
"Make that Yankee ship your prize,
You can in thirty minutes do it handy O,
Or twenty-five, I'm sure
You'll do it in a score,
I will give you a double share of good brandy O.
"When prisoners we've made them,
With switchell we will treat them,
We will treat them with 'Yankee Doodle Dandy' O;"
The British balls flew hot,
But the Yankees answered not,
Until they got a distance that was handy O.
"O," cried Hull unto his crew,
"We'll try what we can do;
If we beat those boasting Britons we're the dandy O."
The first broadside we poured
Brought the mizzen by the board,
Which doused the royal ensign quite handy O.
O Dacres he did sigh,
And to his officers did cry,
"I did not think these Yankees were so handy O."
The second told so well
That the fore and main-mast fell,
Which made this lofty frigate look quite handy O.
"O," says Dacres, "we're undone,"
So he fires a lee gun.
Our drummer struck up "Yankee Doodle Dandy" O;
When Dacres came on board
To deliver up his sword,
He was loth to part with it, it looked so handy O.
"You may keep it," says brave Hull.
"What makes you look so dull?
Cheer up and take a glass of good brandy O;"
O Britons now be still,
Since we've hooked you in the gill,
Don't boast upon Dacres the grandee O.

HALIFAX STATION

[August 19, 1812]

ON THE CAPTURE OF THE GUERRIÈRE

[August 19, 1812]

Long the tyrant of our coast
Reigned the famous GuerriÈre;
Our little navy she defied,
Public ship and privateer:
On her sails in letters red,
To our captains were displayed
Words of warning, words of dread,
"All who meet me, have a care!
I am England's GuerriÈre."
On the wide, Atlantic deep
(Not her equal for the fight)
The Constitution, on her way,
Chanced to meet these men of might;
On her sails was nothing said,
But her waist the teeth displayed
That a deal of blood could shed,
Which, if she would venture near,
Would stain the decks of the GuerriÈre.
Now our gallant ship they met—
And, to struggle with John Bull—
Who had come, they little thought,
Strangers, yet, to Isaac Hull:
Better soon to be acquainted:
Isaac hailed the Lord's anointed—
While the crew the cannon pointed,
And the balls were so directed
With a blaze so unexpected;
Isaac so did maul and rake her
That the decks of Captain Dacre
Were in such a woful pickle
As if death with scythe and sickle,
With his sling, or with his shaft
Had cut his harvest fore and aft.
Thus, in thirty minutes ended,
Mischiefs that could not be mended;
Masts, and yards, and ship descended,
All to David Jones's locker—
Such a ship in such a pucker!
Drink a bout to the Constitution!
She performed some execution,
Did some share of retribution
For the insults of the year
When she took the GuerriÈre.
May success again await her,
Let who will again command her,
Bainbridge, Rodgers, or Decatur—
Nothing like her can withstand her.
With a crew like that on board her
Who so boldly called "to order"
One bold crew of English sailors,
Long, too long our seamen's jailors,
Dacre and the GuerriÈre!
Philip Freneau.

FIRSTFRUITS IN 1812

[August 19, 1812]

What is that a-billowing there
Like a thunderhead in air?
Why should such a sight be whitening the seas?
That's a Yankee man-o'-war,
And three things she's seeking for—
For a prize, and for a battle, and a breeze.
When the war blew o'er the sea
Out went Hull and out went we
In the Constitution, looking for the foe;
But five British ships came down—
And we got to Boston-town
By a mighty narrow margin, you must know!
Captain Hull can't fight their fleet,
But he fairly aches to meet
Quite the prettiest British ship of all there were;
So he stands again to sea
In the hope that on his lee
He'll catch Dacres and his pretty GuerriÈre.
'Tis an August afternoon
Not a day too late or soon,
When we raise a ship whose lettered mainsail reads:
All who meet me have a care,
I am England's GuerriÈre;
So Hull gayly clears for action as he speeds.
Cheery bells had chanted five
On the happiest day alive
When we Yankees dance to quarters at his call;
While the British bang away
With their broadsides' screech and bray;
But the Constitution never fires a ball.
We send up three times to ask
If we sha'n't begin our task?
Captain Hull sends back each time the answer No;
Till to half a pistol-shot
The two frigates he had brought,
Then he whispers, Lay along!—and we let go.
Twice our broadside lights and lifts,
And the Briton, crippled, drifts
With her mizzen dangling hopeless at her poop:
Laughs a Yankee, She's a brig!
Says our Captain, That's too big;
Try another, so we'll have her for a sloop!
We hurrah, and fire again,
Lay aboard of her like men,
And, like men, they beat us off, and try in turn;
But we drive bold Dacres back
With our muskets' snap and crack—
All the while our crashing broadsides boom and burn.
'Tis but half an hour, bare,
When that pretty GuerriÈre
Not a stick calls hers aloft or hers alow,
Save the mizzen's shattered mast,
Where her "meteor flag" 's nailed fast
Till, a fallen star, we quench its ruddy glow.
Dacres, injured, o'er our side
Slowly bears his sword of pride,
Holds it out, as Hull stands there in his renown:
No, no! says th' American,
Never, from so brave a man—
But I see you're wounded, let me help you down.
All that night we work in vain
Keeping her upon the main,
But we've hulled her far too often, and at last
In a blaze of fire there
Dies the pretty GuerriÈre;
While away we cheerly sail upon the blast.
Oh, the breeze that blows so free!
Oh, the prize beneath the sea!
Oh, the battle!—was there ever better won?
Still the happy Yankee cheers
Are a-ringing in our ears
From old Boston, glorying in what we've done.
What is that a-billowing there
Like a thunderhead in air?
Why should such a sight be whitening the seas?
That's Old Ir'nsides, trim and taut,
And she's found the things she sought—
Found a prize, a bully battle, and a breeze!
Wallace Rice.

This victory, needless to say, greatly encouraged the Americans, and General Stephen van Rensselaer, in command of the northern army, determined to try another stroke at Canada. On October 13, 1812, he started to cross the Niagara River with six hundred men; but the crossing was mismanaged, the militia refused to obey orders, and after a gallant fight lasting all day, the Americans were forced to surrender to an overwhelming force of British and Indians.

THE BATTLE OF QUEENSTOWN

[October 13, 1812]

When brave Van Rensselaer cross'd the stream,
Just at the break of day,
Distressing thoughts, a restless dream,
Disturb'd me where I lay.
But all the terrors of the night
Did quickly flee away:
My opening eyes beheld the light,
And hail'd the new-born day.
Soon did the murdering cannon's roar
Put blood in all my veins;
Columbia's sons have trod the shore
Where the proud Britain reigns.
To expose their breast to cannon's ball,
Their country's rights to save,
O what a grief to see them fall!
True heroes, bold and brave!
The musket's flash, the cannon's glow,
Thunder'd and lighten'd round,
Struck dread on all the tawny foe,
And swept them to the ground.
I thought what numbers must be slain,
What weeping widows left!
And aged parents full of pain,
Of every joy bereft.
The naked savage yelling round
Our heroes where they stood,
And every weapon to be found
Was bathed in human blood.
But bold Van Rensselaer, full of wounds,
Was quickly carried back;
Brave Colonel Bloom did next command
The bloody fierce attack.
Where Brock, the proud insulter, rides
In pomp and splendor great;
Our valiant heroes he derides,
And dared the power of fate.
"Here is a mark for Yankee boys,
So shoot me if you can:"
A Yankee ball soon closed his eyes,
Death found him but a man.
They slaughter'd down the tawny foe,
And Britons that were near;
They dealt out death at every blow,
The battle was severe.
Five battles fought all in one day,
Through four victorious stood,
But ah! the fifth swept all away,
And spilt our heroes' blood.
The tomahawk and scalping-knife
On them did try their skill;
Some wounded, struggling for their life,
Did black barbarians kill.
Brave Wadsworth boldly kept the field
Till their last bullets flew;
Then all were prisoners forced to yield,
What could the general do?
Militia men! O fie for shame!
Thus you your country flee.
'Tis you at last will bear the blame
For loss of victory.
When mild Van Rensselaer did command,
You would not him obey;
But stood spectators on the strand,
To see the bloody fray.
The number kill'd was seventy-four,
Prisoners, seven hundred sixty-nine,
Wounded, two hundred or more,
Who languish'd in great pain.
Some have already lost their lives,
And others like to go;
But few, I fear, will tell their wives
The doleful tale of wo.
William Banker, Jr.

But disasters on land seemed fated to be followed by victories on the water. About noon of October 18, 1812, the American 18-gun sloop of war, Wasp, encountered the 20-gun British brig, Frolic, off Albemarle Sound, and, after a severe action, boarded and compelled her to surrender. Shortly afterwards, a sail hove in sight, which proved to be the British 74, Poictiers, and, running down on the sloops, she seized both the Wasp and her prize and carried them to Bermuda.

THE WASP'S FROLIC

[October 18, 1812]

'Twas on board the sloop of war Wasp, boys,
We set sail from Delaware Bay,
To cruise on Columbia's fair coast, sirs,
Our rights to maintain on the sea.
Three days were not passed on our station,
When the Frolic came up to our view;
Says Jones, "Show the flag of our nation;"
Three cheers were then gave by our crew.
We boldly bore up to this Briton,
Whose cannon began for to roar;
The Wasp soon her stings from her side ran,
When we on them a broadside did pour.
Each sailor stood firm at his quarters,
'Twas minutes past forth and three,
When fifty bold Britons were slaughtered,
Whilst our guns swept their masts in the sea.
Their breasts then with valor still glowing,
Acknowledged the battle we'd won,
On us then bright laurels bestowing,
When to leeward they fired a gun.
On their decks we the twenty guns counted,
With a crew for to answer the same;
Eighteen was the number we mounted,
Being served by the lads of true game.
With the Frolic in tow, we were standing,
All in for Columbia's fair shore;
But fate on our laurels was frowning,
We were taken by a seventy-four.

A more signal victory was soon to be recorded. On the morning of October 25, 1812, near the Canary Islands, the British 38-gun frigate, Macedonian, was overhauled by the American 44, United States, and an hour after the action began, was reduced to a wreck by the terrible fire of the American. A prize crew was put aboard, repaired her, and got her safely to New York.

THE UNITED STATES AND THE MACEDONIAN

[October 25, 1812]

How glows each patriot bosom that boasts a Yankee heart,
To emulate such glorious deeds and nobly take a part;
When sailors with their thund'ring guns,
Prove to the English, French, and Danes
That Neptune's chosen fav'rite sons
Are brave Yankee boys.
The twenty-fifth of October, that glorious happy day,
When we beyond all precedent, from Britons bore the sway,—
'Twas in the ship United States,
Four and forty guns the rates,
That she should rule, decreed the Fates,
And brave Yankee boys.
Decatur and his hardy tars were cruising on the deep,
When off the Western Islands they to and fro did sweep,
The Macedonian they espied,
"Huzza! bravo!" Decatur cried,
"We'll humble Britain's boasted pride,
My brave Yankee boys."
The decks were cleared, the hammocks stowed, the boatswain pipes all hands,
The tompions out, the guns well sponged, the Captain now commands;
The boys who for their country fight,
Their words, "Free Trade and Sailor's Rights!"
Three times they cheered with all their might,
Those brave Yankee boys.
Now chain-shot, grape, and langrage pierce through her oaken sides,
And many a gallant sailor's blood runs purpling in the tides;
While death flew nimbly o'er their decks,
Some lost their legs, and some their necks,
And Glory's wreath our ship be-decks,
For brave Yankee boys.
My boys, the proud St. George's Cross, the stripes above it wave,
And busy are our gen'rous tars, the conquered foe to save,
To Carden then, in tones so bland,
Our Captain cries "Give me your hand,"
Then of the ship who took command
But brave Yankee boys?
Our enemy lost her mizzen, her main and fore-topmast,
For ev'ry shot with death was winged, which slew her men so fast,
That they lost five to one in killed,
And ten to one their blood was spilled,
So Fate decreed and Heaven had willed,
For brave Yankee boys.
Then homeward steered the captive ship, now safe in port she lies,
The old and young with rapture viewed our sailors' noble prize;
Through seas of wine their health we'll drink,
And wish them sweet-hearts, friends, and chink,
Who 'fore they'd strike, will nobly sink
Our brave Yankee boys.

THE UNITED STATES AND MACEDONIAN

[October 25, 1812]

The banner of Freedom high floated unfurled,
While the silver-tipt surges in low homage curled,
Flashing bright round the bow of Decatur's brave bark,
In contest, an "eagle"—in chasing, a "lark."
The bold United States,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Will ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we die."
All canvas expanded to woo the coy gale,
The ship cleared for action, in chase of a sail;
The foemen in view, every bosom beats high,
All eager for conquest, or ready to die.
Now havoc stands ready, with optics of flame,
And battle-hounds "strain on the start" for the game;
The blood demons rise on the surge for their prey,
While Pity, rejected, awaits the dread fray.
The gay floating streamers of Britain appear,
Waving light on the breeze as the stranger we near;
And now could the quick-sighted Yankee discern
"Macedonian," emblazoned at large on her stern.
She waited our approach, and the contest began,
But to waste ammunition is no Yankee plan;
In awful suspense every match was withheld,
While the bull-dogs of Britain incessantly yelled.
Unawed by her thunders, alongside we came,
While the foe seemed enwrapped in a mantle of flame;
When, prompt to the word, such a flood we return,
That Neptune, aghast, thought his trident would burn.
Now the lightning of battle gleams horridly red,
With a tempest of iron and hail-storm of lead;
And our fire on the foe we so copiously poured,
His mizzen and topmasts soon went by the board.
So fierce and so bright did our flashes aspire,
They thought that their cannon had set us on fire,
"The Yankee's in flames!"—every British tar hears,
And hails the false omen with three hearty cheers.
In seventeen minutes they found their mistake,
And were glad to surrender and fall in our wake;
Her decks were with carnage and blood deluged o'er,
Where welt'ring in blood lay an hundred and four.
But though she was made so completely a wreck,
With blood they had scarcely encrimsoned our deck;
Only five valiant Yankees in the contest were slain,
And our ship in five minutes was fitted again.
Let Britain no longer lay claim to the seas,
For the trident of Neptune is ours, if we please,
While Hull and Decatur and Jones are our boast,
We dare their whole navy to come on our coast.
Rise, tars of Columbia!—and share in the fame,
Which gilds Hull's, Decatur's, and Jones's bright name;
Fill a bumper, and drink, "Here's success to the cause,
But Decatur supremely deserves our applause."
The bold United States,
Which four-and-forty rates,
Shall ne'er be known to yield—be known to yield or fly,
Her motto is "Glory! we conquer or we die."

The United States was commanded by Captain Stephen Decatur, and just before she engaged the Macedonian an incident occurred which showed his crew's unbounded confidence in him.

JACK CREAMER

[October 25, 1812]

The boarding nettings are triced for fight;
Pike and cutlass are shining bright;
The boatswain's whistle pipes loud and shrill;
Gunner and topman work with a will;
Rough old sailor and reefer trim
Jest as they stand by the cannon grim;
There's a fighting glint in Decatur's eye,
And brave Old Glory floats out on high.
But many a heart beats fast below
The laughing lips as they near the foe;
For the pluckiest knows, though no man quails,
That the breath of death is filling the sails.
Only one little face is wan;
Only one childish mouth is drawn;
One little heart is sad and sore
To the watchful eye of the Commodore.
Little Jack Creamer, ten years old,
In no purser's book or watch enrolled,
Must mope or skulk while his shipmates fight,—
No wonder his little face is white!
"Why, Jack, old man, so blue and sad?
Afraid of the music?" The face of the lad
With mingled shame and anger burns.
Quick to the Commodore he turns:
"I'm not a coward, but I think if you—
Excuse me, Capt'n, I mean if you knew
(I s'pose it's because I'm young and small)
I'm not on the books! I'm no one at all!
And as soon as this fighting work is done,
And we get our prize-money, every one
Has his share of the plunder—I get none."
"And you're sure we shall take her?" "Sure? Why, sir,
She's only a blessed Britisher!
We'll take her easy enough, I bet;
But glory's all that I'm going to get!"
"Glory! I doubt if I get more,
If I get so much," said the Commodore;
"But faith goes far in the race for fame,
And down on the books shall go your name."
Bravely the little seaman stood
To his post while the scuppers ran with blood,
While grizzled veterans looked and smiled
And gathered new courage from the child;
Till the enemy, crippled in pride and might,
Struck his crimson flag and gave up the fight.
Then little Jack Creamer stood once more
Face to face with the Commodore.
"You have got your glory," he said, "my lad,
And money to make your sweetheart glad.
Now, who may she be?" "My mother, sir;
I want you to send the half to her."
"And the rest?" Jack blushed and hung his head;
"I'll buy some schoolin' with that," he said.
Decatur laughed; then in graver mood:
"The first is the better, but both are good.
Your mother shall never know want while I
Have a ship to sail, or a flag to fly;
And schooling you'll have till all is blue,
But little the lubbers can teach to you."
Midshipman Creamer's story is told—
They did such things in the days of old,
When faith and courage won sure reward,
And the quarter-deck was not triply barred,
To the forecastle hero; for men were men,
And the Nation was close to its Maker then.
James Jeffrey Roche.

Encouraged by these successes, Congress, on January 2, 1813, appropriated $2,500,000 to build four 74-gun ships and six 44-gun ships. England also took them to heart, and toward the end of the month the entire British fleet was sent to blockade the Atlantic coast.

YANKEE THUNDERS

[1813]

Britannia's gallant streamers
Float proudly o'er the tide,
And fairly wave Columbia's stripes,
In battle side by side.
And ne'er did bolder seamen meet,
Where ocean's surges pour;
O'er the tide now they ride,
While the bell'wing thunders roar,
While the cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And the bell'wing thunders roar.
When Yankee meets the Briton,
Whose blood congenial flows,
By Heav'n created to be friends,
By fortune rendered foes;
Hard then must be the battle fray,
Ere well the fight is o'er;
Now they ride, side by side,
While the bell'wing thunders roar,
While her cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And the bell'wing thunders roar.
Still, still, for noble England
Bold D'Acres' streamers fly;
And for Columbia, gallant Hull's
As proudly and as high;
Now louder rings the battle din,
And thick the volumes pour;
Still they ride, side by side,
While the bell'wing thunders roar,
While the cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And the bell'wing thunders roar.
Why lulls Britannia's thunder,
That waked the wat'ry war?
Why stays the gallant GuerriÈre,
Whose streamers waved so fair?
That streamer drinks the ocean wave,
That warrior's fight is o'er!
Still they ride, side by side,
While the bell'wing thunders roar,
While the cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And the bell'wing thunders roar.
Hark! 'tis the Briton's lee gun!
Ne'er bolder warrior kneeled!
And ne'er to gallant mariners
Did braver seamen yield.
Proud be the sires, whose hardy boys
Then fell to fight no more:
With the brave, mid the wave;
When the cannon's thunders roar,
Their spirits then shall trim the blast,
And swell the thunder's roar.
Vain were the cheers of Britons,
Their hearts did vainly swell,
Where virtue, skill, and bravery
With gallant Morris fell.
That heart so well in battle tried,
Along the Moorish shore,
And again o'er the main,
When Columbia's thunders roar,
Shall prove its Yankee spirit true,
When Columbia's thunders roar.
Hence be our floating bulwark
Those oaks our mountains yield;
'Tis mighty Heaven's plain decree—
Then take the wat'ry field!
To ocean's farthest barrier then
Your whit'ning sail shall pour;
Safe they'll ride o'er the tide,
While Columbia's thunders roar,
While her cannon's fire is flashing fast,
And her Yankee thunders roar.

On March 11, 1813, the little privateer schooner, General Armstrong, Captain Guy R. Champlin, was cruising off Surinam River, when she sighted a sail, and on investigation found it to be a large vessel, apparently a British privateer. Champlin bore down and endeavored to board. The stranger kept off, and, suddenly raising her port covers, disclosed herself as a British 44-gun frigate. For forty-five minutes the Americans stood to their guns and endeavored to dismast the enemy, then gradually drew away and escaped.

THE GENERAL ARMSTRONG

[March 11, 1813]

Come, all you sons of Liberty, that to the seas belong,
It's worth your attention to listen to my song;
The history of a privateer I will detail in full,
That fought a "six-and-thirty" belonging to John Bull.
The General Armstrong she is called, and sailÈd from New York,
With all our hearts undaunted, once more to try our luck;
She was a noble vessel, a privateer of fame:
She had a brave commander, George Champlin was his name.
We stood unto the eastward, all with a favoring gale,
In longitude of fifty we spied a lofty sail:
Our mainsail being lower'd and foresail to repair,
Our squaresail being set, my boys, the wind it provÈd fair.
We very soon perceivÈd the lofty sail to be
Bearing down upon us while we lay under her lee;
All hands we call'd, and sail did make, then splicÈd the main-brace,
Night coming on, we sail'd so fast, she soon gave up the chase.
Then to Barbadoes we were bound, our course so well did steer;
We cruisÈd there for several days, and nothing did appear.
'Twas on the 11th of March, to windward of Surinam,
We spied a lofty ship, my boys, at anchor near the land;
All hands we call'd to quarters, and down upon her bore,
Thinking 'twas some merchant-ship then lying near the shore.
She quickly weighÈd anchor and from us did steer,
And setting her top-gallant sail as if she did us fear,
But soon we were alongside of her, and gave her a gun,
DeterminÈd to fight, my boys, and not from her to run.
We hoisted up the bloody flag and down upon her bore,
If she did not strike, my boys, no quarters we would show her;
Each man a brace of pistols, a boarding-pike and sword,
We'll give her a broadside, my boys, before we do her board.
All hands at their quarters lay, until we came alongside,
And gave them three hearty cheers, their British courage tried.
The lower ports she had shut in, the Armstrong to decoy,
And quickly she her ports did show, to daunt each Yankee boy.
The first broadside we gave them true, their colors shot away,
Their topsail, haulyards, mizen rigging, main and mizen stay,
Two ports we did knock into one, his starboard quarter tore,
They overboard their wounded flung, while cannons loud did roar.
She wore directly round, my boys, and piped all hands on deck,
For fear that we would board and serve a Yankee trick;
To board a six-and-thirty it was in vain to try,
While the grape, round, and langrage, like hailstones they did fly.
Brave Champlin on the quarter-deck so nobly gave command:
"Fight on, my brave Americans, dismast her if you can."
The round, grape, and star-shot so well did play,
A musket-ball from the maintop brave Champlin low did lay.
His wound was quickly dress'd, while he in his cabin lay;
The doctor, while attending, these words he heard him say:
"Our Yankee flag shall flourish," our noble captain cried,
"Before that we do strike, my boys, we'll sink alongside."
She was a six-and-thirty, and mounted forty-two,
We fought her four glasses, what more then could we do;
Till six brave seamen we had kill'd, which grievÈd us full sore,
And thirteen more wounded lay bleeding in their gore.
Our foremast being wounded, and bowsprit likewise;
Our lower rigging fore and aft, and headstay beside;
Our haulyards, braces, bowling, and foretop sheet also,
We found we could not fight her, boys, so from her we did go.
Our foremast proving dangerous, we could not carry sail,
Although we had it fish'd and welded with a chain;
It grieved us to the heart to put up with such abuse,
For this damn'd English frigate had surely spoil'd our cruise.
Here's success attend brave Champlin, his officers and men,
That fought with courage keen, my boys, our lives to defend;
We fought with much superior force, what could we do more?
Then haul'd our wind and stood again for Freedom's happy shore.

On the land, the year opened badly with the disastrous defeat of an American column, under General Winchester, at Raisin River, Michigan; but on April 27 General Pike, at the head of fifteen hundred men, stormed and captured the British fort at York, now Toronto.

CAPTURE OF LITTLE YORK

[April 27, 1813]

When Britain, with envy and malice inflamed,
Dared dispute the dear rights of Columbia's bless'd union,
We thought of the time when our freedom we claim'd,
And fought 'gainst oppression with fullest communion.
Our foes on the ocean have been forced to yield,
And fresh laurels we now gather up in the field.
Freedom's flag on the wilds of the west is unfurl'd,
And our foes seem to find their resistance delusion;
For our eagle her arrows amongst them has hurl'd
And their ranks of bold veterans fill'd with confusion.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
On the lakes of the west, full of national pride,
See our brave little fleet most triumphantly riding!
And behold the brave tars on the fresh-water tide,
In a noble commander, brave Chauncey, confiding.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
Their deeds of proud valor shall long stand enroll'd
On the bright shining page of our national glory:
And oft, in the deep winter's night, shall be told
The exploits of the tars of American story.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
Nor less shall the soldiers come in for their praise,
Who engaged to accomplish the great expedition;
And a monument Fame shall for them cheerily raise,
And their deeds shall in history find repetition.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
Let Britons still boast of their prowess and pluck;
We care not a straw for their muskets and cannon.
In the field we will beat them, unless they've the luck
To run from their foes like Tenedos and Shannon.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
Our sweet little bull-dogs, they thunder'd away,
And our sailors and soldiers the foe still kept mauling,
Till they grew very sick of such tight Yankee play,
And poor Sheaffe and his troops then ran away bawling.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
But the rascals on malice quite fully were bent:
And as from the fort they were cowardly going,
In pursuance to what was at first their intent,
The magazine they had resolved on up-blowing.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
Two hundred brave soldiers there met with their death;
And while for their country they nobly were dying,
Full fifty bold Britons at once lost their breath,
And with them in the air were their carcasses flying.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
The brave General Pike there met with his end;
But his virtues his country forever will cherish:
And while o'er his grave fair Freedom shall bend,
She will swear that his memory never shall perish.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
Let the minions of Britain swarm over our coast;
Columbians, all cowardly conduct disdaining,
We'll teach the invaders how vain is their boast,
And contend, whilst a drop of their blood is remaining.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.
Then, freemen, arise, and gird on your swords,
And declare, while you still have the means of resistance,
That you ne'er will give up for the threatening of words,
Nor of arms, those dear rights which you prize as existence.
Our foes on the ocean, etc.

Forty of the enemy and more than two hundred Americans were killed or wounded by the explosion of a magazine, just as the place surrendered. General Pike was mortally wounded, and died with his head on the British flag which had been brought to him.

THE DEATH OF GENERAL PIKE

[April 27, 1813]

General William Henry Harrison, meanwhile, at the head of the western army, was besieged in Fort Meigs, at the mouth of the Maumee, by a large force of Indians and British. On May 1 the British made a determined assault, but were beaten off; a few days later, after a desperate battle with a relief column, the British raised the siege and retreated to Canada.

OLD FORT MEIGS

[April 28—May 9, 1813]

Oh! lonely is our old green fort,
Where oft, in days of old,
Our gallant soldiers bravely fought
'Gainst savage allies bold;
But with the change of years have pass'd
That unrelenting foe,
Since we fought here with Harrison,
A long time ago.
It seems but yesterday I heard,
From yonder thicket nigh,
The unerring rifle's sharp report,
The Indian's startling cry.
Yon brooklet flowing at our feet,
With crimson gore did flow,
When we fought here with Harrison,
A long time ago.
The river rolls between its banks,
As when of old we came,
Each grassy path, each shady nook,
Seems to me still the same;
But we are scatter'd now, whose faith
Pledged here, through weal or woe,
With Harrison our soil to guard,
A long time ago.
But many a soldier's lip is mute,
And clouded many a brow,
And hearts that beat for honor then,
Have ceased their throbbing now.
We ne'er shall meet again in life
As then we met, I trow,
When we fought here with Harrison,
A long time ago.

The remarkable list of victories on the ocean was soon to be broken, for on June 1, 1813, the 36-gun frigate, Chesapeake, was defeated and captured by the British 38-gun frigate, Shannon.

THE SHANNON AND THE CHESAPEAKE

[June 1, 1813]

The captain of the Shannon came sailing up the bay,
A reeling wind flung out behind his pennons bright and gay;
His cannon crashed a challenge; the smoke that hid the sea
Was driven hard to windward and drifted back to lee.
The captain of the Shannon sent word into the town:
Was Lawrence there, and would he dare to sail his frigate down
And meet him at the harbor's mouth and fight him, gun to gun,
For honor's sake, with pride at stake, until the fight was won?
Now, long the gallant Lawrence had scoured the bitter main;
With many a scar and wound of war his ship was home again;
His crew, relieved from service, were scattered far and wide,
And scarcely one, his duty done, had lingered by his side.
But to refuse the challenge? Could he outlive the shame?
Brave men and true, but deadly few, he gathered to his fame.
Once more the great ship Chesapeake prepared her for the fight,—
"I'll bring the foe to town in tow," he said, "before to-night!"
High on the hills of Hingham that overlooked the shore,
To watch the fray and hope and pray, for they could do no more,
The children of the country watched the children of the sea
When the smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee.
"How can he fight," they whispered, "with only half a crew,
Though they be rare to do and dare, yet what can brave men do?"
But when the Chesapeake came down, the Stars and Stripes on high,
Stilled was each fear, and cheer on cheer resounded to the sky.
The Captain of the Shannon, he swore both long and loud:
"This victory, where'er it be, shall make two nations proud!
Now onward to this victory or downward to defeat!
A sailor's life is sweet with strife, a sailor's death as sweet."
And as when lightnings rend the sky and gloomy thunders roar,
And crashing surge plays devil's dirge upon the stricken shore,
With thunder and with sheets of flame the two ships rang with shot,
And every gun burst forth a sun of iron crimson-hot.
And twice they lashed together and twice they tore apart,
And iron balls burst wooden walls and pierced each oaken heart.
Still from the hills of Hingham men watched with hopes and fears,
While all the bay was torn that day with shot that rained like tears.
The tall masts of the Chesapeake went groaning by the board;
The Shannon's spars were weak with scars when Broke cast down his sword;
"Now woe," he cried, "to England, and shame and woe to me!"
The smoke drove hard to windward and drifted back to lee.
"Give them one breaking broadside more," he cried, "before we strike!"
But one grim ball that ruined all for hope and home alike
Laid Lawrence low in glory, yet from his pallid lip
Rang to the land his last command: "Boys, don't give up the ship!"
* * * * *
The wounded wept like women when they hauled her ensign down.
Men's cheeks were pale as with the tale from Hingham to the town
They hurried in swift silence, while toward the eastern night
The victor bore away from shore and vanished out of sight.
Hail to the great ship Chesapeake! Hail to the hero brave
Who fought her fast, and loved her last, and shared her sudden grave!
And glory be to those that died for all eternity;
They lie apart at the mother-heart of God's eternal sea.
Thomas Tracy BouvÉ.

A British versifier celebrated the victory by composing a ballad in imitation of the famous one about the Constitution and GuerriÈre.

CHESAPEAKE AND SHANNON

[June 1, 1813]

The Chesapeake so bold
Out of Boston, I've been told,
Came to take a British Frigate
Neat and handy O!
While the people of the port
Flocked out to see the sport,
With their music playing
Yankee Doodle Dandy O!
Now the British Frigate's name
Which for the purpose came
Of cooling Yankee courage
Neat and handy O!
Was the Shannon, Captain Broke,
Whose crew were heart of oak,
And for the fighting were confessed
To be the dandy O!
The engagement scarce begun
Ere they flinched from their guns,
Which at first they thought of working
Neat and handy O!
The bold Broke he waved his sword,
Crying, "Now, my lads, on board,
And we'll stop their playing
Yankee Doodle Dandy O!"
They no sooner heard the word
Than they quickly rushed aboard
And hauled down the Yankee ensign
Neat and handy O!
Notwithstanding all their brag,
Now the glorious British flag
At the Yankee's mizzen-peak
Was quite the dandy O!
Successful Broke to you,
And your officers and crew,
Who on board the Shannon frigate
Fought so handy O!
And may it ever prove
That in fighting as in love
The true British tar is the dandy O!

James Lawrence, commander of the Chesapeake, had been fatally wounded early in the action. Until the last, he kept crying from the cockpit, "Keep the guns going! Fight her till she strikes or sinks!" His last words were the famous, "Don't give up the ship!"

DEFEAT AND VICTORY

[June 1, 1813]

Through the clangor of the cannon,
Through the combat's wreck and reek,
Answer to th' o'ermastering Shannon
Thunders from the Chesapeake:
Gallant Lawrence, wounded, dying,
Speaks with still unconquered lip
Ere the bitter draught he drinks:
Keep the Flag flying!
Fight her till she strikes or sinks!
Don't give up the ship!
Still that voice is sounding o'er us,
So bold Perry heard it call;
Farragut has joined its chorus;
Porter, Dewey, Wainwright—all
Heard the voice of duty crying;
Deathless word from dauntless lip
That our past and future links:
Keep the Flag flying!
Fight her till she strikes or sinks!
Don't give up the ship!
Wallace Rice.

Another action which resulted very differently was that between the American 16-gun schooner, Enterprise, and the British 14-gun brig, Boxer. The ships came together off Monhegan on September 5, 1813, and after a fierce fight lasting an hour, the Englishman surrendered.

ENTERPRISE AND BOXER

[September 5, 1813]

Again Columbia's stripes, unfurl'd,
Have testified before the world,
How brave are those who wear 'em;
The foe has now been taught again
His streamers cannot shade the main
While Yankees live to share 'em.
Huzza! once more for Yankee skill!
The brave are very generous still
But teach the foes submission:
Now twice three times his flag we've gain'd,
And more, much more can be obtain'd
Upon the same condition.
The gallant Enterprise her name,
A vessel erst of little fame,
Had sail'd and caught the foe, sirs;
'Twas hers the glory and the gain,
To meet the Boxer on the main,
And bring her home in tow, sirs.
Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.
Fierce lightnings gleam and thunders roar,
While round and grape in torrents pour,
And echo through the skies, sirs;
When minutes forty-five had flown,
Behold the Briton's colors down!—
She's yielded up a prize, sirs.
Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.
The victory gain'd, we count the cost,
We mourn, indeed, a hero lost!
Who nobly fell, we know, sirs;
But Burrows, we with Lawrence find,
Has left a living name behind,
Much honor'd by the foe, sirs.
Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.
And while we notice deeds of fame,
In which the gallant honors claim;
As heroes of our story,
The name of Blyth a meed demands,
Whose tomb is deck'd by freemen's hands,
Who well deserve the glory.
Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.
Then, while we fill the sparkling glass,
And cause it cheerly round to pass,
In social hours assembled;
Be Hull, Decatur, Bainbridge, Jones,
Lawrence and Burrows—Victory's sons,
With gratitude remember'd.
Huzza! once more for Yankee skill, etc.

This little victory was soon overshadowed by a far more brilliant and important one on Lake Erie, where, on September 10, 1813, Oliver Hazard Perry, in command of a hastily constructed fleet of nine ships, defeated and captured a British squadron of superior strength.

PERRY'S VICTORY

[September 10, 1813]

We sailed to and fro in Erie's broad lake,
To find British bullies or get into their wake,
When we hoisted our canvas with true Yankee speed,
And the brave Captain Perry our squadron did lead.
We sailed through the lake, boys, in search of the foe,
In the cause of Columbia our brav'ry to show,
To be equal in combat was all our delight,
As we wished the proud Britons to know we could fight.
And whether like Yeo, boys, they'd taken affright,
We could see not, nor find them by day or by night;
So cruising we went in a glorious cause,
In defence of our rights, our freedom, and laws.
At length to our liking, six sails hove in view,
Huzzah! says brave Perry, huzzah! says his crew,
And then for the chase, boys, with our brave little crew,
We fell in with the bullies and gave them "burgoo."
Though the force was unequal, determined to fight,
We brought them to action before it was night;
We let loose our thunder, our bullets did fly,
"Now give them your shot, boys," our commander did cry.
We gave them a broadside, our cannon to try,
"Well done," says brave Perry, "for quarter they'll cry,
Shot well home, my brave boys, they shortly shall see,
That quite brave as they are, still braver are we."
Then we drew up our squadron, each man full of fight,
And put the proud Britons in a terrible plight,
The brave Perry's movements will prove fully as bold,
As the fam'd Admiral Nelson's prowess of old.
The conflict was sharp, boys, each man to his gun,
For our country, her glory, the vict'ry was won,
So six sail (the whole fleet) was our fortune to take,
Here's a health to brave Perry, who governs the Lake.

THE BATTLE OF ERIE

[September 10, 1813]

Avast, honest Jack! now, before you get mellow,
Come tip us that stave just, my hearty old fellow,
'Bout the young commodore, and his fresh-water crew,
Who keelhaul'd the Britons, and captured a few.
"'Twas just at sunrise, and a glorious day,
Our squadron at anchor snug in Put-in-Bay,
When we saw the bold Britons, and cleared for a bout,
Instead of put in, by the Lord we put out.
"Up went union-jack, never up there before,
'Don't give up the ship' was the motto it bore;
And as soon as that motto our gallant lads saw,
They thought of their Lawrence, and shouted huzza!
"Oh! then it would have raised your hat three inches higher,
To see how we dash'd in among them like fire!
The Lawrence went first, and the rest as they could,
And a long time the brunt of the action she stood.
"'Twas peppering work,—fire, fury, and smoke,
And groans that from wounded lads, spite of 'em, broke.
The water grew red round our ship as she lay,
Though 'twas never before so till that bloody day.
"They fell all around me like spars in a gale;
The shot made a sieve of each rag of a sail;
And out of our crew scarce a dozen remain'd;
But these gallant tars still the battle maintain'd.
"'Twas then our commander—God bless his young heart—
Thought it best from his well-peppered ship to depart,
And bring up the rest who were tugging behind—
For why—they were sadly in want of a wind.
"So to Yarnall he gave the command of his ship,
And set out, like a lark, on this desperate trip,
In a small open yawl, right through their whole fleet,
Who with many a broadside our cockboat did greet.
"I steer'd her and damme if every inch
Of these timbers of mine at each crack didn't flinch:
But our tight little commodore, cool and serene,
To stir ne'er a muscle by any was seen.
"Whole volleys of muskets were levell'd at him,
But the devil a one ever grazed e'en a limb,
Though he stood up aloft in the stern of the boat,
Till the crew pull'd him down by the skirt of his coat.
"At last, through Heaven's mercy, we reached t'other ship,
And the wind springing up, we gave her the whip,
And run down their line, boys, through thick and through thin,
And bother'd their crews with a horrible din.
"Then starboard and larboard, and this way and that,
We bang'd them and raked them, and laid their masts flat,
Till, one after t'other, they haul'd down their flag,
And an end, for that time, put to Johnny Bull's brag.
"The Detroit, and Queen Charlotte, and Lady Prevost,
Not able to fight or run, gave up the ghost:
And not one of them all from our grapplings got free,
Though we'd fifty-four guns, and they just sixty-three.
"Smite my limbs! but they all got their bellies full then,
And found what it was, boys, to buckle with men,
Who fight, or, what's just the same, think that they fight
For their country's free trade and their own native right.
"Now give us a bumper to Elliott and those
Who came up, in good time, to belabor our foes:
To our fresh-water sailors we'll toss off one more,
And a dozen, at least, to our young commodore.
"And though Britons may brag of their ruling the ocean,
And that sort of thing, by the Lord, I've a notion,
I'll bet all I'm worth—who takes it—who takes?
Though they're lords of the sea, we'll be lords of the lakes."

Immediately on receiving the surrender, Perry wrote with a pencil on the back of an old letter, using his cap for a desk, his famous message, "We have met the enemy and they are ours—two ships, two brigs, one schooner, and one sloop," and dispatched it to General Harrison.

PERRY'S VICTORY—A SONG

[September 10, 1813]

Columbia, appear!—To thy mountains ascend,
And pour thy bold hymn to the winds and the woods;
Columbia, appear!—O'er thy tempest-harp bend,
And far to the nations its trumpet-song send,—
Let thy cliff-echoes wake, with their sun-nourish'd broods,
And chant to the desert—the skies—and the floods,
And bid them remember,
The Tenth of September,
When our Eagle came down from her home in the sky—
And the souls of our heroes were marshall'd on high.
Columbia, ascend!—Let thy warriors behold
Their flag like a firmament bend o'er thy head.
The wide rainbow-flag with its star-clustered fold!
Let the knell of dark Battle beneath it be tolled,
While the anthem of Peace shall be pealed for the dead,
And the rude waters heave, on whose bosom they bled:
Oh, they will remember,
The Tenth of September,
When their souls were let loose in a tempest of flame,
And wide Erie shook at the trumpet of Fame.
Columbia, appear!—Let thy cloud minstrels wake,
As they march on the storm, all the grandeur of song,
Till the far mountain reel—and the billowless lake
Shall be mantled in froth, and its Monarch shall quake
On his green oozy throne, as their harping comes strong,
With the chime of the winds as they're bursting along.
For he will remember,
The Tenth of September,
When he saw his dominions all covered with foam,
And heard the loud war in its echoless home.
Columbia, appear!—Be thine olive displayed,
O cheer with thy smile, all the land and the tide!
Be the anthem we hear not the song that was made,
When the victims of slaughter stood forth, all arrayed
In blood-dripping garments—and shouted—and died.
Let the hymning of peace o'er the blue heavens ride;
O let us remember,
The Tenth of September,
When the dark waves of Erie were brightened to-day,
And the flames of the Battle were quenched in the spray.

Harrison, at the head of his army, started in hot pursuit of the British and Indians, who had been compelled to evacuate Detroit, and on October 5 overtook them on the bank of the Thames, and routed them with great loss, the Indian chief Tecumseh being among the slain.

THE FALL OF TECUMSEH

[October 5, 1813]

What heavy-hoofed coursers the wilderness roam,
To the war-blast indignantly tramping?
Their mouths are all white, as if frosted with foam,
The steel bit impatiently champing.
'Tis the hand of the mighty that grasps the rein,
Conducting the free and the fearless.
Ah! see them rush forward, with wild disdain,
Through paths unfrequented and cheerless.
From the mountains had echoed the charge of death,
Announcing that chivalrous sally;
The savage was heard, with untrembling breath,
To pour his response from the valley.
One moment, and nought but the bugle was heard,
And nought but the war-whoop given;
The next, and the sky seemed convulsively stirred,
As if by the lightning riven.
The din of the steed, and the sabred stroke,
The blood-stifled gasp of the dying,
Were screened by the curling sulphur-smoke,
That upward went wildly flying.
In the mist that hung over the field of blood,
The chief of the horsemen contended;
His rowels were bathed in purple flood,
That fast from his charger descended.
That steed reeled, and fell, in the van of the fight,
But the rider repressed not his daring,
Till met by a savage, whose rank and might
Were shown by the plume he was wearing.
The moment was fearful; a mightier foe
Had ne'er swung the battle-axe o'er him;
But hope nerved his arm for a desperate blow,
And Tecumseh fell prostrate before him.
O ne'er may the nations again be cursed
With conflict so dark and appalling!—
Foe grappled with foe, till the life-blood burst
From their agonized bosoms in falling.
Gloom, silence, and solitude rest on the spot
Where the hopes of the red man perished;
But the fame of the hero who fell shall not,
By the virtuous, cease to be cherished.
He fought, in defence of his kindred and king,
With a spirit most loving and loyal.
And long shall the Indian warrior sing
The deeds of Tecumseh the royal.
The lightning of intellect flashed from his eye,
In his arm slept the force of the thunder,
But the bolt passed the suppliant harmlessly by,
And left the freed captive to wonder.
Above, near the path of the pilgrim, he sleeps,
With a rudely built tumulus o'er him;
And the bright-bosomed Thames, in his majesty, sweeps,
By the mound where his followers bore him.

The British took care to maintain as strictly as possible the blockade of the American coast, and the coast towns were kept in a constant state of terror lest they be bombarded and burned.

THE LEGEND OF WALBACH TOWER

Scene.Fort Constitution on the Island of Newcastle, off Portsmouth,
N. H., Colonel Walbach, commanding.
Period, the fall of 1813.

More ill at ease was never man than Walbach, that Lord's day,
When, spent with speed, a trawler cried, "A war-ship heads this way!"
His pipe, half filled, to shatters flew; he climbed the ridge of knolls;
And, turning spy-glass toward the east, swept the long reach of Shoals.
An hour he watched: behind his back the Portsmouth spires waxed red;
Its harbor like a field of war, a brazen shield o'erhead.
Another hour: the sundown gun the Sabbath stillness brake;
When loud a second voice hallooed, "Two war-ships hither make!"
Again the colonel scanned the east, where soon white gleams arose:
Behind Star Isle they first appeared, then flashed o'er Smuttynose.
Fleet-wing'd they left Duck Isle astern; when, rounding full in view,
Lo! in the face of Appledore three Britishers hove to.
"To arms, O townsfolk!" Walbach cried, "Behold these black hawk three!
Whether they pluck old Portsmouth town rests now with you and me.
"The guns of Kittery, and mine, may keep the channel clear,
If but one pintle-stone be raised to ward me in the rear.
"But scarce a score my muster-roll; the earthworks lie unmanned
(Whereof some mouthing spy, no doubt, has made them understand);
"And if, ere dawn, their long-boat keels once kiss the nether sands,
My every port-hole's mouth is stopped, and we be in their hands!"
Then straightway from his place upspake the parson of the town:
"Let us beseech Heaven's blessing first!"—and all the folk knelt down.
"O God, our hands are few and faint; our hope rests all with thee:
Lend us thy hand in this sore strait,—and thine the glory be!"
"Amen! Amen!" the chorus rose; "Amen!" the pines replied;
And through the churchyard's rustling grass an "Amen" softly sighed.
Astir the village was awhile, with hoof and iron clang;
Then all grew still, save where, aloft, a hundred trowels rang.
None supped, they say, that Lord's-day eve; none slept, they say, that night;
But all night long, with tireless arms, each toiled as best he might.
Four flax-haired boys of Amazeen the flickering torches stay,
Peopling with titan shadow-groups the canopy of gray;
Grandsires, with frost above their brows, the steaming mortar mix;
Dame Tarlton's apron, crisp at dawn, helps hod the yellow bricks;
While pilot, cooper, mackerelman, parson and squire as well,
Make haste to plant the pintle-gun, and raise its citadel.
And one who wrought still tells the tale, that as his task he plied,
An unseen fellow-form he felt that labored at his side;
And still to wondering ears relates, that as each brick was squared,
Lo! unseen trowels clinked response, and a new course prepared.
O night of nights! The blinking dawn beheld the marvel done,
And from the new martello boomed the echoing morning gun.
One stormy cloud its lip upblew; and as its thunder rolled,
Old England saw, above the smoke, New England's flag unfold.
Then, slowly tacking to and fro, more near the cruisers made,
To see what force unheralded had flown to Walbach's aid.
"God be our stay," the parson cried, "who hearkened Israel's wail!"
And as he spake,—all in a line, seaward the ships set sail.
George Houghton.

In order to draw British ships from this blockade, the government adopted the policy of sending light squadrons into distant seas, and in October, 1812, the 32-gun frigate Essex, Captain David Porter, sailed to join the Constitution and Hornet for a cruise in the Indian Ocean. Porter failed to find the other ships and decided to double Cape Horn and cruise in the Pacific. He captured a number of prizes, and completely destroyed British commerce in the south Pacific. A strong force of British cruisers was sent out to intercept him, and finally, on March 28, 1814, he was caught in a disabled condition at Valparaiso by two British ships, and attacked, notwithstanding the neutrality of the port. After a desperate fight, he was forced to surrender.

THE BATTLE OF VALPARAISO

Proeliis audax, neque te silebo.—Hor.

[March 28, 1814]

From the laurel's fairest bough,
Let the muse her garland twine,
To adorn our Porter's brow,
Who, beyond the burning line,
Led his caravan of tars o'er the tide.
To the pilgrims fill the bowl,
Who, around the southern pole,
Saw new constellations roll,
For their guide.
"Heave the topmast from the board,
And our ship for action clear,
By the cannon and the sword,
We will die or conquer here.
The foe, of twice our force, nears us fast:
To your posts, my faithful tars!
Mind your rigging, guns, and spars,
And defend your stripes and stars
To the last."
At the captain's bold command,
Flew each sailor to his gun,
And resolved he there would stand,
Though the odds was two to one,
To defend his flag and ship with his life:
High on every mast display'd,
"God, Our Country, and Free Trade,"
E'en the bravest braver made
For the strife.
Fierce the storm of battle pours:
But unmoved as ocean's rock,
When the tempest round it roars,
Every seaman breasts the shock,
Boldly stepping where his brave messmates fall.
O'er his head, full oft and loud,
Like the vulture in a cloud,
As it cuts the twanging shroud,
Screams the ball.
Before the siroc blast
From its iron caverns driven,
Drops the sear'd and shiver'd mast,
By the bolt of battle riven,
And higher heaps the ruin of the deck—
As the sailor, bleeding, dies,
To his comrades lifts his eyes,
"Let our flag still wave," he cries,
O'er the wreck.
In echo to the sponge,
Hark! along the silent lee,
Oft is heard the solemn plunge,
In the bosom of the sea.
'Tis not the sullen plunge of the dead,
But the self-devoted tar,
Who, to grace the victor's car,
Scorns from home and friends afar
To be led.
Long live the gallant crew
Who survived that day of blood:
And may fortune soon renew
Equal battle on the flood.
Long live the glorious names of the brave
O'er these martyrs of the deep,
Oft the roving tar shall weep,
Crying, "Sweetly may they sleep
'Neath the wave."

With the opening of the spring of 1814, the campaign along the Canadian border was begun with unusual activity. The army there was under Major-General Jacob Brown, and on July 25 met the British in the fiercely contested battle of Lundy's Lane, or Bridgewater.

THE BATTLE OF BRIDGEWATER

[July 25, 1814]

Colonel Winfield Scott commanded a battalion at this battle, and by a series of desperate charges drove the British from the field. But so shaken was the American army that it was compelled to retreat to camp, after spending the night upon the conquered ground.

THE HERO OF BRIDGEWATER

[July 25, 1814]

Seize, O seize the sounding lyre,
With its quivering string!
Strike the chords, in ecstasy,
Whilst loud the valleys ring!
Sing the chief, who, gloriously,
From England's veteran band,
Pluck'd the wreaths of victory,
To grace his native land!
Where Bridgewater's war-famed stream
Saw the foemen reel,
Thrice repulsed, with burnish'd gleam
Of bayonet, knife, and steel;
And its crimson'd waters run
Red with gurgling flow,
As Albion's gathering hosts his arm,
His mighty arm, laid low.
Strike the sounding string of fame,
O lyre! Beat loud, ye drums!
Ye clarion blasts, exalt his name!
Behold the hero comes!
I see Columbia, joyously,
Her palmy circlet throw
Around his high victorious brow
Who laid her foemen low!
Take him, Fame! for thine he is!
On silvery columns, rear
The name of Scott, whence envious Time
Shall ne'er its honors tear!
And thou, O Albion, quake with dread!
Ye veterans shrink, the while,
Whene'er his glorious name shall sound
To shake your sea-girt isle!
Charles L. S. Jones.

The British, meanwhile, had extended their blockade to the whole coast of the United States, and were ordered to "destroy and lay waste all towns and districts of the United States found accessive to the attack of the British armaments." In pursuance of these orders, town after town along the coast was bombarded and burned. On August 9, 1814, a squadron descended on the little village of Stonington, but met a warm reception.

THE BATTLE OF STONINGTON ON THE SEABOARD OF CONNECTICUT

[August 9-12, 1814]

Four gallant ships from England came
Freighted deep with fire and flame,
And other things we need not name,
To have a dash at Stonington.
Now safely moor'd, their work begun;
They thought to make the Yankees run,
And have a mighty deal of fun
In stealing sheep at Stonington.
A deacon then popp'd up his head,
And parson Jones's sermon read,
In which the reverend doctor said
That they must fight for Stonington.
A townsman bade them, next, attend
To sundry resolutions penn'd,
By which they promised to defend
With sword and gun old Stonington.
The ships advancing different ways,
The Britons soon began to blaze,
And put th' old women in amaze,
Who fear'd the loss of Stonington.
The Yankees to their fort repair'd,
And made as though they little cared
For all that came—though very hard
The cannon play'd on Stonington.
The Ramillies began the attack,
Despatch came forward—bold and black—
And none can tell what kept them back
From setting fire to Stonington.
The bombardiers with bomb and ball,
Soon made a farmer's barrack fall,
And did a cow-house sadly maul
That stood a mile from Stonington.
They kill'd a goose, they kill'd a hen,
Three hogs they wounded in a pen—
They dash'd away, and pray what then?
This was not taking Stonington.
The shells were thrown, the rockets flew,
But not a shell, of all they threw,
Though every house was full in view,
Could burn a house at Stonington.
To have their turn they thought but fair;—
The Yankees brought two guns to bear,
And, sir, it would have made you stare,
This smoke of smokes at Stonington.
They bored Pactolus through and through,
And kill'd and wounded of her crew
So many, that she bade adieu
T' the gallant boys of Stonington.
The brig Despatch was hull'd and torn—
So crippled, riddled, so forlorn,
No more she cast an eye of scorn
On the little fort at Stonington.
The Ramillies gave up th' affray,
And, with her comrades, sneak'd away,
Such was the valor, on that day,
Of British tars near Stonington.
But some assert, on certain grounds
(Besides the damage and the wounds),
It cost the king ten thousand pounds
To have a dash at Stonington.
Philip Freneau.

Occasionally, an American ship would manage to deal a telling blow. The Wasp, cruising in the English Channel, did especially effective work, among her most famous actions being that with the Avon on the night of September 1, 1814, in which, after a spirited fight, the Avon was sunk.

THE OCEAN-FIGHT

[September 1, 1814]

The sun had sunk beneath the west,
When two proud barks to battle press'd,
With swelling sail and streamers dress'd,
So gallantly.
Proud Britain's pennon flouts the skies:
Columbia's flag more proudly flies,
Her emblem stars of victories
Beam gloriously.
Sol's lingering rays, through vapors shed,
Have streak'd the sky of bloody red,
And now the ensanguined lustre spread
Heaven's canopy.
Dread prelude to that awful night
When Britain's and Columbia's might
Join'd in the fierce and bloody fight,
Hard rivalry.
Now, lowering o'er the stormy deep,
Dank, sable clouds more threatening sweep:
Yet still the barks their courses keep
Unerringly.
The northern gales more fiercely blow,
The white foam dashing o'er the prow;
The starry crescent round each bow
Beams vividly.
Near and more near the war-ships ride,
Till, ranged for battle, side by side,
Each warrior's heart beats high with pride
Of chivalry.
'Twas awful, ere the fight begun,
To see brave warriors round each gun,
While thoughts on home and carnage run,
Stand silently.
As death-like stillness reigns around,
Nature seems wrapp'd in peace profound,
Ere fires, volcanic, mountain bound,
Burst furiously.
So, bursting from Columbia's prow,
Her thunder on the red-cross foe,
The lurid cloud's sulphuric glow
Glares awfully.
ReËchoing peals more fiercely roar,
Britannia's shatter'd sides run gore,
The foaming waves that raged before,
Sink, tremulous.
Columbia's last sulphuric blaze,
That lights her stripes and starry rays,
The vanquish'd red-cross flag betrays,
Struck fearfully.
And, hark! their piercing shrieks of wo!
Haste, haste and save the sinking foe:
Haste, e'er their wreck to bottom go,
Brave conquerors.
Now, honor to the warriors brave,
Whose field of fame, the mountain wave,
Their corses bear to ocean's cave,
Their sepulchre.
Their country's pÆans swell their praise;
And whilst the warm tear, gushing, strays,
Full many a bard shall chant his lays,
Their requiem.

The Wasp herself never returned to port. On September 21 she captured the Atalanta and put a crew on board to take the prize to America. They parted company, and the Wasp was never seen again.

THE LOST WAR-SLOOP

(THE WASP, 1814)

O the pride of Portsmouth water,
Toast of every brimming beaker,—
Eighteen hundred and fourteen on land and sea,—
Was the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,
Built of oaks Kearsarge had guarded,
Pines of Maine to lift her colors high and free!
Every timber scorning cowards;
Every port alert for foemen
From the masthead seen on weather-side or lee;—
With eleven guns to starboard,
And eleven guns to larboard,
All for glory on a morn of May sailed she.
British ships were in the offing;
Swift and light she sped between them,—
Well her daring crew knew shoal and wind and tide;
They had come from Portsmouth river,
Sea-girt Marblehead and Salem,
Bays and islands where the fisher-folk abide;
Come for love of home and country,
Come with wrongs that cried for vengeance,—
Every man among them brave and true and tried.
"Hearts of oak" are British seamen?
Hearts of fire were these, their kindred,
Flaming till the haughty foe should be descried!
From the mountains, from the prairies,
Blew the west winds glad to waft her;—
Ah, what goodly ships before her guns went down!
Ships with wealth of London laden,
Ships with treasures of the Indies,
Till her name brought fear to British wharf and town;
Till the war-sloops Reindeer, Avon,
To her valor struck their colors,
Making coast and ocean ring with her renown;
While her captain cried, exultant,
"Britain, to the bold Republic,
Of the empire of the seas shall yield the crown!"
Oh, the woful, woful ending
Of the pride of Portsmouth water!
Never more to harbor nor to shore came she!
Springs returned but brought no tidings;
Mothers, maidens, broken-hearted,
Wept the gallant lads that sailed away in glee.
Did the bolts of heaven blast her?
Did the hurricanes o'erwhelm her
With her starry banner and her tall masts three?
Was a pirate-fleet her captor?
Did she drift to polar oceans?
Who shall tell the awful secret of the sea!
Who shall tell? yet many a sailor
In his watch at dawn or midnight,
When the wind is wildest and the black waves moan,
Sees a stanch three-master looming;
Hears the hurried call to quarters,
The drum's quick beat and the bugle fiercely blown;—
Then the cannon's direful thunder
Echoes far along the billows;
Then the victor's shout for the foe overthrown;—
And the watcher knows the phantom
Is the Wasp, the gallant war-sloop,
Still a rover of the seas and glory's own!
Edna Dean Proctor.

The abdication of Napoleon enabled England to turn her undivided attention to the war with America, and a large body of troops was detailed for service here. Having lost control of Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, England determined to secure Lake Champlain and to invade New York by this route. A force of twelve thousand regulars, under General George Prevost, started from Montreal early in August, while the British naval force on the lake was augmented to nineteen vessels.

ON THE BRITISH INVASION

[1814]

From France, desponding and betray'd,
From liberty in ruins laid,
Exulting Britain has display'd
Her flag, again to invade us.
Her myrmidons, with murdering eye,
Across the broad Atlantic fly,
Prepared again their strength to try,
And strike our country's standard.
Lord Wellington's ten thousand slaves,
And thrice ten thousand, on the waves,
And thousands more of brags and braves
Are under sail, and coming,
To burn our towns, to seize our soil,
To change our laws, our country spoil,
And Madison to Elba's isle
To send without redemption.
In Boston state they hope to find
A Yankee host of kindred mind,
To aid their arms, to rise and bind
Their countrymen in shackles.
But no such thing—it will not do—
At least, not while a Jersey Blue
Is to the cause of freedom true,
Or the bold Pennsylvanian.
A curse on England's frantic schemes!
Both mad and blind, her monarch dreams
Of crowns and kingdoms in these climes,
Where kings have had their sentence.
Though Washington has left our coast,
Yet other Washingtons we boast,
Who rise, instructed by his ghost,
To punish all invaders.
Go where they will, where'er they land,
This pilfering, plundering, pirate band,
They liberty will find at hand
To hurl them to perdition!
If in Virginia they appear,
Their fate is fix'd, their doom is near,
Death in their front, and hell their rear;
So says the gallant buckskin.
All Carolina is prepared,
And Charleston doubly on her guard;
Where, once, Sir Peter badly fared,
So blasted by Fort Moultrie.
If farther south they turn their views,
With veteran troops, or veteran crews,
The curse of Heaven their march pursues,
To send them all a-packing.
The tallest mast that sails the wave,
The longest keel its waters lave,
Will bring them to an early grave
On the shores of Pensacola.
Philip Freneau.

The American commander on the lake was Thomas Macdonough, and by almost herculean efforts he managed to build and launch a ship, a schooner, and a number of gunboats, so that his total force was raised to fourteen sail. With this fleet, he proceeded to Plattsburg and anchored in Plattsburg Bay. On September 11 the British fleet, certain of victory, sailed in and attacked him, but was ignominiously defeated.

THE BATTLE OF LAKE CHAMPLAIN

[September 11, 1814]

Parading near Saint Peter's flood
Full fourteen thousand soldiers stood;
Allied with natives of the wood,
With frigates, sloops, and galleys near;
Which southward, now, began to steer;
Their object was, Ticonderogue.
Assembled at Missisqui bay
A feast they held, to hail the day,
When all should bend to British sway
From Plattsburgh to Ticonderogue.
And who could tell, if reaching there
They might not other laurels share
And England's flag in triumph bear
To the capitol, at Albany!
Sir George advanced, with fire and sword,
The frigates were with vengeance stored,
The strength of Mars was felt on board,—
When Downie gave the dreadful word,
Huzza! for death or victory!
Sir George beheld the prize at stake,
And, with his veterans, made the attack,
Macomb's brave legions drove him back;
And England's fleet approached, to meet
A desperate combat, on the lake.
From Isle La Motte to Saranac
With sulphurous clouds the heavens were black;
We saw advance the Confiance,
Shall blood and carnage mark her track,
To gain dominion on the lake.
Then on our ships she poured her flame,
And many a tar did kill or maim,
Who suffered for their country's fame,
Her soil to save, her rights to guard.
Macdonough, now, began his play,
And soon his seamen heard him say,
"No Saratoga yields, this day,
To all the force that Britain sends.
"Disperse, my lads, and man the waist,
Be firm, and to your stations haste,
And England from Champlain is chased,
If you behave as you see me."
The fire began with awful roar;
At our first flash the artillery tore,
From his proud stand, their commodore,
A presage of the victory.
The skies were hid in flame and smoke,
Such thunders from the cannon spoke,
The contest such an aspect took
As if all nature went to wreck!
Amidst his decks, with slaughter strewed,
Unmoved, the brave Macdonough stood,
Or waded through a scene of blood,
At every step that round him streamed:
He stood amidst Columbia's sons,
He stood amidst dismounted guns,
He fought amidst heart-rending groans,
The tattered sail, the tottering mast.
Then, round about, his ship he wore,
And charged his guns with vengeance sore,
And more than Etna shook the shore—
The foe confessed the contest vain.
In vain they fought, in vain they sailed,
That day; for Britain's fortune failed,
And their best efforts naught availed
To hold dominion on Champlain.
So, down their colors to the deck
The vanquished struck—their ships a wreck—
What dismal tidings for Quebec,
What news for England and her prince!
For, in this fleet, from England won,
A favorite project is undone;
Her sorrows only are begun—
And she may want, and very soon,
Her armies for her own defence.
Philip Freneau.

THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG BAY

[September 11, 1814]

Plattsburg Bay! Plattsburg Bay!
Blue and gold in the dawning ray,
Crimson under the high noonday
With the reek of the fray!
It was Thomas Macdonough, as gallant a sailor
As ever went scurrying over the main;
And he cried from his deck, If they think I'm a quailer,
And deem they can capture this Lake of Champlain,
We'll show them they're not fighting France, sir, nor Spain!
So from Cumberland Head to the little Crab Island
He scattered his squadron in trim battle-line;
And when he saw Downie come rounding the highland,
He knelt him, beseeching for guidance divine,
Imploring that Heaven would crown his design.
Then thundered the Eagle her lusty defiance;
The stout Saratoga aroused with a roar;
Soon gunboat and galley in hearty alliance
Their resonant volley of compliments pour;
And ever Macdonough's the man to the fore!
And lo, when the fight toward its fiercest was swirling,
A game-cock, released by a splintering ball,
Flew high in the ratlines, the smoke round him curling,
And over the din gave his trumpeting call,
An omen of ultimate triumph to all!
Then a valianter light touched the powder-grimed faces;
Then faster the shot seemed to plunge from the gun;
And we shattered their yards and we sundered their braces,
And the fume of our cannon—it shrouded the sun;
Cried Macdonough—Once more, and the battle is won!
Now, the flag of the haughty Confiance is trailing;
The Linnet in woe staggers in toward the shore;
The Finch is a wreck from her keel to her railing;
The galleys flee fast to the strain of the oar;
Macdonough! 'tis he is the man to the fore!
Oh, our main decks were grim and our gun decks were gory,
And many a brave brow was pallid with pain;
And while some won to death, yet we all won to glory
Who fought with Macdonough that day on Champlain,
And humbled her pride who is queen of the main!
Clinton Scollard.

While the naval battle was in progress, Prevost made an assault on the American lines, but was repulsed with loss, and learning of the fleet's defeat, ordered a retreat. This was so precipitate that it was almost a flight, and great quantities of artillery, stores, and provisions fell into the hands of the Americans.

THE BATTLE OF PLATTSBURG

[September 11, 1814]

Sir George Prevost, with all his host,
March'd forth from Montreal, sir,
Both he and they as blithe and gay
As going to a ball, sir.
The troops he chose were all of those
That conquer'd Marshall Soult, sir;
Who at Garonne (the fact is known)
Scarce brought they to a halt, sir.
With troops like these, he thought with ease
To crush the Yankee faction:
His only thought was how he ought
To bring them into action.
"Your very names," Sir George exclaims,
"Without a gun or bayonet,
Will pierce like darts through Yankee hearts,
And all their spirits stagnate.
"Oh! how I dread lest they have fled
And left their puny fort, sir,
For sure Macomb won't stay at home,
T' afford us any sport, sir.
Good-by!" he said to those that stay'd:
"Keep close as mice or rats snug:
We'll just run out upon a scout,
To burn the town of Plattsburg."
Then up Champlain with might and main
He marched in dress array, sir;
With fife and drum to scare Macomb,
And drive him quite away, sir.
And, side by side, their nation's pride
Along the current beat, sir:
Sworn not to sup till they ate up
McDonough and his fleet, sir.
Still onward came these men of fame,
Resolved to give "no quarter:"
But to their cost they found at last
That they had caught a Tartar.
At distant shot awhile they fought,
By water and by land, sir:
His knightship ran from man to man,
And gave his dread command, sir.
"Britons, strike home! this dog Macomb—
So well the fellow knows us—
Will just as soon jump o'er the moon
As venture to oppose us.
With quick despatch light every match,
Man every gun and swivel,
Cross in a crack the Saranac,
And drive 'em to the devil!"
The Vermont ranks that lined the banks,
Then poised the unerring rifle,
And to oppose their haughty foes
They found a perfect trifle.
Meanwhile the fort kept up such sport,
They thought the devil was in it;
Their mighty train play'd off in vain—
'Twas silenced in a minute.
Sir George, amazed, so wildly gazed,
Such frantic gambols acted,
Of all his men, not one in ten
But thought him quite distracted.
He cursed and swore, his hair he tore,
Then jump'd upon his pony,
And gallop'd off towards the bluff,
To look for Captain Downie.
But when he spied McDonough ride,
In all the pomp of glory,
He hasten'd back to Saranac,
To tell the dismal story:
"My gallant crews—Oh! shocking news—
Are all or killed or taken!
Except a few that just withdrew
In time to save their bacon.
"Old England's pride must now subside.
Oh! how the news will shock her,
To have her fleet not only beat,
But sent to Davy's locker.
From this sad day, let no one say
Britannia rules the ocean:
We've dearly bought the humbling thought,
That this is all a notion.
"With one to ten I'd fight 'gainst men,
But these are Satan's legions,
With malice fraught, some piping hot
From Pluto's darkest regions!
HÉlas! mon Dieu! what shall I do?
I smell the burning sulphur—
Set Britain's isle all rank and file,
Such men would soon engulf her.
"That's full as bad—Oh! I'll run mad!
Those western hounds are summon'd;
Gaines, Scott, and Brown are coming down,
To serve me just like Drummond.
Thick, too, as bees, the Vermontese
Are swarming to the lake, sir;
And Izard's men, come back again,
Lie hid in every brake, sir.
"Good Brisbane, beat a quick retreat,
Before their forces join, sir:
For, sure as fate, they've laid a bait
To catch us like Burgoyne, sir.
All round about, keep good look out:
We'll surely be surrounded;
Since I could crawl, my gallant soul
Was never so astounded."
The rout begun, Sir George led on,
His men ran helter skelter,
Each tried his best t' outrun the rest
To gain a place of shelter;
To hide their fear, they gave a cheer,
And thought it mighty cunning—
He'll fight, they say, another day,
Who saves himself by running!

Although the blow at New York had been turned aside, another, aimed at the Nation's Capital, fell with deadly effect. On August 24, 1814, a strong force landed in Chesapeake Bay, routed a force of militia at Bladensburg, entered Washington, and burned the Capitol, White House, and many other public buildings. A few days later, Baltimore was attacked.

THE BATTLE OF BALTIMORE

[September 12, 1814]

Old Ross, Cockburn, and Cochrane too,
And many a bloody villain more,
Swore with their bloody savage crew,
That they would plunder Baltimore.
But General Winder being afraid
That his militia would not stand,
He sent away to crave the aid
Of a few true Virginians.
Then up we rose with hearts elate,
To help our suffering sister state.
When first our orders we received,
For to prepare without delay,
Our wives and sweethearts for to leave,
And to the army march away,
Although it grieved our hearts full sore,
To leave our sweet Virginia shore,
We kiss'd our sweethearts o'er and o'er,
And march'd like true Virginians.
Adieu awhile, sweet girls, adieu,
With honor we'll return to you.
With rapid marches on we went,
To leave our sweet Virginia shore,
No halt was made, no time was spent,
Till we arrived at Baltimore.
The Baltimoreans did us greet,
The ladies clapt their lily-white hands,
Exclaiming as we passed the street,
"Welcome, ye brave Virginians.
May Heaven all your foes confound,
And send you home with laurels crown'd."
We had not been in quarters long,
Before we heard the dread alarms,
The cannon roar'd, the bells did ring,
The drum did beat to arms, to arms.
Then up we rose to face our foes,
Determined to meet them on the strand,
And drive them back from fair Freedom's shore,
Or die like brave Virginians.
In Heaven above we placed our trust,
Well knowing that our cause is just.
Then Ross he landed at North Point,
With seven thousand men or more,
And swore by that time next night,
That he would be in Baltimore.
But Striker met him on the strand,
Attended by a chosen band,
Where he received a fatal shot
From a brave Pennsylvanian—
Whom Heaven directed to the field,
To make this haughty Briton yield.
Then Cockburn he drew up his fleet,
To bombard Fort McHenry,
A thinking that our men, of course,
Would take affright and run away.
The fort was commanded by a patriotic band,
As ever graced fair Freedom's land,
And he who did the fort command
Was a true blue Virginian.
Long may we have brave Armstead's name
Recorded on the book of fame.
A day and a night they tried their might,
But found their bombs did not prevail,
And seeing their army put to flight,
They weigh'd their anchor and made sail,
Resolving to return again,
To execute their former plan;
But if they do, they'll find us still
That we are brave Virginians.
And they shall know before they've done,
That they are not in Washington.
But now their shipping's out of sight,
And each man takes a parting glass,
Drinks to his true love and heart's delight,
His only joy and bosom friend,
For I might as well drink a health,
For I hate to see good liquor stand,
That America may always boast
That we are brave Virginians.

The next day, Admiral Cochrane moved his fleet into position to attack Fort McHenry, two miles above the city, and began a terrific bombardment, which lasted all the night. The fort answered with such guns as would reach the ships, and when morning dawned, the Stars and Stripes were still floating over it. The British feared to attack an intrenchment so gallantly defended, and the next day retreated to their shipping.

FORT McHENRY

[September 13, 1814]

Just before the bombardment began, Francis Scott Key had put out to the admiral's frigate to arrange for an exchange of prisoners, and was directed to remain till the action was over. All that night he watched the flaming shells, and when, by the first rays of the morning, he saw his country's flag still waving above the fort, he hastily wrote the stirring verses which have since become America's national song.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER

[September 13, 1814]

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming!
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Francis Scott Key.

The destruction of Washington, besides being perhaps the most outrageous act of vandalism ever committed by a Christian army, was a grave tactical error. One feeling of wrath and cry for vengeance swept the land; party differences were forgotten, and the whole country pressed forward to prosecute the war with an enthusiasm and vigor which had before been sadly wanting.

YE PARLIAMENT OF ENGLAND

Ye parliament of England,
You lords and commons, too,
Consider well what you're about,
And what you're going to do;
You're now to fight with Yankees,
I'm sure you'll rue the day
You roused the sons of liberty,
In North America.
You first confined our commerce,
And said our ships shan't trade,
You next impressed our seamen,
And used them as your slaves;
You then insulted Rogers,
While ploughing o'er the main,
And had not we declarÈd war,
You'd have done it o'er again.
You thought our frigates were but few
And Yankees could not fight,
Until brave Hull your GuerriÈre took
And banished her from your sight.
The Wasp then took your Frolic,
We'll nothing say to that,
The Poictiers being of the line,
Of course she took her back.
The next, your Macedonian,
No finer ship could swim,
Decatur took her gilt-work off,
And then he sent her in.
The Java, by a Yankee ship
Was sunk, you all must know;
The Peacock fine, in all her plume,
By Lawrence down did go.
Then next you sent your Boxer,
To box us all about,
But we had an Enterprising brig
That beat your Boxer out;
We boxed her up to Portland,
And moored her off the town,
To show the sons of liberty
The Boxer of renown.
The next upon Lake Erie,
Where Perry had some fun,
You own he beat your naval force,
And caused them for to run;
This was to you a sore defeat,
The like ne'er known before—
Your British squadron beat complete—
Some took, some run ashore.
There's Rogers in the President,
Will burn, sink, and destroy;
The Congress, on the Brazil coast,
Your commerce will annoy;
The Essex, in the South Seas,
Will put out all your lights,
The flag she waves at her mast-head—
"Free Trade and Sailor's Rights."
Lament, ye sons of Britain,
Far distant is the day,
When you'll regain by British force
What you've lost in America;
Go tell your king and parliament,
By all the world 'tis known,
That British force, by sea and land,
By Yankees is o'erthrown.
Use every endeavor,
And strive to make a peace,
For Yankee ships are building fast,
Their navy to increase;
They will enforce their commerce,
The laws by heaven are made,
That Yankee ships in time of peace
To any port may trade.

Nor was the outrage universally applauded, even in England. An anti-war party had arisen there, and was constantly growing in strength.

THE BOWER OF PEACE

From "Ode Written during the War with America, 1814"

When shall the Island Queen of Ocean lay
The thunderbolt aside,
And, twining olives with her laurel crown,
Rest in the Bower of Peace?
Not long may this unnatural strife endure
Beyond the Atlantic deep;
Not long may men, with vain ambition drunk,
And insolent in wrong,
Afflict with their misrule the indignant land
Where Washington hath left
His awful memory
A light for after-times!
Vile instruments of fallen Tyranny
In their own annals, by their countrymen.
For lasting shame shall they be written down.
Soon may the better Genius there prevail!
Then will the Island Queen of Ocean lay
The thunderbolt aside,
And, twining olives with her laurel crown,
Rest in the Bower of Peace.
Robert Southey.

One of the most remarkable naval battles of the war occurred on September 26, 1814, in Fayal Roads. The General Armstrong, the famous privateer schooner, Captain Samuel Chester Reid, had anchored there, trusting to the neutrality of the harbor, and was attacked after nightfall by the boats of a strong British squadron. A fearful struggle followed, the British being finally beaten off.

REID AT FAYAL

[September 26, 1814]

A cliff-locked port and a bluff sea wall,
And a craggy rampart, brown and bold;
Proud Pico's bastions towering tall,
And a castle dumb and cold.
The scream of a gull where a porpoise rolls;
And the flash of a home-bound fisher's blade,
Where the ghostly boom of the drum fish tolls
For wrecks that the surf has made.
A grim dun ridge, and a thin gray beach,
And the swish and the swash of the sleepless tide;
And the moonlight masking the reef's long reach,
Where the lurking breakers bide.
And under the castle's senseless walls
(Santa Cruz, old and cold and dumb),
Where only the prying sea-mew calls,
And the harbor beetles hum,
A Yankee craft at her cable swings:
"All's well!" the cheery lookout sings.
But the skipper counts his sleeping crew,
His guns, and his drowsy ensign, too.
—Says he, "They'll do!"
For the skipper marks, tho' he makes no sign,
Frigate and corvette and ship of the line,
Rounding the headland into the light:
"Three Union Jacks and a moonlight night!"
—Says he, "We'll fight!"
Twelve launches cutting the silver bay;
Twenty score boarders called away.
And it's "Lively, hearties, and let her go!"
With a rouse and a cheer and a "Yeo, ho, ho!"
—Says Reid, "Lie low!"
'Tis a song of havoc the rowlocks sing,
And Death marks time in the rower's swing;
'Tis a baleful glow on the spouting spray,
As the keels in their cruel lust make way.
"Now, up and slay!"
Now up and play in the mad old game—
Axe and cutlass, fury and flame!
White breasts red-wat in the viler muck,
Proud hearts hurled back in the sprawling ruck.
—Says Reid, "Well struck!"
Pike and pistol and dripping blade
(So are the ghosts and the glory made);
A curse for a groan, and a cheer for a yell;
Pale glut of Hate and red rapture of Hell!
—Says Reid, "All's well!"
All's well for the banner that dances free,
Where the mountains are shouting the news to the sea.
All's well for the bold, and all's ill for the strong,
In the fight and the flight that shall hold us long,
In tale and song.
John Williamson Palmer.

THE FIGHT OF THE ARMSTRONG PRIVATEER

Tell the story to your sons
Of the gallant days of yore,
When the brig of seven guns
Fought the fleet of seven score,
From the set of sun till morn, through the long September night—
Ninety men against two thousand, and the ninety won the fight
In the harbor of Fayal the Azore.
Three lofty British ships came a-sailing to Fayal:
One was a line-of-battle ship, and two were frigates tall;
Nelson's valiant men of war, brave as Britons ever are,
Manned the guns they served so well at Aboukir and Trafalgar.
Lord Dundonald and his fleet at Jamaica far away
Waited eager for their coming, fretted sore at their delay.
There was loot for British valor on the Mississippi coast
In the beauty and the booty that the Creole cities boast;
There were rebel knaves to swing, there were prisoners to bring
Home in fetters to old England for the glory of the King!
At the setting of the sun and the ebbing of the tide
Came the great ships one by one, with their portals opened wide,
And their cannon frowning down on the castle and the town
And the privateer that lay close inside;
Came the eighteen-gun Carnation, and the Rota, forty-four,
And the triple-decked Plantagenet an Admiral's pennon bore:
And the privateer grew smaller as their topmasts towered taller,
And she bent her springs and anchored by the castle on the shore.
Spoke the noble Portuguese to the stranger: "Have no fear;
They are neutral waters these, and your ship is sacred here
As if fifty stout armadas to shelter you from harm,
For the honor of the Briton will defend you from his arm."
But the privateersman said, "Well we know the Englishmen,
And their faith is written red in the Dartmoor slaughter-pen.
Come what fortune God may send, we will fight them to the end,
And the mercy of the sharks may spare us then."
"Seize the pirate where she lies!" cried the English Admiral:
"If the Portuguese protect her, all the wors for Portugal!"
And four launches at his bidding leaped impatient for the fray,
Speeding shoreward where the Armstrong, grim and dark and ready, lay.
Twice she hailed and gave them warning; but the feeble menace scorning,
On they came in splendid silence, till a cable's length away.
Then the Yankee pivot spoke; Pico's thousand echoes woke;
And four baffled, beaten launches drifted helpless on the bay.
Then the wrath of Lloyd arose till the lion roared again,
And he called out all his launches and he called five hundred men;
And he gave the word "No quarter!" and he sent them forth to smite.
Heaven help the foe before him when the Briton comes in might!
Heaven helped the little Armstrong in her hour of bitter need;
God Almighty nerved the heart and guided well the arm of Reid.
Launches to port and starboard, launches forward and aft,
Fourteen launches together striking the little craft.
They hacked at the boarding-nettings, they swarmed above the rail;
But the Long Tom roared from his pivot and the grape-shot fell like hail;
Pike and pistol and cutlass, and hearts that knew not fear,
Bulwarks of brawn and mettle, guarded the privateer.
And ever where fight was fiercest the form of Reid was seen:
Ever where foes drew nearest, his quick sword fell between.
Once in the deadly strife
The boarder's leader pressed
Forward of all the rest
Challenging life for life;
But ere their blades had crossed
A dying sailor tossed
His pistol to Reid, and cried,
"Now riddle the lubber's hide!"
But the privateersman laughed, and flung the weapon aside,
And he drove his blade to the hilt, and the foeman gasped and died.
Then the boarders took to their launches, laden with hurt and dead,
But little with glory burdened, and out of the battle fled.
Now the tide was at flood again, and the night was almost done,
When the sloop-of-war came up with her odds of two to one,
And she opened fire; but the Armstrong answered her, gun for gun,
And the gay Carnation wilted in half an hour of sun.
Then the Armstrong, looking seaward, saw the mighty seventy-four,
With her triple tier of cannon, drawing slowly to the shore.
And the dauntless captain said: "Take our wounded and our dead,
Bear them tenderly to land, for the Armstrong's days are o'er;
But no foe shall tread her deck, and no flag above it wave—
To the ship that saved our honor we will give a shipman's grave."
So they did as he commanded, and they bore their mates to land
With the figurehead of Armstrong and the good sword in his hand.
Then they turned the Long Tom downward, and they pierced her oaken side,
And they cheered her, and they blessed her, and they sunk her in the tide.
Tell the story to your sons,
When the haughty stranger boasts
Of his mighty ships and guns
And the muster of his hosts,
How the word of God was witnessed in the gallant days of yore
When the twenty fled from one ere the rising of the sun,
In the harbor of Fayal the Azore!
James Jeffrey Roche.

Three boats, loaded with dead and dying, were captured by the Americans, the survivors having escaped by jumping overboard and swimming ashore. At daybreak the whole British fleet moved in to attack, and Captain Reid was forced to scuttle his ship and abandon her.

THE ARMSTRONG AT FAYAL

[September 26, 1814]

Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white,
And blue is Fayal's clear sky;
The sun and moon and sky are bright,
And the sea, and stars on high;
But the name of Reid and the fame of Reid
And the flag of his ship and crew
Are brighter far than sea or star
Or the heavens' red, white, and blue:
So lift your voices once again
For the land we love so dear,
For the fighting Captain and the men
Of the Yankee Privateer!
The moonbeams, like fine silver, shine
Upon the blue Azores,
As twilight pours her purple wine
Upon those storied shores;
The General Armstrong's flag of stars
In the harbor of Fayal
Flies forth, remote from thought of wars,
Until the sunset call.
No glistening guns in serried line
The slender schooner boasts,
A pivot and eight hearty nines
Shall meet her foeman's hosts;
Her sides are oak, her masts are tall,
Her captain's one to trust,
Her ninety men are free men all,
Her quarrel wholly just.
On far Fayal the moon is fair
To-night as it was when,
Glad in the gay September air,
Reid laughed beside his men;
On far Fayal the sun to-day
Was lord of all the sky
As when the General Armstrong lay,
Our banner flung on high;
But now there rests a holier light
Than theirs on land or sea:
The splendor of our sailors' might,
And glorious bravery.
A moment, and the flag will sink
As sinks the sun to rest
Beyond the billows' western brink
Where towers the Eagle's nest,
When round the azure harbor-head
Where sparkling ocean brims,
Her British ensign streaming red,
The brig Carnation swims.
Ere with the sun her sails are set
The Rota frigate glides
And the great ship Plantagenet
To stations at her sides:
They carry six score guns and ten,
They serve the British crown,
They muster o'er a thousand men—
To win were small renown.
'Twas by Fayal, where Portugal
Still flaunts her Blue-and-White;
What cares their Floyd for Portugal
Or what cares he for right?
He starts his signals down the line—
Our flag is flying free—
His weapons in the moonbeams shine,
His boats drop on the sea.
Straight to the Armstrong swift they come.
Speak, or I fire! shouts Reid—
Their rattling rowlocks louder hum
To mark their heightened speed.
Fierce o'er their moonlit path there stream
Bright glares of crimson flame;
Our muskets but an instant gleam,
Yet leave them wounded, lame.
They try a feeble, brief reply
Ere back their course is sped.
Before our marksmanship they fly,
Their living with their dead.
Floyd swears upon his faith and all
The Armstrong shall be his;
He scorns rebuke from Portugal,
But not such enemies;
So guns are charged with canister
And picked men go to fight:
Brave hearts and doomed full many were
In the Azores that night.
From nine until the nick of twelve
Their boats are seen to throng
Where rocky islets slant and shelve
Safe from our bullets' song;
Then out they dash, their small arms flash,
While blare their carronades,
Their boarding-pikes and axes clash,
Their guns and cutlass blades.
Our Long Tom speaks, our shrapnel shrieks;
But ere we load again,
On every side the battle reeks
Of thrice a hundred men.
Our rail is low, and there the foe
Cling as they shoot and hack.
We stab them as they climb a-row,
Slaying, nor turning back.
They dash up now upon our bow,
And there our hearties haste;
Now at our stern their muskets burn,
And now along our waist.
Our fo'c'sle weeps when Williams dies,
When Worth falls in his blood,
But bleeding through the battle-cries
Our gallant Johnson stood;
The British muskets snapt and spat
Till Reid came in his wrath,
His brow so pale with purpose that
It glistened down his path.
Forth from the quarter-deck he springs,
He and his men with cheers;
On British skulls his cutlass rings,
His pistols in their ears;
His men beside him hold him good
Till spent the foeman's breath;
Where at our sides a Briton stood,
A Briton sank in death;
Though weak our men with blood and sweat,
Our sides a riddled wreck,
Yet ne'er a British foot is set
Upon the Armstrong's deck.
Three hundred men their Admiral sent
Our schooner's ways to mend:
A hundred British sailors went
Down to a warrior's end.
Two of our lads in death are red,
But safe the flag above:
God grant that never worse be sped
The fray for all we love!
The General Armstrong lies beneath
The waves in far Fayal,
But still his countrymen shall wreathe
Reid's name with laurels tall;
The sun and moon are fair to see
Above the blue Azores,
But fairer far Reid's victory
Beside their storied shores.
Oh, the sun sets red, the moon shines white,
And blue is Fayal's clear sky;
The sun and moon and sky are bright,
And the sea, and stars on high;
But the name of Reid and the fame of Reid
And the flag of his ship and crew
Are brighter far than sea or star
Or the heavens' red, white, and blue:
So lift your voices once again
For the land we love so dear,
For the fighting Captain and the men
Of the Yankee Privateer.
Wallace Rice.

Major-General Andrew Jackson had been intrusted with the task of defending the South, and especially New Orleans, from the expected British invasion. On September 15, 1814, a British fleet and land force invested Fort Bowyer, which commanded the entrance to Mobile, but were beaten off and forced to retire, after a desperate struggle, in which one of the British ships was blown up.

FORT BOWYER

[September 15, 1814]

Where the wild wave, from ocean proudly swelling,
Mexico's shores, wide stretching, with its billowy
Surge, in its sweep laves, and, with lashing foam, breaks,
Rough in its whiteness;
See where the flag of Freedom, with its light wreaths,
Floats on the wind, in buoyancy expanded
High o'er the walls of Bowyer's dauntless breastwork,
Proudly and fearless.
Loud roll thy thunders, Albion; and thy missile
Boasts throng the air with lightning flash tremendous,
Whilst the dark wave, illuminated bright, shines
Sparkling with death-lights.
Shrink then that band of freemen, at the onslaught?
Palsy those arms that wield the unerring rifles?
Strikes chill the breast dread fear? or coward paleness
Whiten the blanch'd cheek?
No! round that flag, undaunted, midst the loud din,
Like their own shores, which mountain surges move not
Breasted and firm, and heedless of the war-shock,
Rallying they stand fast.
"Look," Lawrence cries, "brave comrades; how the foe proud
Quails at our charge, with recreant spirit flying:"
Like Rome's bold chief, he came and saw, but neither
Awed us, nor conquer'd.
Charles L. S. Jones.

Jackson hastened to New Orleans, and reached there just as a great British fleet appeared in the offing. He determined to attack the enemy as soon as they started to land, and on the night of December 23 he drove in their advance guard. Then he intrenched his little army, and on January 8, 1815, was attacked by the full British force, seven thousand strong. Their advance was checked by the steady fire of Jackson's riflemen, and the enemy was finally routed with a loss of over two thousand. The American loss was eight killed and thirteen wounded.

THE BATTLE OF NEW ORLEANS

[January 8, 1815]

Here, in my rude log cabin,
Few poorer men there be
Among the mountain ranges
Of Eastern Tennessee.
My limbs are weak and shrunken,
White hairs upon my brow,
My dog—lie still old fellow!—
My sole companion now.
Yet I, when young and lusty,
Have gone through stirring scenes,
For I went down with Carroll
To fight at New Orleans.
You say you'd like to hear me
The stirring story tell,
Of those who stood the battle
And those who fighting fell.
Short work to count our losses—
We stood and dropped the foe
As easily as by firelight
Men shoot the buck or doe.
And while they fell by hundreds
Upon the bloody plain,
Of us, fourteen were wounded
And only eight were slain.
The eighth of January,
Before the break of day,
Our raw and hasty levies
Were brought into array.
No cotton-bales before us—
Some fool that falsehood told;
Before us was an earthwork
Built from the swampy mould
And there we stood in silence,
And waited with a frown.
To greet with bloody welcome
The bull-dogs of the Crown.
The heavy fog of morning
Still hid the plain from sight,
When came a thread of scarlet
Marked faintly in the white.
We fired a single cannon,
And as its thunders rolled,
The mist before us lifted
In many a heavy fold—
The mist before us lifted
And in their bravery fine
Came rushing to their ruin
The fearless British line.
Then from our waiting cannon
Leaped forth the deadly flame,
To meet the advancing columns
That swift and steady came.
The thirty-twos of Crowley
And Bluchi's twenty-four
To Spotts's eighteen-pounders
Responded with their roar,
Sending the grape-shot deadly
That marked its pathway plain,
And paved the road it travelled
With corpses of the slain.
Our rifles firmly grasping,
And heedless of the din,
We stood in silence waiting
For orders to begin.
Our fingers on the triggers,
Our hearts, with anger stirred,
Grew still more fierce and eager
As Jackson's voice was heard:
"Stand steady! Waste no powder!
Wait till your shots will tell!
To-day the work you finish—
See that you do it well!"
Their columns drawing nearer,
We felt our patience tire,
When came the voice of Carroll,
Distinct and measured, "Fire!"
Oh! then you should have marked us
Our volleys on them pour—
Have heard our joyous rifles
Ring sharply through the roar,
And seen their foremost columns
Melt hastily away
As snow in mountain gorges
Before the floods of May.
They soon re-formed their columns,
And, mid the fatal rain
We never ceased to hurtle,
Came to their work again.
The Forty-fourth is with them,
That first its laurels won
With stout old Abercrombie
Beneath an eastern sun.
It rushes to the battle,
And, though within the rear
Its leader is a laggard,
It shows no signs of fear.
It did not need its colonel,
For soon there came instead
An eagle-eyed commander,
And on its march he led.
'Twas Pakenham in person,
The leader of the field;
I knew it by the cheering
That loudly round him pealed;
And by his quick, sharp movement
We felt his heart was stirred,
As when at Salamanca
He led the fighting Third.
I raised my rifle quickly,
I sighted at his breast,
God save the gallant leader
And take him to his rest!
I did not draw the trigger,
I could not for my life.
So calm he sat his charger
Amid the deadly strife,
That in my fiercest moment
A prayer arose from me—
God save that gallant leader,
Our foeman though he be!
Sir Edward's charger staggers;
He leaps at once to ground.
And ere the beast falls bleeding
Another horse is found.
His right arm falls—'tis wounded;
He waves on high his left;
In vain he leads the movement,
The ranks in twain are cleft.
The men in scarlet waver
Before the men in brown,
And fly in utter panic—
The soldiers of the Crown!
I thought the work was over,
But nearer shouts were heard,
And came, with Gibbs to head it,
The gallant Ninety-third.
Then Pakenham, exulting,
With proud and joyous glance,
Cried, "Children of the tartan—
Bold Highlanders—advance!
Advance to scale the breastworks,
And drive them from their hold,
And show the stainless courage
That marked your sires of old!"
His voice as yet was ringing,
When, quick as light, there came
The roaring of a cannon,
And earth seemed all aflame.
Who causes thus the thunder
The doom of men to speak?
It is the Baratarian,
The fearless Dominique.
Down through the marshalled Scotsmen
The step of death is heard,
And by the fierce tornado
Falls half the Ninety-third.
The smoke passed slowly upward
And, as it soared on high,
I saw the brave commander
In dying anguish lie.
They bear him from the battle
Who never fled the foe;
Unmoved by death around them
His bearers softly go.
In vain their care, so gentle,
Fades earth and all its scenes;
The man of Salamanca
Lies dead at New Orleans.
But where were his lieutenants?
Had they in terror fled?
No! Keane was sorely wounded
And Gibbs as good as dead.
Brave Wilkinson commanding,
A major of brigade,
The shattered force to rally
A final effort made.
He led it up our ramparts,
Small glory did he gain—
Our captives some; some slaughtered,
And he himself was slain.
The stormers had retreated,
The bloody work was o'er;
The feet of the invaders
Were soon to leave our shore.
We rested on our rifles
And talked about the fight,
When came a sudden murmur
Like fire from left to right;
We turned and saw our chieftain,
And then, good friend of mine,
You should have heard the cheering
That rang along the line.
For well our men remembered
How little, when they came,
Had they but native courage,
And trust in Jackson's name;
How through the day he labored,
How kept the vigils still,
Till discipline controlled us—
A stronger power than will;
And how he hurled us at them
Within the evening hour,
That red night in December
And made us feel our power.
In answer to our shouting
Fire lit his eye of gray;
Erect, but thin and pallid,
He passed upon his bay.
Weak from the baffled fever,
And shrunken in each limb,
The swamps of Alabama
Had done their work on him;
But spite of that and fasting,
And hours of sleepless care,
The soul of Andrew Jackson
Shone forth in glory there.
Thomas Dunn English.

JACKSON AT NEW ORLEANS

The British were permitted to retire unmolested to their ships, and the sails of that mighty fleet were soon fading away along the horizon. Neither victor nor vanquished knew that a treaty of peace had been signed at Ghent two weeks before, and that the battle need never have been fought.

TO THE DEFENDERS OF NEW ORLEANS

Hail sons of generous valor,
Who now embattled stand,
To wield the brand of strife and blood,
For Freedom and the land.
And hail to him your laurelled chief,
Around whose trophied name
A nation's gratitude has twined
The wreath of deathless fame.
Now round that gallant leader
Your iron phalanx form,
And throw, like Ocean's barrier rocks,
Your bosoms to the storm.
Though wild as Ocean's wave it rolls,
Its fury shall be low,
For justice guides the warrior's steel,
And vengeance strikes the blow.
High o'er the gleaming columns,
The bannered star appears,
And proud amid its martial band,
His crest the eagle rears.
And long as patriot valor's arm
Shall win the battle's prize,
That star shall beam triumphantly,
That eagle seek the skies.
Then on, ye daring spirits,
To danger's tumults now,
The bowl is filled and wreathed the crown,
To grace the victor's brow;
And they who for their country die,
Shall fill an honored grave;
For glory lights the soldier's tomb,
And beauty weeps the brave.
Joseph Rodman Drake.

Prominent among the forces under Jackson was a brigade of eight hundred Kentucky riflemen, commanded by General John Coffee. They had marched eight hundred miles through a wilderness, having covered the last hundred miles in less than two days—a march almost unequalled in history. Jackson spoke of this brigade as the right arm of his army.

THE HUNTERS OF KENTUCKY

Ye gentlemen and ladies fair,
Who grace this famous city,
Just listen, if you've time to spare,
While I rehearse a ditty;
And for the opportunity
Conceive yourselves quite lucky,
For 'tis but seldom that you see
A hunter from Kentucky.
Oh! Kentucky,
The hunters of Kentucky.
We are a hardy free-born race,
Each man to fear a stranger;
Whate'er the game, we join in chase,
Despising toil and danger:
And if a daring foe annoys,
Whate'er his strength or force is,
We'll show him that Kentucky boys
Are Alligator-horses.
I s'pose you've read it in the prints,
How Pakenham attempted
To make old Hickory Jackson wince,
But soon his schemes repented;
For we, with rifles ready cock'd,
Thought such occasion lucky,
And soon around the general flock'd
The hunters of Kentucky.
I s'pose you've heard how New Orleans
Is famed for wealth and beauty;
They've gals of every hue, it seems,
From snowy white to sooty:
So Pakenham he made his brags
If he in fight was lucky,
He'd have their gals and cotton bags,
In spite of Old Kentucky.
But Jackson he was wide awake,
And wasn't scared at trifles,
For well he knew what aim we take
With our Kentucky rifles;
So he led us down to Cypress Swamp,
The ground was low and mucky;
There stood John Bull in martial pomp—
But here was Old Kentucky.
We raised a bank to hide our breasts,
Not that we thought of dying,
But then we always like to rest,
Unless the game is flying:
Behind it stood our little force—
None wish'd it to be greater,
For every man was half a horse
And half an alligator.
They didn't let our patience tire
Before they show'd their faces;
We didn't choose to waste our fire,
But snugly kept our places;
And when so near we saw them wink,
We thought it time to stop 'em,
It would have done you good, I think,
To see Kentuckians drop 'em.
They found, at length, 'twas vain to fight,
When lead was all their booty,
And so they wisely took to flight,
And left us all the beauty.
And now, if danger e'er annoys,
Remember what our trade is;
Just send for us Kentucky boys,
And we'll protect you, ladies:
Oh! Kentucky,
The hunters of Kentucky.

Another useless action, but a most remarkable one, was fought by the famous old Constitution, near Madeira, on February 20, 1815. On the afternoon of that day she sighted and overhauled the British 32-gun frigate Cyane and the 20-gun sloop Levant. She attacked them simultaneously, and after a fierce fight compelled them both to surrender.

THE CONSTITUTION'S LAST FIGHT

[February 20, 1815]

A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew—
Constitution, where ye bound for?
Wherever, my lad, there's fight to be had
Acrost the Western ocean.
Our captain was married in Boston town
And sailed next day to sea;
For all must go when the State says so;
Blow high, blow low, sailed we.
"Now, what shall I bring for a bridal gift
When my home-bound pennant flies?
The rarest that be on land or sea
It shall be my lady's prize."
"There's never a prize on sea or land
Could bring such joy to me
As my true love sound and homeward bound
With a king's ship under his lee."
The Western ocean is wide and deep,
And wild its tempests blow,
But bravely rides "Old Ironsides,"
A-cruising to and fro.
We cruised to the east and we cruised to north,
And southing far went we,
And at last off Cape de Verd we raised
Two frigates sailing free.
Oh, God made man, and man made ships,
But God makes very few
Like him who sailed our ship that day,
And fought her, one to two.
He gained the weather-gage of both,
He held them both a-lee;
And gun for gun, till set of sun,
He spoke them fair and free;
Till the night-fog fell on spar and sail,
And ship, and sea, and shore,
And our only aim was the bursting flame
And the hidden cannon's roar.
Then a long rift in the mist showed up
The stout Cyane, close-hauled
To swing in our wake and our quarter rake,
And a boasting Briton bawled:
"Starboard and larboard, we've got him fast
Where his heels won't take him through;
Let him luff or wear, he'll find us there,—
Ho, Yankee, which will you do?"
We did not luff and we did not wear,
But braced our topsails back,
Till the sternway drew us fair and true
Broadsides athwart her track.
Athwart her track and across her bows
We raked her fore and aft,
And out of the fight and into the night
Drifted the beaten craft.
The slow Levant came up too late;
No need had we to stir;
Her decks we swept with fire, and kept
The flies from troubling her.
We raked her again, and her flag came down,—
The haughtiest flag that floats,—
And the lime-juice dogs lay there like logs,
With never a bark in their throats.
With never a bark and never a bite,
But only an oath to break,
As we squared away for Praya Bay
With our prizes in our wake.
Parole they gave and parole they broke,
What matters the cowardly cheat,
If the captain's bride was satisfied
With the one prize laid at her feet?
A Yankee ship and a Yankee crew—
Constitution, where ye bound for?
Wherever the British prizes be,
Though it's one to two, or one to three,—
"Old Ironsides" means victory,
Acrost the Western ocean.
James Jeffrey Roche.

News of the peace did not reach America until February 11, 1815. It was hailed with rejoicing everywhere.

SEA AND LAND VICTORIES

With half the Western world at stake,
See Perry on the midland lake,
The unequal combat dare;
Unawed by vastly stronger pow'rs,
He met the foe and made him ours,
And closed the savage war.
Macdonough, too, on Lake Champlain,
In ships outnumbered, guns, and men,
Saw dangers thick increase;
His trust in God and virtue's cause
He conquer'd in the lion's jaws,
And led the way to peace.
To sing each valiant hero's name
Whose deeds have swelled the files of fame,
Requires immortal powers;
Columbia's warriors never yield
To equal force by sea or field,
Her eagle never cowers.
Long as Niagara's cataract roars
Or Erie laves our Northern shores,
Great Brown, thy fame shall rise;
Outnumber'd by a veteran host
Of conquering heroes, Britain's boast—
Conquest was there thy prize.
At Plattsburg, see the Spartan band,
Where gallant Macomb held command,
The unequal host oppose;
Provost confounded, vanquished flies,
Convinced that numbers won't suffice
Where Freemen are the foes.
Our songs to noblest strains we'll raise
While we attempt thy matchless praise,
Carolina's godlike son;
While Mississippi rolls his flood,
Or Freemen's hearts move patriots' blood,
The palm shall be thine own.
At Orleans—lo! a savage band,
In countless numbers gain the strand,
"Beauty and spoil" the word—
There Jackson with his fearless few,
The invincibles by thousands slew,
And dire destruction poured.
O Britain! when the tale is told
Of Jackson's deeds by fame enrolled,
Should grief and madness rise,
Remember God, the avenger, reigns,
Who witnessed Havre's smoking plains,
And Hampton's female cries.

ODE TO PEACE

Oh! breathe upon this hapless world,
And bid our pains and sorrows cease;
Broad be thy snowy flag unfurl'd,
And may we hail thy coming, peace!
For long enough has ruin stalk'd,
With force and terror o'er our earth;
Around them hideous spectres walk'd,
And evil nurs'd his monstrous birth.
Ah! banish'd from these happy skies,
By thee, be soon these boding stars,
Which erring made mankind arise,
To deeds of sin, to blood and wars.
Philadelphia, 1816.

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

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]

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.

"THE DAYS OF 'FORTY-NINE"

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.

CHAPTER IV

THROUGH FIVE ADMINISTRATIONS

Although Aaron Burr had been acquitted of the charge of treason, the persecution of him still continued. He was practically run out of the country, and when he returned at last in 1812, it was in disguise, under the name of Arnat. Fate soon afterwards dealt him a cruel blow, for in January, 1813, his daughter, Theodosia, the idol of his heart, perished at sea while on a voyage from Charleston to New York.

THEODOSIA BURR:

THE WRECKER'S STORY

[January, 1813]

In revel and carousing
We gave the New Year housing,
With wreckage for our firing,
And rum to heart's desiring,
Antigua and Jamaica,
Flagon and stoup and breaker.
Full cans and a ranting chorus;
Hard hearts for the bout before us—
To brave grim Death's grimaces
On dazed and staring faces.
With dirks and hangers bristling,
We for a gale went whistling,
Tornado or pampero,
To swamp the host of Pharaoh;
To goad the mad Atlantic,
And drive the skippers frantic;
To jar the deep with thunder,
And make the waste a wonder,
And plunge the coasters under,
And pile the banks with plunder.
Then the wild rack came skirling,
Ragged and crazed, and whirling
Sea-stuff and sand in breakers,
Frothing the shelvy acres:
Over the banks high bounding,
Inlet and sound confounding.
Hatteras roared and rumbled,
Currituck heaved and tumbled;
And the sea-gulls screamed like witches,
And sprawled in the briny ditches.
Shelter and rest we flouted,
Jorum and pipe we scouted,
Fiddler and wench we routed.
"Fetch out the nag!" we shouted;
For a craft in the offing struggled.
"Now for a skipper juggled;
Now for a coaster stranded,
And loot in the lockers landed!"
With lantern cheerly rocking
On the nag's head, we went mocking—
Lilting of tipsy blisses,
And Bonnibel's squandered kisses.
Straight for that hell-spark steering,
Drove the doomed craft careering;
Men on her fore-deck huddled,
Sea in her wake all cruddled,
Kitty Hawk sheer before her,
And the breakers booming o'er her.
Till the rocks in their lurking stove her,
And her riven spars went over,
And she lay on her side and shivered,
And groaned to be delivered.
Boats through the black rift storming,
Foes on her quarter swarming;
Dirks in the torchlight flashing,
And the wicked hangers slashing;
Lips that were praying mangled,
Throats that were screaming, strangled;
Souls in the surges tumbling,
Vainly for foothold fumbling;
Horror of staring faces,
Gruesome in Death's grimaces—
And God's wrath overpast us,
With never a bolt to blast us!
By the brunt of our doings daunted,
We crouched where the fore-deck slanted,
Scanning each other's faces,
Graved with that horror's traces.
One, peering aft, wild-staring,
Points through the torches flaring:
"Spook of the storm, or human?
Angel, or wraith, or woman?"
Havoc and wreck surveying,
Imploring not, nor praying,
Nor death nor life refusing;
Stony and still—accusing!
Black as our hearts the creature's
Vesture, her matchless features
White as the dead. Oh! wonder
Of women high heaven under!
So she moved down upon us
(Though Death and the Fiend might shun us),
And we made passage, cowering.
Rigid and mute and towering,
Never a frown she deigned us,
Never with curse arraigned us.
One, trembling, dropped his hanger,
And swooned at the awful clangor;
But she passed on, unharking,
Her steps our doom-strokes marking,
Straight to the plank, and mounted.
"One, two, three, four!" we counted;
Till she paused, o'er the flood suspended,
Poised, her lithe arms extended.—
And the storm stood still and waited
For the stroke of the Lord, belated!
John Williamson Palmer.

Oliver Hazard Perry, the victor of Lake Erie, while in command of a squadron in the West Indies, in the summer of 1819, was attacked by yellow fever, and died after a brief illness. His body was brought to the United States in 1826 and buried at Newport.

ON THE DEATH OF COMMODORE OLIVER H. PERRY

By strangers honor'd, and by strangers mourn'd.

[August 23, 1819]

How sad the note of that funereal drum,
That's muffled by indifference to the dead!
And how reluctantly the echoes come,
On air that sighs not o'er that stranger's bed,
Who sleeps with death alone. O'er his young head
His native breezes never more shall sigh;
On his lone grave the careless step shall tread,
And pestilential vapors soon shall dry
Each shrub that buds around—each flow'r that blushes nigh.
Let Genius, poising on her full-fledg'd wing,
Fill the charm'd air with thy deserved praise!
Of war, and blood, and carnage let her sing,
Of victory and glory!—let her gaze
On the dark smoke that shrouds the cannon's blaze,
On the red foam that crests the bloody billow;
Then mourn the sad close of thy shorten'd days—
Place on thy country's brow the weeping willow,
And plant the laurels thick around thy last cold pillow.
No sparks of Grecian fire to me belong:
Alike uncouth the poet and the lay;
Unskill'd to turn the mighty tide of song,
He floats along the current as he may,
The humble tribute of a tear to pay.
Another hand may choose another theme,
May sing of Nelson's last and brightest day,
Of Wolfe's unequall'd and unrivall'd fame,
The wave of Trafalgar—the fields of Abraham:
But if the wild winds of thy western lake
Might teach a harp that fain would mourn the brave,
And sweep those strings the minstrel may not wake,
Or give an echo from some secret cave
That opens on romantic Erie's wave,
The feeble cord would not be swept in vain;
And though the sound might never reach thy grave,
Yet there are spirits here that to the strain
Would send a still small voice responsive back again.
John G. C. Brainard.

The death of Joseph Rodman Drake, on September 21, 1820, deserves mention here, not so much because of Drake's prominence as a poet as because of the admirable lyric which it called forth—one of the most perfect in American literature.

ON THE DEATH OF JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE

[September 21, 1820]

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.
Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.
When hearts, whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven
To tell the world their worth;
And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,
Who shared thy joy and sorrow,
Whose weal and woe were thine:
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.
While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That mourns a man like thee.
Fitz-Greene Halleck.

In 1824, at the invitation of Congress and President Monroe, the Marquis de Lafayette, who had played so important a part in the revolution, visited the United States. He arrived in New York August 15, and for the next fourteen months travelled through the country, visiting every state, and being everywhere received with reverence and affection. On June 17, 1825, he laid the corner-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument.

ON LAYING THE CORNER-STONE OF THE BUNKER HILL MONUMENT

[June 17, 1825]

Oh, is not this a holy spot?
'Tis the high place of Freedom's birth!
God of our fathers! is it not
The holiest spot of all the earth?
Quenched is thy flame on Horeb's side;
The robber roams o'er Sinai now;
And those old men, thy seers, abide
No more on Zion's mournful brow.
But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt,
Since round its head the war-cloud curled,
And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt
In prayer and battle for a world.
Here sleeps their dust: 'tis holy ground:
And we, the children of the brave,
From the four winds are gathering round,
To lay our offering on their grave.
Free as the winds around us blow,
Free as the waves below us spread,
We rear a pile, that long shall throw
Its shadow on their sacred bed.
But on their deeds no shade shall fall,
While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame.
Thine ear was bowed to hear their call,
And thy right hand shall guard their fame.
John Pierpont.

Lafayette's sixty-eighth birthday was celebrated at the White House September 6, 1825, and he sailed next day for France, where he died May 20, 1834. The verses by Dolly Madison which follow were only recently discovered.

LA FAYETTE

Born, nurtured, wedded, prized, within the pale
Of peers and princes, high in camp—at court—
He hears, in joyous youth, a wild report,
Swelling the murmurs of the Western gale,
Of a young people struggling to be free!
Straight quitting all, across the wave he flies,
Aids with his sword, wealth, blood, the high emprize!
And shares the glories of its victory.
Then comes for fifty years a high romance
Of toils, reverses, sufferings, in the cause
Of man and justice, liberty and France,
Crowned, at the last, with hope and wide applause.
Champion of Freedom! Well thy race was run!
All time shall hail thee, Europe's noblest Son!
Dolly Madison.
Washington, April 25, 1848.

John Adams, second President of the United States, died at his home in Braintree, Mass., July 4, 1826. His last words were, "Thomas Jefferson still lives." But by a curious coincidence, Jefferson had died at his home, Monticello, in Albemarle County, Va., a few hours before.

THE DEATH OF JEFFERSON

[July 4, 1826]


I
'Twas midsummer; cooling breezes all the languid forests fanned,
And the angel of the evening drew her curtain o'er the land.
Like an isle rose Monticello through the cooled and rippling trees,
Like an isle in rippling starlight in the silence of the seas.
Ceased the mocking-bird his singing; said the slaves with faltering breath,
"'Tis the Third, and on the morrow Heaven will send the Angel Death."

II
In his room at Monticello, lost in dreams the statesman slept,
Seeing not the still forms round him, seeing not the eyes that wept,
Hearing not the old clock ticking in life's final silence loud,
Knowing not when night came o'er him like the shadow of a cloud.
In the past his soul is living as in fifty years ago,
Hastes again to Philadelphia, hears again the Schuylkill flow—

III
Meets again the elder Adams—knowing not that far away
He is waiting for Death's morrow, on old Massachusetts Bay;
Meets with Hancock, young and courtly, meets with Hopkins, bent and old,
Meets again calm Roger Sherman, fiery Lee, and Carroll bold,
Meets the sturdy form of Franklin, meets the half a hundred men
Who have made themselves immortal,—breathes the ancient morn again.


IV
Once again the Declaration in his nerveless hands he holds,
And before the waiting statesmen its prophetic hope unfolds,—
Reads again the words puissant, "All men are created free,"
Claims again for man his birthright, claims the world's equality;
Hears the coming and the going of an hundred firm-set feet,
Hears the summer breezes blowing 'mid the oak trees cool and sweet.

V
Sees again tall Patrick Henry by the side of Henry Lee,
Hears him cry, "And will ye sign it?—it will make all nations free!
Fear ye not the axe or gibbet; it shall topple every throne.
Sign it for the world's redemption!—all mankind its truth shall own!
Stars may fall, but truth eternal shall not falter, shall not fail.
Sign it, and the Declaration shall the voice of ages hail.

VI
"Sign, and set yon dumb bell ringing, that the people all may know
Man has found emancipation; sign, the Almighty wills it so."
Sees one sign it, then another, till like magic moves the pen,
Till all have signed it, and it lies there, charter of the rights of men.
Hears the small bells, hears the great bell, hanging idly in the sun,
Break the silence, and the people whisper, awe-struck, "It is done."

VII
Then the dream began to vanish—burgesses, the war's red flames,
Charging Tarleton, proud Cornwallis, navies moving on the James,
Years of peace, and years of glory, all began to melt away,
And the statesman woke from slumber in the night, and tranquil lay,
And his lips moved; friends there gathered with love's silken footstep near,
And he whispered, softly whispered in love's low and tender ear,—

VIII
"It is the Fourth?" "No, not yet," they answered, "but 'twill soon be early morn;
We will wake you, if you slumber, when the day begins to dawn."
Then the statesman left the present, lived again amid the past,
Saw, perhaps, the peopled future ope its portals grand and vast,
Till the flashes of the morning lit the far horizon low,
And the sun's rays o'er the forests in the east began to glow.

IX
Rose the sun, and from the woodlands fell the midnight dews like rain,
In magnolias cool and shady sang the mocking-bird again;
And the statesman woke from slumber, saw the risen sun, and heard
Rippling breezes 'mid the oak trees, and the lattice singing bird,
And, his eye serene uplifted, as rejoicing in the sun,
"It is the Fourth?" his only question,—to the world his final one.

X
Silence fell on Monticello—for the last dread hour was near,
And the old clock's measured ticking only broke upon the ear.
All the summer rooms were silent, where the great of earth had trod,
All the summer blooms seemed silent as the messengers of God;
Silent were the hall and chamber where old councils oft had met,
Save the far boom of the cannon that recalled the old day yet.

XI
Silent still is Monticello—he is breathing slowly now,
In the splendors of the noon-tide, with the death-dew on his brow—
Silent save the clock still ticking where his soul had given birth
To the mighty thoughts of freedom, that should free the fettered earth;
Silent save the boom of cannon on the sun-filled wave afar,
Bringing 'mid the peace eternal still the memory of war.


XII
Evening in majestic shadows fell upon the fortress' walls;
Sweetly were the last bells ringing on the James and on the Charles.
'Mid the choruses of freedom two departed victors lay,
One beside the blue Rivanna, one by Massachusetts Bay.
He was gone, and night her sable curtain drew across the sky;
Gone his soul into all nations, gone to live and not to die.
Hezekiah Butterworth.

On September 14, 1830, the Boston Advertiser contained a paragraph asserting that the Secretary of the Navy had recommended to the Board of Navy Commissioners that the old frigate Constitution, popularly known as "Old Ironsides," be disposed of. Two days later appeared the famous poem by Oliver Wendell Holmes, which instantly became a sort of national battle-cry. Instead of being sold, the Constitution was rebuilt.

OLD IRONSIDES

[September 14, 1830]

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar;—
The meteor of the ocean air
Shall sweep the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;—
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!
Oh better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.

CONCORD HYMN

SUNG AT THE COMPLETION OF THE BATTLE MONUMENT, APRIL 19, 1836

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.

On December 17, 1839, Longfellow wrote in his journal: "News of shipwrecks horrible on the coast. Twenty bodies washed ashore near Gloucester, one lashed to a piece of the wreck. There is a reef called Norman's Woe where many of these took place; among others the schooner Hesperus. Also the Sea-Flower on Black Rock. I must write a ballad on this." It was written twelve days later.

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

[December 17, 1839]

It was the schooner Hesperus,
That sailed the wintry sea;
And the skipper had taken his little daughtÈr,
To bear him company.
Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax,
Her cheeks like the dawn of day,
And her bosom white as the hawthorn buds
That ope in the month of May.
The skipper he stood beside the helm,
His pipe was in his mouth,
And he watched how the veering flaw did blow
The smoke now West, now South.
Then up and spake an old SailÒr,
Had sailed to the Spanish Main,
"I pray thee, put into yonder port,
For I fear a hurricane.
"Last night, the moon had a golden ring,
And to-night no moon we see!"
The skipper, he blew a whiff from his pipe,
And a scornful laugh laughed he.
Colder and louder blew the wind,
A gale from the Northeast,
The snow fell hissing in the brine,
And the billows frothed like yeast.
Down came the storm, and smote amain
The vessel in its strength;
She shuddered and paused, like a frighted steed,
Then leaped her cable's length.
"Come hither, come hither, my little daughtÈr,
And do not tremble so;
For I can weather the roughest gale
That ever wind did blow."
He wrapped her warm in his seaman's coat
Against the stinging blast;
He cut a rope from a broken spar,
And bound her to the mast.
"O father! I hear the church-bells ring,
O say, what may it be?"
"'Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast!"—
And he steered for the open sea.
"O father! I hear the sound of guns,
Oh say, what may it be?"
"Some ship in distress, that cannot live
In such an angry sea!"
"O father! I see a gleaming light,
Oh say, what may it be?"
But the father answered never a word,
A frozen corpse was he.
Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark,
With his face turned to the skies,
The lantern gleamed through the gleaming snow
On his fixed and glassy eyes.
Then the maiden clasped her hands and prayed
That savÈd she might be;
And she thought of Christ, who stilled the wave,
On the Lake of Galilee.
And fast through the midnight dark and drear,
Through the whistling sleet and snow,
Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept
Tow'rds the reef of Norman's Woe.
And ever the fitful gusts between
A sound came from the land;
It was the sound of the trampling surf
On the rocks and the hard sea-sand.
The breakers were right beneath her bows,
She drifted a dreary wreck,
And a whooping billow swept the crew
Like icicles from her deck.
She struck where the white and fleecy waves
Looked soft as carded wool,
But the cruel rocks, they gored her side
Like the horns of an angry bull.
Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice,
With the masts, went by the board;
Like a vessel of glass, she stove and sank,
Ho! ho! the breakers roared!
At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach,
A fisherman stood aghast,
To see the form of a maiden fair,
Lashed close to a drifting mast.
The salt sea was frozen on her breast,
The salt tears in her eyes;
And he saw her hair, like the brown sea-weed,
On the billows fall and rise.
Such was the wreck of the Hesperus,
In the midnight and the snow!
Christ save us all from a death like this,
On the reef of Norman's Woe!
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The presidential campaign of 1840 was the most exciting that had ever taken place in the United States. William Henry Harrison was the candidate of the Whigs and Martin Van Buren of the Democrats. Harrison was elected by an overwhelming majority.

OLD TIPPECANOE

[October, November, 1840]

Harrison was inaugurated March 4, 1841. He was at that time sixty-eight years of age, but he took up the work of his office with a vigor almost youthful. On March 27, however, he contracted a chill, pneumonia developed, and he died April 4. The vice-president, John Tyler, at once took the oath of office as president.

THE DEATH OF HARRISON

[April 4, 1841]

What! soar'd the old eagle to die at the sun!
Lies he stiff with spread wings at the goal he had won!
Are there spirits more blest than the "Planet of Even,"
Who mount to their zenith, then melt into Heaven—
No waning of fire, no quenching of ray,
But rising, still rising, when passing away?
Farewell, gallant eagle! thou'rt buried in light!
God-speed into Heaven, lost star of our night!
Death! Death in the White House! Ah, never before,
Trod his skeleton foot on the President's floor!
He is look'd for in hovel, and dreaded in hall—
The king in his closet keeps hatchment and pall—
The youth in his birthplace, the old man at home,
Make clean from the door-stone the path to the tomb;—
But the lord of this mansion was cradled not here—
In a churchyard far-off stands his beckoning bier!
He is here as the wave-crest heaves flashing on high—
As the arrow is stopp'd by its prize in the sky—
The arrow to earth, and the foam to the shore—
Death finds them when swiftness and sparkle are o'er—
But Harrison's death fills the climax of story—
He went with his old stride—from glory to glory!
Lay his sword on his breast! There's no spot on its blade
In whose cankering breath his bright laurels will fade!
'Twas the first to lead on at humanity's call—
It was stay'd with sweet mercy when "glory" was all!
As calm in the council as gallant in war,
He fought for its country and not its "hurrah!"
In the path of the hero with pity he trod—
Let him pass—with his sword—to the presence of God!
What more? Shall we on with his ashes? Yet, stay!
He hath ruled the wide realm of a king in his day!
At his word, like a monarch's, went treasure and land—
The bright gold of thousands has pass'd through his hand.
Is there nothing to show of his glittering hoard?
No jewel to deck the rude hilt of his sword—
No trappings—no horses?—what had he, but now?
On!—on with his ashes!—HE LEFT BUT HIS PLOUGH!
Brave old Cincinnatus! Unwind ye his sheet!
Let him sleep as he lived—with his purse at this feet!
Follow now, as ye list! The first mourner to-day
Is the nation—whose father is taken away!
Wife, children, and neighbor, may moan on his knell—
He was "lover and friend" to his country, as well!
For the stars on our banner, grown suddenly dim,
Let us weep, in our darkness—but weep not for him!
Not for him—who, departing, leaves millions in tears!
Not for him—who has died full of honor and years!
Not for him—who ascended Fame's ladder so high
From the round at the top he has stepp'd to the sky!
Nathaniel Parker Willis.

CHAPTER V

THE WAR WITH MEXICO

In 1821 Mexico acquired her independence of Spain, but the country became the prey of military adventurers, who were made presidents by proclamation, and retained office as long as they had an army to support them. In 1834 Santa Anna, who was in power at the time, abolished the constitution and established a military despotism. The citizens of the province of Texas, which had been largely settled from the United States, revolted and declared their independence. General Cos, the military governor, and fifteen hundred men, were besieged at Bejar, and forced to surrender, after a desperate assault led by Benjamin R. Milam.

THE VALOR OF BEN MILAM

[December 5-11, 1835]

Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
Such was the thrilling word we heard in the chill December glow;
Such was the thrilling word we heard, and a ringing, answering cry
Went up from the dun adobe walls to the cloudless Texas sky.
He had won from the reek of a Mexique jail back without map or chart,
With his mother-wit and his hero-grit and his stanch Kentucky heart;
He had trudged by vale and by mountain trail, and by thorny and thirsty plain,
And now, with joy on his grizzled brow, he had come to his own again.
They're the spawn of Hell! we heard him tell; they will knife and lie and cheat;
At the board of none of the swarthy horde would I deign to sit at meat;
They hold it naught that I bled and fought when Spain was their ruthless foe;
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
It was four to one, not gun for gun, but never a curse cared we,
Three hundred faithful and fearless men who had sworn to make Texas free.
It was mighty odds, by all the gods, this brute of the Mexique dam,
But it was not much for heroes such as followed old Ben Milam!
With rifle-crack and sabre-hack we drove them back in the street;
From house to house in the red carouse we hastened their flying feet;
And ever that shout kept pealing out with a swift and sure death-blow:
Oh, who will follow old Ben Milam into San Antonio?
Behind the walls from the hurtling balls Cos cowered and swore in his beard,
While we slashed and slew from dawn till dew, and, Bexar, how we cheered!
But ere failed each ruse, and the white of truce on the failing day was thrown,
Our fearless soul had gone to the goal, the Land of the Great Unknown.
Death brought the darksome boon too soon to this truest one of the true,
Or, men of the fated Alamo, Milam had died with you!
So when their names that now are Fame's—the scorner of braggart sham;—
In song be praised, let a rouse be raised for the name of Ben Milam!
Clinton Scollard.

BEN MILAM

Oft shall the soldier think of thee,
Thou dauntless leader of the brave,
Who on the heights of Tyranny
Won Freedom and a glorious grave.
And o'er thy tomb shall pilgrims weep,
And pray to heaven in murmurs low
That peaceful be the hero's sleep
Who conquered San Antonio.
Enshrined on Honor's deathless scroll,
A nation's thanks will tell thy fame;
Long as her beauteous rivers roll
Shall Freedom's votaries hymn thy name.
For bravest of the Texan clime,
Who fought to make her children free,
Was Milam, and his death sublime
Linked with undying Liberty!
William H. Wharton.

On February 23, 1836, Santa Anna appeared at the head of two thousand men before San Antonio. The town was guarded by a fort called the Alamo, held by Colonel William Travis and one hundred and fifty Texans. Travis sent to Gonzales for reinforcements and shut himself up in the fort. A few days later, thirty-two men got through the Mexican lines, swelling his force to one hundred and eighty-three. After a terrific struggle, the Mexicans carried the fort on March 6. Not one of the garrison survived.

THE MEN OF THE ALAMO

[February 23-March 6, 1836]

To Houston at Gonzales town, ride, Ranger, for your life,
Nor stop to say good-bye to-day to home, or child, or wife;
But pass the word from ranch to ranch, to every Texan sword,
That fifty hundred Mexicans have crossed the Nueces ford,
With Castrillon and perjured Cos, SesmÁ and AlmontÊ,
And Santa Anna ravenous for vengeance and for prey!
They smite the land with fire and sword; the grass shall never grow
Where northward sweeps that locust herd on San Antonio!
Now who will bar the foeman's path, to gain a breathing space,
Till Houston and his scattered men shall meet him face to face?
Who holds his life as less than naught when home and honor call,
And counts the guerdon full and fair for liberty to fall?
Oh, who but Barrett Travis, the bravest of them all!
With seven score of riflemen to play the rancher's game,
And feed a counter-fire to halt the sweeping prairie flame;
For Bowie of the broken blade is there to cheer them on,
With Evans of Concepcion, who conquered Castrillon,
And o'er their heads the Lone Star flag defiant floats on high,
And no man thinks of yielding, and no man fears to die.
But ere the siege is held a week a cry is heard without,
A clash of arms, a rifle peal, the Ranger's ringing shout,
And two-and-thirty beardless boys have bravely hewed their way
To die with Travis if they must, to conquer if they may.
Was ever valor held so cheap in Glory's mart before
In all the days of chivalry, in all the deeds of war?
But once again the foemen gaze in wonderment and fear
To see a stranger break their lines and hear the Texans cheer.
God! how they cheered to welcome him, those spent and starving men!
For Davy Crockett by their side was worth an army then.
The wounded ones forgot their wounds; the dying drew a breath
To hail the king of border men, then turned to laugh at death.
For all knew Davy Crockett, blithe and generous as bold,
And strong and rugged as the quartz that hides its heart of gold.
His simple creed for word or deed true as the bullet sped,
And rung the target straight: "Be sure you're right, then go ahead!"
And were they right who fought the fight for Texas by his side?
They questioned not; they faltered not; they only fought and died.
Who hath an enemy like these, God's mercy slay him straight!—
A thousand Mexicans lay dead outside the convent gate,
And half a thousand more must die before the fortress falls,
And still the tide of war beats high around the leaguered walls.
At last the bloody breach is won; the weakened lines give way;
The wolves are swarming in the court; the lions stand at bay.
The leader meets them at the breach, and wins the soldier's prize;
A foeman's bosom sheathes his sword when gallant Travis dies.
Now let the victor feast at will until his crest be red—
We may not know what raptures fill the vulture with the dead.
Let Santa Anna's valiant sword right bravely hew and hack
The senseless corse; its hands are cold; they will not strike him back.
Let Bowie die, but 'ware the hand that wields his deadly knife;
Four went to slay, and one comes back, so dear he sells his life.
And last of all let Crockett fall, too proud to sue for grace,
So grand in death the butcher dared not look upon his face.
But far on San Jacinto's field the Texan toils are set,
And Alamo's dread memory the Texan steel shall whet.
And Fame shall tell their deeds who fell till all the years be run.
"ThermopylÆ left one alive—the Alamo left none."
James Jeffrey Roche.

THE DEFENCE OF THE ALAMO

[March 6, 1835]

Santa Ana came storming, as a storm might come;
There was rumble of cannon; there was rattle of blade;
There was cavalry, infantry, bugle and drum—
Full seven thousand in pomp and parade.
The chivalry, flower of Mexico;
And a gaunt two hundred in the Alamo!
And thirty lay sick, and some were shot through;
For the siege had been bitter, and bloody, and long.
"Surrender, or die!"—"Men, what will you do?"
And Travis, great Travis, drew sword, quick and strong;
Drew a line at his feet.... "Will you come? Will you go?
I die with my wounded, in the Alamo."
The Bowie gasped, "Lead me over that line!"
Then Crockett, one hand to the sick, one hand to his gun,
Crossed with him; then never a word or a sign
Till all, sick or well, all, all save but one,
One man. Then a woman stepped, praying, and slow
Across; to die at her post in the Alamo.
Then that one coward fled, in the night, in that night
When all men silently prayed and thought
Of home; of to-morrow; of God and the right,
Till dawn; and with dawn came Travis's cannon-shot,
In answer to insolent Mexico,
From the old bell-tower of the Alamo.
Then came Santa Ana; a crescent of flame!
Then the red escalade; then the fight hand to hand;
Such an unequal fight as never had name
Since the Persian hordes butchered that doomed Spartan band.
All day—all day and all night; and the morning? so slow,
Through the battle smoke mantling the Alamo.
Now silence! Such silence! Two thousand lay dead
In a crescent outside! And within? Not a breath
Save the gasp of a woman, with gory gashed head,
All alone, all alone there, waiting for death;
And she but a nurse. Yet when shall we know
Another like this of the Alamo?
Shout "Victory, victory, victory ho!"
I say 'tis not always to the hosts that win!
I say that the victory, high or low,
Is given the hero who grapples with sin,
Or legion or single; just asking to know
When duty fronts death in his Alamo.
Joaquin Miller.

A few days later, at Goliad, Colonel Fannin and four hundred soldiers surrendered to the Mexicans under solemn assurances that their lives would be spared. On March 27 the prisoners were marched out under guard and shot down like cattle in the shambles. This massacre aroused the wildest indignation, and recruits flocked to the army under Houston, and on April 21 surprised Santa Anna at San Jacinto, routed the Mexicans, and inflicted a terrible vengeance.

THE FIGHT AT SAN JACINTO

[April 21, 1836]

"Now for a brisk and cheerful fight!"
Said Harman, big and droll,
As he coaxed his flint and steel for a light,
And puffed at his cold clay bowl;
"For we are a skulking lot," says he,
"Of land-thieves hereabout,
And the bold seÑores, two to one,
Have come to smoke us out."
Santa Anna and Castrillon,
Almonte brave and gay,
Portilla red from Goliad,
And Cos with his smart array.
Dulces and cigaritos,
And the light guitar, ting-tum!
Sant' Anna courts siesta—
And Sam Houston taps his drum.
The buck stands still in the timber—
"Is't the patter of nuts that fall?"
The foal of the wild mare whinnies—
"Did he hear the Comanche call?"
In the brake by the crawling bayou
The slinking she-wolves howl,
And the mustang's snort in the river sedge
Has startled the paddling fowl.
A soft low tap, and a muffled tap,
And a roll not loud nor long—
We would not break Sant' Anna's nap,
Nor spoil Almonte's song.
Saddles and knives and rifles!
Lord! but the men were glad
When Deaf Smith muttered "Alamo!"
And Karnes hissed "Goliad!"
The drummer tucked his sticks in his belt,
And the fifer gripped his gun.
Oh, for one free, wild Texan yell,
And we took the slope in a run!
But never a shout nor a shot we spent,
Nor an oath nor a prayer that day,
Till we faced the bravos, eye to eye,
And then we blazed away.
Then we knew the rapture of Ben Milam,
And the glory that Travis made,
With Bowie's lunge and Crockett's shot,
And Fannin's dancing blade;
And the heart of the fighter, bounding free
In his joy so hot and mad—
When Millard charged for Alamo,
Lamar for Goliad.
Deaf Smith rode straight, with reeking spur,
Into the shock and rout:
"I've hacked and burned the bayou bridge,
There's no sneak's back-way out!"
Muzzle or butt for Goliad,
Pistol and blade and fist!
Oh, for the knife that never glanced,
And the gun that never missed!
Dulces and cigaritos,
Song and the mandolin!
That gory swamp was a gruesome grove
To dance fandangos in.
We bridged the bog with the sprawling herd
That fell in that frantic rout;
We slew and slew till the sun set red,
And the Texan star flashed out.
John Williamson Palmer.

The victory at San Jacinto ended the war. Santa Anna at once signed a treaty recognizing the independence of Texas, and it was formally ratified May 14, 1836. The Republic of Texas was established, and commissioners were dispatched to Washington to secure recognition and proffer annexation.

SONG OF TEXAS

Make room on our banner bright
That flaps in the lifting gale,
For the orb that lit the fight
In Jacinto's storied vale.
Through clouds, all dark of hue,
It arose with radiant face;
Oh, grant to a sister true,
Ye stars, in your train a place!
The blood of the Saxon flows
In the veins of the men who cry,—
"Give ear, give ear unto those
Who pine for their native sky!
We call on our Motherland
For a home in Freedom's hall,—
While stretching forth the hand,
Oh, build no dividing wall!
"The Mexican vaunteth no more;
In strife we have tamed his pride;
The coward raps not at your door,
Speak out! shall it open wide?
Oh, the wish of our hearts is strong,
That the star of Jacinto's fight
Have place in the flashing throng
That spangle your banner bright."
William Henry Cuyler Hosmer.

The question of the admission of Texas was destined to occasion the bitterest controversy that ever shook the Union. The struggle between the advocates of freedom and of slavery was at its height; the former feared that to annex Texas, with its two hundred thousand square miles, would be to seat the slave interests more firmly than ever in power. It would also involve war with Mexico. The controversy raged with unexampled venom, but on December 29, 1845, Texas was admitted to the Union.

TEXAS

VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND

Up the hillside, down the glen,
Rouse the sleeping citizen;
Summon out the might of men!
Like a lion growling low,
Like a night-storm rising slow,
Like the tread of unseen foe;
It is coming, it is nigh!
Stand your homes and altars by;
On your own free thresholds die.
Clang the bells in all your spires;
On the gray hills of your sires
Fling to heaven your signal-fires.
From Wachuset, lone and bleak,
Unto Berkshire's tallest peak,
Let the flame-tongued heralds speak.
Oh, for God and duty stand,
Heart to heart and hand to hand,
Round the old graves of the land.
Whoso shrinks or falters now,
Whoso to the yoke would bow,
Brand the craven on his brow!
Freedom's soil hath only place
For a free and fearless race,
None for traitors false and base.
Perish party, perish clan;
Strike together while ye can,
Like the arm of one strong man.
Like that angel's voice sublime,
Heard above a world of crime,
Crying of the end of time;
With one heart and with one mouth,
Let the North unto the South
Speak the word befitting both:
"What though Issachar be strong!
Ye may load his back with wrong
Overmuch and over long:
"Patience with her cup o'errun,
With her weary thread outspun,
Murmurs that her work is done.
"Make our Union-bond a chain,
Weak as tow in Freedom's strain
Link by link shall snap in twain.
"Vainly shall your sand-wrought rope
Bind the starry cluster up,
Shattered over heaven's blue cope!
"Give us bright though broken rays,
Rather than eternal haze,
Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze.
"Take your land of sun and bloom;
Only leave to Freedom room
For her plough, and forge, and loom;
"Take your slavery-blackened vales;
Leave us but our own free gales,
Blowing on our thousand sails.
"Boldly, or with treacherous art,
Strike the blood-wrought chain apart;
Break the Union's mighty heart;
"Work the ruin, if ye will;
Pluck upon your heads an ill
Which shall grow and deepen still.
"With your bondman's right arm bare,
With his heart of black despair,
Stand alone, if stand ye dare!
"Onward with your fell design;
Dig the gulf and draw the line:
Fire beneath your feet the mine:
"Deeply, when the wide abyss
Yawns between your land and this,
Shall ye feel your helplessness.
"By the hearth and in the bed,
Shaken by a look or tread,
Ye shall own a guilty dread.
"And the curse of unpaid toil,
Downward through your generous soil
Like a fire shall burn and spoil.
"Our bleak hills shall bud and blow,
Vines our rocks shall overgrow,
Plenty in our valleys flow;—
"And when vengeance clouds your skies,
Hither shall ye turn your eyes,
As the lost on Paradise!
"We but ask our rocky strand,
Freedom's true and brother band,
Freedom's strong and honest hand;
"Valleys by the slave untrod,
And the Pilgrim's mountain sod,
BlessÈd of our fathers' God!"
John Greenleaf Whittier.

The Mexican minister had already demanded his passports, and the annexation of Texas to the Union was regarded by Mexico as an act of war. A Mexican army was collected on the Rio Grande, while an American army of occupation under General Zachary Taylor was thrown into Texas. The war awakened the most violent hostility in the North, and especially in New England, where it was held to be merely a pretext for extending slave territory.

MR. HOSEA BIGLOW SPEAKS

Thrash away, you'll hev to rattle
On them kittle-drums o' yourn,—
'Taint a knowin' kind o' cattle
Thet is ketched with mouldy corn;
Put in stiff, you fifer feller,
Let folks see how spry you be,—
Guess you'll toot till you are yeller
'Fore you git ahold o' me!
Thet air flag's a leetle rotten,
Hope it aint your Sunday's best;—
Fact! it takes a sight o' cotton
To stuff out a soger's chest:
Sence we farmers hev to pay fer 't,
Ef you must wear humps like these,
S'posin' you should try salt hay fer 't,
It would du ez slick ez grease.
'Twouldn't suit them Southun fellers,
They're a dreffle graspin' set,
We must ollers blow the bellers
Wen they want their irons het;
May be it's all right ez preachin',
But my narves it kind o' grates,
Wen I see the overreachin'
O' them nigger-drivin' States.
Them thet rule us, them slave-traders,
Haint they cut a thunderin' swarth
(Helped by Yankee renegaders),
Thru the vartu o' the North!
We begin to think it's nater
To take sarse an' not be riled;—
Who'd expect to see a tater
All on eend at bein' biled?
Ez fer war, I call it murder,—
There you hev it plain an' flat;
I don't want to go no furder
Than my Testyment fer that;
God hez sed so plump an' fairly,
It's ez long ez it is broad,
An' you've gut to git up airly
Ef you want to take in God.
'Taint your eppyletts an' feathers
Make the thing a grain more right;
'Taint afollerin' your bell-wethers
Will excuse ye in His sight;
Ef you take a sword an' dror it,
An' go stick a feller thru,
Guv'ment aint to answer for it,
God'll send the bill to you.
Wut's the use o' meetin'-goin'
Every Sabbath, wet or dry,
Ef it's right to go amowin'
Feller-men like oats an' rye?
I dunno but what it's pooty
Trainin' round in bobtail coats,—
But it's curus Christian dooty
This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats.
They may talk o' Freedom's airy
Tell they're pupple in the face,—
It's a grand gret cemetary
Fer the barthrights of our race;
They jest want this Californy
So's to lug new slave-states in
To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye,
An' to plunder ye like sin.
Aint it cute to see a Yankee
Take sech everlastin' pains,
All to get the Devil's thankee
Helpin' on 'em weld their chains?
Wy, it's jest ez clear es figgers,
Clear ez one an' one make two,
Chaps thet make black slaves o' niggers
Want to make wite slaves o' you.
Tell ye jest the eend I've come to
Arter cipherin' plaguy smart,
An' it makes a handy sum, tu,
Any gump could larn by heart;
Laborin' man an' laborin' woman,
Hev one glory an' one shame,
Ev'y thin' thet's done inhuman
Injers all on 'em the same.
'Taint by turnin' out to hack folks
You're agoin' to git your right,
Nor by lookin' down on black folks
Coz you're put upon by wite;
Slavery aint o' nary color,
'Taint the hide thet makes it wus,
All it keers fer in a feller
'S jest to make him fill its pus.
Want to tackle me in, du ye?
I expect you'll hev to wait;
Wen cold lead puts daylight thru ye
You'll begin to kal'late;
S'pose the crows wun't fall to pickin'
All the carkiss from your bones,
Coz you helped to give a lickin'
To them poor half-Spanish drones?
Jest go home an' ask our Nancy
Wether I'd be such a goose
Ez to jine ye,—guess you'd fancy
The eternal bung wuz loose!
She wants me fer home consumption,
Let alone the hay's to mow,—
Ef you're arter folks o' gumption,
You've a darned long row to hoe.
Take them editors thet's crowin'
Like a cockerel three months old,—
Don't ketch any on 'em goin',
Though they be so blasted bold;
Aint they a prime lot o' fellers?
'Fore they think on 't guess they'll sprout
(Like a peach thet's got the yellers),
With the meanness bustin' out.
Wal, go 'long to help 'em stealin'
Bigger pens to cram with slaves,
Help the men thet's ollers dealin'
Insults on your fathers' graves;
Help the strong to grind the feeble,
Help the many agin the few,
Help the men thet call your people
Witewashed slaves an' peddlin' crew!
Massachusetts, God forgive her,
She's akneelin' with the rest,
She, thet ough' to ha' clung ferever
In her grand old eagle-nest;
She thet ough' to stand so fearless
W'ile the wracks are round her hurled,
Holdin' up a beacon peerless
To the oppressed of all the world!
Ha'n't they sold your colored seamen?
Ha'n't they made your env'ys w'iz?
Wut'll make ye act like freemen?
Wut'll git your dander riz?
Come, I tell you wut I'm thinkin'
Is our dooty in this fix,
They'd ha' done 't ez quick ez winkin'
In the days o' seventy-six.
Clang the bells in every steeple,
Call all true men to disown
The tradoocers of our people,
The enslavers o' their own;
Let our dear old Bay State proudly
Put the trumpet to her mouth,
Let her ring this messidge loudly
In the ears of all the South:—
"I'll return ye good fer evil
Much ez we frail mortils can,
But I wun't go help the Devil
Makin' man the cus o' man;
Call me coward, call me traitor,
Jest ez suits your mean idees,—
Here I stand a tyrant-hater,
An' the friend o' God an' Peace!"
Ef I'd my way I hed ruther
We should go to work an' part,
They take one way, we take t'other,
Guess it wouldn't break my heart;
Man hed ough' to put asunder
Them thet God has noways jined;
An' I shouldn't gretly wonder
Ef there's thousands o' my mind.
James Russell Lowell.

General Taylor took up his station opposite Matamoras, where the Mexican army was, and the Mexicans finally attacked Fort Brown, which Taylor had erected opposite one of their batteries. On May 7 Taylor started to relieve the fort, with a force of twenty-one hundred men, and at noon next day found the Mexican army, six thousand strong, drawn up before him at Palo Alto. Taylor ordered Lieutenant Blake to reconnoitre the enemy's position.

THE GUNS IN THE GRASS

[May 8, 1846]

Blake brought back with him an accurate description of the disposition of the Mexican forces, and Taylor resolved to attack, despite the odds against him. His artillery did great execution, and gradually advanced, as the Mexicans were forced back. Charge after charge was repulsed, and the Mexicans finally withdrew to Resaca de la Palma. There Taylor attacked them next day, routed them, and marched on to relieve Fort Brown.

RIO BRAVO—A MEXICAN LAMENT

[May 8, 1846]

Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo!
Saw men ever such a sight?
Since the field of Roncesvalles
Sealed the fate of many a knight.
Dark is Palo Alto's story,
Sad Reseca Palma's rout,
On those fatal fields so gory,
Many a gallant life went out.
There our best and bravest lances
Shivered 'gainst the Northern steel,
Left the valiant hearts that couched them
'Neath the Northern charger's heel.
Rio Bravo! Rio Bravo!
Minstrel ne'er knew such a fight
Since the field of Roncesvalles
Sealed the fate of many a knight.
Rio Bravo, fatal river,
Saw ye not while red with gore,
Torrejon all headless quiver,
A ghastly trunk upon thy shore!
Heard you not the wounded coursers
Shrieking on your trampled banks,
As the Northern winged artillery
Thundered on our shattered ranks!
There Arista, best and bravest,
There Raguena, tried and true,
On the fatal field thou lavest,
Nobly did all men could do.
Vainly there those heroes rally,
Castile on Montezuma's shore,
"Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles,"
Ye are names blent evermore.
Weepest thou, lorn lady Inez,
For thy lover 'mid the slain,
Brave La Vega's trenchant falchion
Cleft his slayer to the brain.
Brave La Vega who all lonely,
By a host of foes beset,
Yielded up his sabre only
When his equal there he met.
Other champions not less noted
Sleep beneath that sullen wave;
Rio Bravo, thou hast floated
An army to an ocean grave.
On they came, those Northern horsemen,
On like eagles toward the sun,
Followed then the Northern bayonet,
And the field was lost and won.
Oh! for Orlando's horn to rally
His Paladins on that sad shore,
"Rio Bravo"—"Roncesvalles,"
Ye are names blent evermore.
Translated by
Charles Fenno Hoffman
from the Spanish of
Don Jose de Saltillo.

These brilliant victories served to kindle enthusiasm for the war throughout the whole country. Congress authorized the enlistment of fifty thousand volunteers, and reinforcements were promptly started to General Taylor at Matamoras.

TO ARMS

[1846]

Awake! arise, ye men of might!
The glorious hour is nigh,—
Your eagle pauses in his flight,
And screams his battle-cry.
From North to South, from East to West:
Send back an answering cheer,
And say farewell to peace and rest,
And banish doubt and fear.
Arm! arm! your country bids you arm!
Fling out your banners free—
Let drum and trumpet sound alarm,
O'er mountains, plain, and sea.
March onward from th' Atlantic shore,
To Rio Grande's tide—
Fight as your fathers fought of yore!
Die as your fathers died!
Go! vindicate your country's fame,
Avenge your country's wrong!
The sons should own a deathless name,
To whom such sires belong.
The kindred of the noble dead
As noble deeds should dare:
The fields whereon their blood was shed
A deeper stain must bear.
To arms! to arms! ye men of might;
Away from home, away!
The first and foremost in the fight
Are sure to win the day!
Park Benjamin.

By the last of August, Taylor had whipped his army into shape, and began to advance on Monterey, a town believed to be impregnable, and where General Arista had collected an army of ten thousand men. The American army reached the town September 19; and after two days' desperate fighting the town surrendered.

MONTEREY

[September 23, 1846]

We were not many, we who stood
Before the iron sleet that day:
Yet many a gallant spirit would
Give half his years if but he could
Have been with us at Monterey.
Now here, now there, the shot is hail'd
In deadly drifts of fiery spray,
Yet not a single soldier quail'd
When wounded comrades round them wail'd
Their dying shout at Monterey.
And on—still on our column kept
Through walls of flame its withering way;
Where fell the dead, the living stept,
Still charging on the guns which swept
The slippery streets of Monterey.
The foe himself recoil'd aghast,
When, striking where he strongest lay,
We swoop'd his flanking batteries past,
And braving full their murderous blast,
Storm'd home the towers of Monterey.
Our banners on those turrets wave,
And there our evening bugles play:
Where orange-boughs above their grave
Keep green the memory of the brave
Who fought and fell at Monterey.
We are not many—we who press'd
Beside the brave who fell that day—
But who of us has not confess'd
He'd rather share their warrior rest
Than not have been at Monterey?
Charles Fenno Hoffman.

The city had cost the Americans five hundred in killed and wounded; but the Mexican loss was nearly twice as great. Among the American dead was Victor Galbraith, a bugler in a company of volunteer cavalry, who was shot for disobeying orders.

VICTOR GALBRAITH

[September 23, 1846]

Under the walls of Monterey
At daybreak the bugles began to play,
Victor Galbraith!
In the mist of the morning damp and gray,
These were the words they seemed to say:
"Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!"
Forth he came, with a martial tread;
Firm was his step, erect his head;
Victor Galbraith,
He who so well the bugle played,
Could not mistake the words it said:
"Come forth to thy death,
Victor Galbraith!"
He looked at the earth, he looked at the sky,
He looked at the files of musketry,
Victor Galbraith!
And he said, with a steady voice and eye,
"Take good aim; I am ready to die!"
Thus challenges death
Victor Galbraith.
Twelve fiery tongues flashed straight and red,
Six leaden balls on their errand sped;
Victor Galbraith
Falls to the ground, but he is not dead:
His name was not stamped on those balls of lead,
And they only scath
Victor Galbraith.
Three balls are in his breast and brain,
But he rises out of the dust again,
Victor Galbraith!
The water he drinks has a bloody stain;
"Oh, kill me, and put me out of my pain!"
In his agony prayeth
Victor Galbraith.
Forth dart once more those tongues of flame,
And the bugler has died a death of shame,
Victor Galbraith!
His soul has gone back to whence it came,
And no one answers to the name
When the Sergeant saith,
"Victor Galbraith!"
Under the walls of Monterey
By night a bugle is heard to play,
Victor Galbraith!
Through the mist of the valley damp and gray
The sentinels hear the sound, and say,
"That is the wraith
Of Victor Galbraith!"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Further reinforcements were hurried forward to General Taylor. Santa Anna had collected a great army, and Taylor fell back to Angostura, near the village of Buena Vista. There, on February 22, Santa Anna summoned him to surrender, stating that he was surrounded by twenty thousand men and could not avoid defeat. Taylor tartly refused, and Santa Anna advanced to the attack, only to be routed after a desperate two days' struggle.

BUENA VISTA

[February 22-23, 1847]

From the Rio Grande's waters to the icy lakes of Maine,
Let all exult! for we have met the enemy again;
Beneath their stern old mountains we have met them in their pride,
And rolled from Buena Vista back the battle's bloody tide;
Where the enemy came surging swift, like the Mississippi's flood,
And the reaper, Death, with strong arms swung his sickle red with blood.
Santana boasted loudly that, before two hours were past,
His Lancers through Saltillo should pursue us fierce and fast:—
On comes his solid infantry, line marching after line;
Lo! their great standards in the sun like sheets of silver shine:
With thousands upon thousands,—yea, with more than three to one,—
Their forests of bright bayonets fierce-flashing in the sun.
Lo! Guanajuato's regiment; Morelos' boasted corps,
And Guadalajara's chosen troops!—all veterans tried before.
Lo! galloping upon the right four thousand lances gleam,
Where, floating in the morning wind, their blood-red pennons stream;
And here his stern artillery climbs up the broad plateau:
To-day he means to strike at us an overwhelming blow.
Now, Wool, hold strongly to the heights! for, lo! the mighty tide
Comes, thundering like an avalanche, deep, terrible, and wide.
Now, Illinois, stand steady! Now, Kentucky, to their aid!
For a portion of our line, alas! is broken and dismayed:
Great bands of shameless fugitives are fleeing from the field,
And the day is lost, if Illinois and brave Kentucky yield.
One of O'Brien's guns is gone!—On, on their masses drift,
Till their cavalry and infantry outflank us on the left;
Our light troops, driven from the hills, retreat in wild dismay,
And round us gather, thick and dark, the Mexican array.
Santana thinks the day is gained; for, now approaching near,
MiÑon's dark cloud of Lancers sternly menaces our rear.
Now, Lincoln, gallant gentleman, lies dead upon the field,
Who strove to stay those cravens, when before the storm they reeled.
Fire, Washington, fire fast and true! Fire, Sherman, fast and far!
Lo! Bragg comes thundering to the front, to breast the adverse war!
Santana thinks the day is gained! On, on his masses crowd,
And the roar of battle swells again more terrible and loud.
Not yet! Our brave old General comes to regain the day;
Kentucky, to the rescue! Mississippi, to the fray!
Again our line advances! Gallant Davis fronts the foe,
And back before his rifles, in red waves the Lancers flow.
Upon them yet once more, ye brave! The avalanche is stayed!
Back roll the Aztec multitudes, all broken and dismayed.
Ride! May!—To Buena Vista! for the Lancers gain our rear,
And we have few troops there to check their vehement career.
Charge, Arkansas! Kentucky, charge! Yell, Porter, Vaughan, are slain.
But the shattered troops cling desperately unto that crimsoned plain;
Till, with the Lancers intermixed, pursuing and pursued,
Westward, in combat hot and close, drifts off the multitude.
And May comes charging from the hills with his ranks of flaming steel,
While, shattered with a sudden fire, the foe already reel:
They flee amain!—Now to the left, to stay the torrent there,
Or else the day is surely lost, in horror and despair!
For their hosts pour swiftly onward, like a river in the spring,
Our flank is turned, and on our left their cannon thundering.
Now, good Artillery! bold Dragoons! Steady, brave hearts, be calm!
Through rain, cold hail, and thunder, now nerve each gallant arm!
What though their shot fall round us here, yet thicker than the hail?
We'll stand against them, as the rock stands firm against the gale.
Lo! their battery is silenced! but our iron sleet still showers:
They falter, halt, retreat,—Hurrah! the glorious day is ours!
In front, too, has the fight gone well, where upon gallant Lane,
And on stout Mississippi, the thick Lancers charged in vain:
Ah! brave Third Indiana! you have nobly wiped away
The reproach that through another corps befell your State to-day;
For back, all broken and dismayed, before your storm of fire,
Santana's boasted chivalry, a shattered wreck, retire.
Now charge again, Santana! or the day is surely lost—
For back, like broken waves, along our left your hordes are tossed.
Still faster roar his batteries,—his whole reserve moves on;
More work remains for us to do, ere the good fight is won.
Now for your wives and children, men! Stand steady yet once more!
Fight for your lives and honors! Fight as you never fought before!
Ho! Hardin breasts it bravely! and heroic Bissell there
Stands firm before the storm of balls that fill the astonished air:
The Lancers dash upon them too! The foe swarm ten to one:
Hardin is slain; McKee and Clay the last time see the sun:
And many another gallant heart, in that last desperate fray,
Grew cold, its last thought turning to its loved ones far away.
Speed, speed, Artillery! to the front!—for the hurricane of fire
Crushes those noble regiments, reluctant to retire!
Speed swiftly! Gallop! Ah! they come! Again Bragg climbs the ridge,
And his grape sweeps down the swarming foe, as a strong man moweth sedge:
Thus baffled in their last attack, compelled perforce to yield,
Still menacing in firm array, their columns leave the field.
The guns still roared at intervals; but silence fell at last,
And on the dead and dying came the evening shadows fast.
And then above the mountains rose the cold moon's silver shield,
And patiently and pitying she looked upon the field.
While careless of his wounded, and neglectful of his dead,
Despairingly and sullenly by night Santana fled.
And thus on Buena Vista's heights a long day's work was done,
And thus our brave old General another battle won.
Still, still our glorious banner waves, unstained by flight or shame,
And the Mexicans among their hills still tremble at our name.
So, honor unto those that stood! Disgrace to those that fled!
And everlasting glory unto Buena Vista's dead!
Albert Pike.
February 28, 1847.

THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA

[February 22-23, 1847]

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away,
O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array,
Who is losing? who is winning? are they far or come they near?
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear.
"Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls;
Blood is flowing, men are dying; God have mercy on their souls!"
Who is losing? who is winning? "Over hill and over plain,
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain rain."
Holy Mother! keep our brothers! Look, Ximena, look once more.
"Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before,
Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and horse,
Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its mountain course."
Look forth once more, Ximena! "Ah! the smoke has rolled away;
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray.
Hark! that sudden blast of bugles! there the troop of Minon wheels;
There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their heels.
"Jesu, pity! how it thickens! now retreat and now advance!
Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging lance!
Down they go, the brave young riders; horse and foot together fall;
Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the Northern ball."
Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on!
Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has won?
"Alas! alas! I know not; friend and foe together fall,
O'er the dying rush the living: pray, my sisters, for them all!
"Lo! the wind the smoke is lifting. Blessed Mother, save my brain!
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain.
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding; now they fall, and strive to rise;
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes!
"O my heart's love! O my dear one! lay thy poor head on my knee;
Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee? Canst thou hear me? canst thou see?
O my husband, brave and gentle! O my Bernal, look once more
On the blessed cross before thee! Mercy! mercy! all is o'er!"
Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena; lay thy dear one down to rest;
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast;
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said;
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid.
Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay,
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life away;
But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt,
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt.
With a stifled cry of horror straight she turned away her head;
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead;
But she heard the youth's low moaning, and his struggling breath of pain,
And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again.
Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled;
Was that pitying face his mother's? did she watch beside her child?
All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart supplied;
With her kiss upon his forehead, "Mother!" murmured he, and died!
"A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth,
From some gentle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the North!"
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her dead,
And turned to soothe the living, and bind the wounds which bled.
Look forth once more, Ximena! "Like a cloud before the wind
Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death behind;
Ah! they plead in vain for mercy; in the dust the wounded strive;
Hide your faces, holy angels! O thou Christ of God, forgive!"
Sink, O Night, among thy mountains! let the cool, gray shadows fall;
Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all!
Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle rolled,
In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold.
But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued,
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and lacking food.
Over weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung,
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern tongue.
Not wholly lost, O Father! is this evil world of ours;
Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden flowers;
From its smoking hell of battle, Love and Pity send their prayer,
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air!
John Greenleaf Whittier.

The American forces in this memorable battle totalled 4691, while the Mexicans mustered over 23,000 men. The Mexican losses exceeded 2500. The Americans lost 264 killed and 450 wounded. Theodore O'Hara's famous poem was written to commemorate them.

THE BIVOUAC OF THE DEAD

The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.
On Fame's eternal camping-ground
Their silent tents are spread,
And Glory guards, with solemn round,
The bivouac of the dead.
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
No troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;
No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dream alarms;
No braying horn nor screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
Their shivered swords are red with rust;
Their plumÈd heads are bowed;
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.
And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed,
Are free from anguish now.
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past;
Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
Like the fierce northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe.
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or Death."
Long had the doubtful conflict raged
O'er all that stricken plain,
For never fiercer fight had waged
The vengeful blood of Spain;
And still the storm of battle blew,
Still swelled the gory tide;
Not long our stout old chieftain knew,
Such odds his strength could bide.
'Twas in that hour his stern command
Called to a martyr's grave
The flower of his belovÈd land,
The nation's flag to save.
By rivers of their fathers' gore
His first-born laurels grew,
And well he deemed the sons would pour
Their lives for glory too.
Full many a norther's breath has swept,
O'er Angostura's plain—
And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its mouldered slain.
The raven's scream or eagle's flight
Or shepherd's pensive lay,
Alone awakes each sullen height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.
Sons of the Dark and Bloody ground,
Ye must not slumber there,
Where stranger steps and tongues resound
Along the heedless air.
Your own proud land's heroic soil
Shall be your fitter grave;
She claims from war his richest spoil—
The ashes of her brave.
Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field
Borne to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield;
The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,
And kindred eyes and hearts watch by
The heroes' sepulchre.
Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave,
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your story be forgot,
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.
Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone
In deathless song shall tell
When many a vanished age hath flown,
The story how ye fell;
Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter's blight,
Nor Time's remorseless doom,
Shall dim one ray of glory's light
That gilds your deathless tomb.
Theodore O'Hara.

Despite the victories, the war continued unpopular in New England, and particularly in Massachusetts. In the campaign of 1847, Caleb Cushing, who had raised a regiment at his own expense and taken it to Mexico, was nominated by the Democrats for governor, but was defeated by George Nixon Briggs, his Whig opponent, by a majority of fourteen thousand.

WHAT MR. ROBINSON THINKS

[1847]

Guvener B. is a sensible man;
He stays to his home an' looks arter his folks;
He draws his furrer ez straight ez he can,
An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
My! aint it terrible? Wut shall we du?
We can't never choose him o' course,—thet's flat;
Guess we shell hev to come round, (don't you?)
An' go in fer thunder an' guns, an' all that;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez he wunt vote fer Guvener B.
Gineral C. is a dreffle smart man:
He's ben on all sides thet give places or pelf;
But consistency still wuz a part of his plan,—
He's ben true to one party,—an' thet is himself;—
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
Gineral C. he goes in fer the war;
He don't vally princerple more 'n an old cud;
Wut did God make us raytional creeturs fer,
But glory an' gunpowder, plunder an' blood?
So John P.
Robinson he
Sez he shall vote fer Gineral C.
We were gittin' on nicely up here to our village,
With good old idees o' wut's right an' wut aint,
We kind o' thought Christ went agin war an' pillage,
An' thet eppyletts worn't the best mark of a saint;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez this kind o' thing's an exploded idee.
The side of our country must ollers be took,
An' Presidunt Polk, you know, he is our country.
An' the angel thet writes all our sins in a book
Puts the debit to him, an' to us the per contry;
An' John P.
Robinson he
Sez this is his view o' the thing to a T.
Parson Wilbur he calls all these argiments lies;
Sez they're nothin' on airth but jest fee, faw, fum;
An' thet all this big talk of our destinies
Is half on it ign'ance, an' t'other half rum;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez it aint no sech thing; an', of course, so must we.
Parson Wilbur sez he never heerd in his life
Thet th' Apostles rigged out in their swaller-tail coats,
An' marched round in front of a drum an' a fife,
To git some on 'em office, an' some on 'em votes;
But John P.
Robinson he
Sez they didn't know everythin' down in Judee.
Wal, it's a marcy we've gut folks to tell us
The rights an' the wrongs o' these matters, I vow,—
God sends country lawyers, an' other wise fellers,
To start the world's team wen it gits in a slough;
Fer John P.
Robinson he
Sez the world'll go right, ef he hollers out Gee!
James Russell Lowell.

On March 9, 1847, General Winfield Scott arrived off Vera Cruz with twelve thousand men to march against the City of Mexico. On April 18 he met and defeated Santa Anna's army at Cerro Gordo. On August 20 he arrived before the City of Mexico, and, after an ill-advised armistice, advanced to storm the city on September 8. He chose the approach guarded by the formidable works of Malino del Rey and Chapultepec. The former was carried by assault, after a fierce hand-to-hand battle.

BATTLE OF THE KING'S MILL

[September 8, 1847]

Said my landlord, white-headed Gil Gomez,
With newspaper held in his hand—
"So they've built from El Paso a railway
That Yankees may visit our land.
As guests let them come and be welcome,
But not as they came here before;
They are rather rough fellows to handle
In the rush of the battle and roar.
"They took Vera Cruz and its castle;
In triumph they marched through the land;
We fought them with desperate daring,
But lacked the right man to command.
They stormed, at a loss, Cerro Gordo—
Every mile in their movement it cost;
And when they arrived at Puebla,
Some thousands of men they had lost.
"Ere our capital fell, and the city
By foreign invaders was won,
We called out among its defenders
Each man who could handle a gun.
Chapultepec stood in their pathway;
Churubusco they had to attack;
The mill of the King—well, I fought there,
And they were a hard nut to crack.
"While their right was assailing the ramparts,
Our force struck their left on the field,
Where our colonel, in language that stirred us,
To love of our country appealed.
And we swore that we never would falter
Before either sabre or ball;
We would beat back the foeman before us,
Or dead on the battle-field fall.
"Fine words, you may say, but we meant them;
And so when they came up the hill,
We poured on them volley on volley,
And riddled their ranks with a will.
Their line in a moment was broken;
They closed it, and came with a cheer;
But still we fired quickly and deadly,
And felt neither pity nor fear.
"We smote the blue column with grape-shot,
But it rushed as the wild torrent runs;
At the pieces they slew our best gunners,
And took in the struggle our guns.
We sprang in a rage to retake them,
And lost nearly half of our men;
Then, baffled and beaten, retreated,
And gained our position again.
"Ceased their yell, and in spite of our firing
They dressed like an arrow in line,
Then, standing there moveless a moment,
Their eyes flashed with purpose malign,
All still as the twilight in summer,
No cloud on the sky to deform,
Like the lull in the voices of nature
Ere wakens the whirlwind and storm.
"We had fought them with death-daring spirit,
And courage unyielding till then;
No man could have forced us to falter,
But these were more demons than men.
Our ranks had been torn by their bullets,
We filled all the gaps they had made;
But the pall of that terrible silence
The hearts of our boldest dismayed.
"Before us no roaring of cannon,
Rifle-rattle, or musketry peal;
But there on the ocean of battle
Surged steady the billow of steel.
Fierce we opened our fire on the column,
We pierced it with ball here and there;
But it swept on in pitiless sternness
Till we faltered and fled in despair.
"After that all their movements were easy;
At their storming Chapultepec fell,
And that ended the war—we were beaten:
No story is left me to tell.
And now they come back to invade us,
Though not with the bullet and blade;
They are here with their goods on a railway,
To conquer the country by trade."
Thomas Dunn English.

Chapultepec still remained, and on the morning of September 13 two storming parties rushed it, swarmed over the walls, swept back the garrison, and planted the American flag on the ramparts. The Mexican army hastened to evacuate the city, and on September 14 the Stars and Stripes floated over the capital of Mexico.

THE SIEGE OF CHAPULTEPEC

[September 13, 1847]

While these victories were being won in Mexico, General Stephen W. Kearny, at the head of the Army of the West, had seized the territory of New Mexico, and established a civil government at Santa FÉ. He then proceeded to California, defeated the Mexicans at Sacramento, and took possession of that province.

ILLUMINATION FOR VICTORIES IN MEXICO

Light up thy homes, Columbia,
For those chivalric men
Who bear to scenes of warlike strife
Thy conquering arms again,
Where glorious victories, flash on flash,
Reveal their stormy way,—
Resaca's, Palo Alto's fields,
The heights of Monterey!
They pile with thousands of thy foes
Buena Vista's plain;
With maids and wives, at Vera Cruz,
Swell high the list of slain!
They paint upon the Southern skies
The blaze of burning domes,—
Their laurels dew with blood of babes!
Light up, light up thy homes!
Light up your homes, O fathers!
For those young hero bands,
Whose march is still through vanquished towns,
And over conquered lands!
Whose valor, wild, impetuous,
In all its fiery glow,
Pours onward like a lava-tide,
And sweeps away the foe!
For those whose dead brows glory crowns,
On crimson couches sleeping,
And for home faces wan with grief,
And fond eyes dim with weeping.
And for the soldier, poor, unknown,
Who battled, madly brave,
Beneath a stranger soil to share
A shallow, crowded grave.
Light up thy home, young mother!
Then gaze in pride and joy
Upon those fair and gentle girls,
That eagle-eyed young boy;
And clasp thy darling little one
Yet closer to thy breast,
And be thy kisses on its lips
In yearning love impressed.
In yon beleaguered city
Were homes as sweet as thine;
Where trembling mothers felt loved arms
In fear around them twine,—
The lad with brow of olive hue,
The babe like lily fair,
The maiden with her midnight eyes,
And wealth of raven hair.
The booming shot, the murderous shell,
Crashed through the crumbling walls,
And filled with agony and death
Those sacred household halls!
Then, bleeding, crushed, and blackened, lay
The sister by the brother,
And the torn infant gasped and writhed
On the bosom of the mother!
O sisters, if ye have no tears
For fearful tales like these,
If the banners of the victors veil
The victim's agonies,
If ye lose the babe's and mother's cry
In the noisy roll of drums,
If your hearts with martial pride throb high,
Light up, light up your homes!
Grace Greenwood.

The Mexican people knew themselves defeated, and were eager for peace. The treaty was finally signed February 2, 1848. Mexico accepted the Rio Grande as her northern boundary, and ceded New Mexico and California to the United States. For this territory the United States was to pay her $15,000,000, and to assume debts to the amount of $3,500,000.

THE CRISIS

Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand,
The circles of our empire touch the western ocean's strand;
From slumberous Timpanogos to Gila, wild and free,
Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea;
And from the mountains of the east, to Santa Rosa's shore,
The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more.
O Vale of Rio Bravo! Let thy simple children weep;
Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep;
Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines,
And Santa Barbara toll her bells amidst her corn and vines;
For lo! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain,
Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain.
Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring down
Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown!
Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack,
And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back;
By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine,
On many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine.
O countrymen and brothers! that land of lake and plain,
Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain;
Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene,
On their feet with spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest green;
Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny vale,
Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail!
Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shores
The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars;
Great herds that wander all unwatched, wild steeds that none have tamed,
Strange fish in unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never named;
Deep mines, dark mountain crucibles, where Nature's chemic powers
Work out the Great Designer's will; all these ye say are ours!
Forever ours! for good or ill, on us the burden lies:
God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies.
Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling scale?
Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail?
Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves,
Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves?
The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told,
And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold;
Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen,
Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men;
The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born,
And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden Horn!
Is this, O countrymen of mine! a day for us to sow
The soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe?
To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime,
Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of Time?
To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran,
And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man?
Great Heaven! Is this our mission? End in this the prayers and tears,
The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years?
Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn,
A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness borne?
Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air?
Where for words of hope they listened, the long wail of despair?
The Crisis presses on us; face to face with us it stands,
With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands!
This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin;
This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin;
Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown,
We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down!
By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame;
By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets came;
By the Future which awaits us; by all the hopes which cast
Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the Past;
And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom died,
O my people! O my brothers! let us choose the righteous side.
So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way;
To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay,
To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with grain;
And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train:
The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea,
And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are free!
John Greenleaf Whittier.

On June 12, 1848, the last of the United States troops left the City of Mexico. They were received at home with the wildest enthusiasm. Never had a nation, in modern times, fought so successful a war in so short a time.

THE VOLUNTEERS

[1849]

The Volunteers! the Volunteers!
I dream, as in the by-gone years,
I hear again their stirring cheers,
And see their banners shine,
What time the yet unconquered North
Pours to the wars her legions forth,
For many a wrong to strike a blow
With mailÈd hand at Mexico.
The Volunteers! Ah, where are they
Who bade the hostile surges stay,
When the black forts of Monterey
Frowned on their dauntless line?
When, undismayed amid the shock
Of war, like Cerro Gordo's rock,
They stood, or rushed more madly on
Than tropic tempest o'er San Juan?
On Angostura's crowded field
Their shattered columns scorned to yield,
And wildly yet defiance pealed
Their flashing batteries' throats;
And echoed then the rifle's crack,
As deadly as when on the track
Of flying foe, of yore, its voice
Bade Orleans' dark-eyed girls rejoice.
Blent with the roar of guns and bombs,
How grandly from the dim past comes
The roll of their victorious drums,
Their bugle's joyous notes,
When over Mexico's proud towers,
And the fair valley's storied bowers,
Fit recompense of toil and scars,
In triumph waved their flag of stars.
Ah, comrades, of your own tried troop,
Whose honor ne'er to shame might stoop,
Of lion heart and eagle swoop,
But you alone remain;
On all the rest has fallen the hush
Of death; the men whose battle-rush
Was wild as sun-loosed torrent's flow
From Orizaba's crest of snow.
The Volunteers! the Volunteers!
God send us peace through all our years,
But if the cloud of war appears,
We'll see them once again.
From broad Ohio's peaceful side,
From where the Maumee pours its tide,
From storm-lashed Erie's wintry shore,
Shall spring the Volunteers once more.
William Haines Lytle.

CHAPTER VI

FOURTEEN YEARS OF PEACE

In his message to Congress at the opening of the December session of 1847, President Polk recommended, among other things, the construction of a ship canal across the Isthmus of Panama—a recommendation which was not to bear fruit for sixty years.

THE SHIP CANAL FROM THE ATLANTIC TO THE PACIFIC

AN ODE TO THE AMERICAN PEOPLE AND THEIR CONGRESS,
ON READING THE MESSAGE OF THE UNITED STATES PRESIDENT IN DECEMBER, 1847

Rend America asunder
And unite the Binding Sea
That emboldens man and tempers—
Make the ocean free.
Break the bolt that bars the passage,
That our River richly pours
Western wealth to western nations;
Let that sea be ours—
Ours by all the hardy whalers,
By the pointing Oregon,
By the west-impelled and working,
Unthralled Saxon son.
Long indeed they have been wooing,
The Pacific and his bride;
Now 'tis time for holy wedding—
Join them by the tide.
Have the snowy surfs not struggled
Many centuries in vain
That their lips might seal the Union?
Lock them main to main.
When the mighty God of nature
Made this favored continent,
He allowed it yet unsevered,
That a race be sent,
Able, mindful of his purpose,
Prone to people, to subdue,
And to bind the land with iron,
Or to force it through.
What the prophet-navigator,
Seeking straits to his Catais,
But began, now consummate it—
Make the strait and pass.
Blessed the eyes that shall behold it,
When the pointing boom shall veer,
Leading through the parted Andes,
While the nations cheer!
There at Suez, Europe's mattock
Cuts the briny road with skill,
And must Darien bid defiance
To the pilot still?
Do we breathe this breath of Knowledge
Purely to enjoy its zest?
Shall the iron arm of science
Like a sluggard rest?
Up then, at it! earnest people!
Bravely wrought thy scorning blade,
But there's fresher fame in store yet,
Glory for the spade.
What we want is naught in envy,
And for all we pioneer;
Let the keels of every nation
Through the isthmus steer.
Must the globe be always girded
Ere we get to Bramah's priest?
Take the tissues of your Lowells
Westward to the East.
Ye, that vanquish pain and distance,
Ye, enmeshing Time with wire,
Court ye patiently forever
Yon Antarctic ire?
Shall the mariner forever
Double the impending capes,
While his longsome and retracing
Needless course he shapes?
What was daring for our fathers,
To defy those billows fierce,
Is but tame for their descendants;
We are bid to pierce.
Ye that fight with printing armies,
Settle sons on forlorn track,
As the Romans flung their eagles,
But to win them back.
Who, undoubting, worship boldness,
And, if baffled, bolder rise,
Shall we lag when grandeur beckons
To this good emprize?
Let the vastness not appal us;
Greatness is thy destiny.
Let the doubters not recall us:
Venture suits the free.
Like a seer, I see her throning,
Winland strong in freedom's health,
Warding peace on both the waters,
Widest Commonwealth.
Crowned with wreaths that still grow greener,
Guerdon for untiring pain,
For the wise, the stout, and steadfast:
Rend the land in twain.
Cleave America asunder,
This is worthy work for thee.
Hark! The seas roll up imploring
"Make the ocean free."
Francis Lieber.

The famine in Ireland in 1847 awakened much sympathy in the United States, and the ship Jamestown, laden with food, was dispatched to Cork, making a remarkably quick passage.

THE WAR SHIP OF PEACE

[1847]

Sweet land of song, thy harp doth hang
Upon the willow now,
While famine's blight and fever's pang
Stamps mis'ry on thy brow;
Yet take thy harp and raise thy voice,
Though weak and low it be,
And let thy sinking heart rejoice
In friends still left to thee.
Look out! look out! across the sea
That girds thy em'rald shore,
A ship of war is bound to thee,
But with no war-like store.
Her thunders sleep; 'tis mercy's breath
That wafts her o'er the sea;
She goes not forth to deal out death,
But bears new life to thee.
Thy wasted hands can scarcely strike
The chords of grateful praise,
Thy plaintive tone is now unlike
The voice of prouder days;
Yet, e'en in sorrow, tuneful still,
Let Erin's voice proclaim
In bardic praise on ev'ry hill
Columbia's glorious name.
Samuel Lover.

On June 8, 1848, Henry Clay was defeated by Zachary Taylor for the Whig nomination for the presidency.

ON THE DEFEAT OF HENRY CLAY

[June 8, 1848]

Fallen? How fallen? States and empires fall;
O'er towers and rock-built walls,
And perished nations, floods to tempests call
With hollow sound along the sea of time:
The great man never falls.
He lives, he towers aloft, he stands sublime—
They fall who give him not
The honor here that suits his future name—
They die and are forgot.
O Giant loud and blind! the great man's fame
Is his own shadow and not cast by thee—
A shadow that shall grow
As down the heaven of time the sun descends,
And on the world shall throw
His god-like image, till it sinks where blends
Time's dim horizon with Eternity.
William Wilberforce Lord.

Margaret Fuller Ossoli, her husband, the Marquis Ossoli, and their child, were drowned off Fire Island, July 16, 1850, while returning from Europe in the ship Elizabeth. The ship was driven ashore in a storm, and broken up by the waves.

ON THE DEATH OF M. D'OSSOLI AND HIS WIFE, MARGARET FULLER

[July 16, 1850]

Over his millions Death has lawful power,
But over thee, brave D'Ossoli! none, none.
After a longer struggle, in a fight
Worthy of Italy, to youth restored,
Thou, far from home, art sunk beneath the surge
Of the Atlantic; on its shore; in reach
Of help; in trust of refuge; sunk with all
Precious on earth to thee—a child, a wife!
Proud as thou wert of her, America
Is prouder, showing to her sons how high
Swells woman's courage in a virtuous breast.
She would not leave behind her those she loved;
Such solitary safety might become
Others; not her; not her who stood beside
The pallet of the wounded, when the worst
Of France and Perfidy assailed the walls
Of unsuspicious Rome. Rest, glorious soul,
Renowned for the strength of genius, Margaret!
Rest with the twain too dear! My words are few,
And shortly none will hear my failing voice,
But the same language with more full appeal
Shall hail thee. Many are the sons of song
Whom thou hast heard upon thy native plains
Worthy to sing of thee: the hour is come;
Take we our seats and let the dirge begin.
Walter Savage Landor.

The following verses from Punch describe various events of 1851—the winning of the international yacht race by the America; the project for a canal across the isthmus—and comment upon the ingenuity of some Yankee inventions.

THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE"

[Punch, 1851]

Yankee Doodle sent to Town
His goods for exhibition;
Everybody ran him down,
And laugh'd at his position.
They thought him all the world behind;
A goney, muff, or noodle;
Laugh on, good people,—never mind—
Says quiet Yankee Doodle.
Chorus—Yankee Doodle, keep it up,
Yankee Doodle Dandy!
Mind the music and the step,
And with the girls be handy!
Yankee Doodle had a craft,
A rather tidy clipper,
And he challenged, while they laughed,
The Britishers to whip her.
Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,
And that on their own water;
Of all the lot she went ahead,
And they came nowhere arter.
O'er PanamÀ there was a scheme
Long talked of, to pursue a
Short route—which many thought a dream—
By Lake Nicaragua.
John Bull discussed the plan on foot,
With slow irresolution,
While Yankee Doodle went and put
It into execution.
A steamer of the Collins line,
A Yankee Doodle's notion,
Has also quickest cut the brine
Across the Atlantic Ocean.
And British Agents, no ways slow
Her merits to discover,
Have been and bought her—just to tow
The Cunard packets over.
Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,
But that again don't mention:
I guess that Colts' revolvers whack
Their very first invention.
By Yankee Doodle, too, you're beat
Downright in Agriculture,
With his machine for reaping wheat,
Chawed up as by a vulture.
You also fancied, in your pride,
Which truly is tarnation,
Them British locks of yourn defied
The rogues of all creation;
But Chubbs' and Bramah's Hobbs has picked,
And you must now be viewed all
As having been completely licked
By glorious Yankee Doodle.

DANIEL WEBSTER

[Died October 24, 1852]

When life hath run its largest round
Of toil and triumph, joy and woe,
How brief a storied page is found
To compass all its outward show!
The world-tried sailor tires and droops;
His flag is rent, his keel forgot;
His farthest voyages seem but loops
That float from life's entangled knot.
But when within the narrow space
Some larger soul hath lived and wrought,
Whose sight was open to embrace
The boundless realms of deed and thought,—
When, stricken by the freezing blast,
A nation's living pillars fall,
How rich the storied page, how vast,
A word, a whisper, can recall!
No medal lifts its fretted face,
Nor speaking marble cheats your eye;
Yet, while these pictured lines I trace,
A living image passes by:
A roof beneath the mountain pines;
The cloisters of a hill-girt plain;
The front of life's embattled lines;
A mound beside the heaving main.
These are the scenes: a boy appears;
Set life's round dial in the sun.
Count the swift arc of seventy years,
His frame is dust; his task is done.
Yet pause upon the noontide hour,
Ere the declining sun has laid
His bleaching rays on manhood's power,
And look upon the mighty shade.
No gloom that stately shape can hide,
No change uncrown his brow: behold!
Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed,
Earth has no double from its mould!
Ere from the fields by valor won
The battle-smoke had rolled away,
And bared the blood-red setting sun,
His eyes were opened on the day.
His land was but a shelving strip,
Black with the strife that made it free;
He lived to see its banners dip
Their fringes in the Western sea.
The boundless prairies learned his name,
His words the mountain echoes knew;
The Northern breezes swept his fame
From icy lake to warm bayou.
In toil he lived; in peace he died;
When life's full cycle was complete,
Put off his robes of power and pride,
And laid them at his Master's feet.
His rest is by the storm-swept waves
Whom life's wild tempests roughly tried,
Whose heart was like the streaming caves
Of ocean, throbbing at his side.
Death's cold white hand is like the snow
Laid softly on the furrowed hill,
It hides the broken seams below,
And leaves the summit brighter still.
In vain the envious tongue upbraids;
His name a nation's heart shall keep
Till morning's latest sunlight fades
On the blue tablet of the deep!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.

In 1854 a survey was ordered of the Isthmus of Darien, and Lieutenant Isaac G. Strain was placed in charge of the work. His party was reduced to great extremities in crossing the isthmus, but bore their sufferings with a heroism seldom surpassed.

THE FLAG

AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN'S EXPEDITION

[1854]

I never have got the bearings quite,
Though I've followed the course for many a year,
If he was crazy, clean outright,
Or only what you might say was "queer."
He was just a simple sailor man.
I mind it as well as yisterday,
When we messed aboard of the old Cyane.
Lord! how the time does slip away!
That was five and thirty year ago,
And I never expect such times again,
For sailors wasn't afraid to stow
Themselves on a Yankee vessel then.
He was only a sort of bosun's mate,
But every inch of him taut and trim;
Stars and anchors and togs of state
Tailors don't build for the like of him.
He flew a no-account sort of name,
A reg'lar fo'castle "Jim" or "Jack,"
With a plain "McGinnis" abaft the same,
Giner'ly reefed to simple "Mack."
Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer,—
Ballast or compass wasn't right.
Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fear
Prevailed that he hadn't larned to fight.
But I reckon the Captain knowed his man,
When he put the flag in his hand the day
That we went ashore from the old Cyane,
On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay.
Forty days in the wilderness
We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain,
Losing the number of many a mess
In the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main.
All of us starved, and many died.
One laid down, in his dull despair;
His stronger messmate went to his side—
We left them both in the jungle there.
It was hard to part with shipmates so;
But standing by would have done no good.
We heard them moaning all day, so slow
We dragged along through the weary wood.
McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all;
Not that he ever piped his eye
Or wouldn't have answered to the call
If they'd sounded it for "All hands to die."
I guess 'twould have sounded for him before,
But the grit inside of him kept him strong,
Till we met relief on the river shore;
And we all broke down when it came along.
All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall,
Touching his hat, and standing square:
"Captain, the Flag."—And that was all;
He just keeled over and foundered there.
"The Flag?" We thought he had lost his head—
It mightn't be much to lose at best—
Till we came, by and by, to dig his bed,
And we found it folded around his breast.
He laid so calm and smiling there,
With the flag wrapped tight about his heart;
Maybe he saw his course all fair,
Only—we couldn't read the chart.
James Jeffrey Roche.

On February 16, 1857, Elisha Kent Kane, explorer of the Arctic, died at Havana, Cuba, whither he had gone in the hope of regaining a health shattered by his sufferings in the north.

KANE

Aloft upon an old basaltic crag,
Which, scalp'd by keen winds that defend the Pole,
Gazes with dead face on the seas that roll
Around the secret of the mystic zone,
A mighty nation's star-bespangled flag
Flutters alone,
And underneath, upon the lifeless front
Of that drear cliff, a simple name is traced;
Fit type of him who, famishing and gaunt,
But with a rocky purpose in his soul,
Breasted the gathering snows,
Clung to the drifting floes,
By want beleaguer'd, and by winter chased,
Seeking the brother lost amid that frozen waste.
Not many months ago we greeted him,
Crown'd with the icy honors of the North,
Across the land his hard-won fame went forth,
And Maine's deep woods were shaken limb by limb;
His own mild Keystone State, sedate and prim,
Burst from decorous quiet as he came;
Hot Southern lips with eloquence aflame
Sounded his triumph. Texas, wild and grim,
Proffer'd its horny hand. The large-lung'd West,
From out its giant breast,
Yell'd its frank welcome. And from main to main,
Jubilant to the sky,
Thunder'd the mighty cry,
Honor to Kane!
In vain, in vain beneath his feet we flung
The reddening roses! All in vain we pour'd
The golden wine, and round the shining board
Sent the toast circling, till the rafters rung
With the thrice-tripled honors of the feast!
Scarce the buds wilted and the voices ceased
Ere the pure light that sparkled in his eyes,
Bright as auroral fires in Southern skies,
Faded and faded! And the brave young heart
That the relentless Arctic winds had robb'd
Of all its vital heat, in that long quest
For the lost captain, now within his breast
More and more faintly throbb'd.
His was the victory; but as his grasp
Closed on the laurel crown with eager clasp,
Death launch'd a whistling dart;
And ere the thunders of applause were done
His bright eyes closed forever on the sun!
Too late, too late the splendid prize he won
In the Olympic race of Science and of Art!
Like to some shatter'd berg that, pale and lone,
Drifts from the white North to a tropic zone,
And in the burning day
Wastes peak by peak away,
Till on some rosy even
It dies with sunlight blessing it; so he
Tranquilly floated to a Southern sea,
And melted into heaven.
He needs no tears, who lived a noble life;
We will not weep for him who died so well,
But we will gather round the hearth, and tell
The story of his strife;
Such homage suits him well,
Better than funeral pomp or passing bell.
What tale of peril and self-sacrifice!
Prison'd amid the fastnesses of ice,
With hunger howling o'er the wastes of snow!
Night lengthening into months, the ravenous floe
Crunching the massive ships, as the white bear
Crunches his prey. The insufficient share
Of loathsome food,
The lethargy of famine, the despair
Urging to labor, nervelessly pursued,
Toil done with skinny arms, and faces hued
Like pallid masks, while dolefully behind
Glimmer'd the fading embers of a mind!
That awful hour, when through the prostrate band
Delirium stalk'd, laying his burning hand
Upon the ghastly foreheads of the crew.
The whispers of rebellion, faint and few
At first, but deepening ever till they grew
Into black thoughts of murder; such the throng
Of horrors bound the hero. High the song
Should be that hymns the noble part he play'd!
Sinking himself, yet ministering aid
To all around him. By a mighty will
Living defiant of the wants that kill,
Because his death would seal his comrades' fate;
Cheering with ceaseless and inventive skill
Those Polar waters, dark and desolate.
Equal to every trial, every fate,
He stands, until Spring, tardy with relief,
Unlocks the icy gate,
And the pale prisoners thread the world once more,
To the steep cliffs of Greenland's pastoral shore
Bearing their dying chief.
Time was when he should gain his spurs of gold
From royal hands, who woo'd the knightly state;
The knell of old formalities is toll'd,
And the world's knights are now self-consecrate.
No grander episode doth chivalry hold
In all its annals, back to Charlemagne,
Than that lone vigil of unceasing pain,
Faithfully kept through hunger and through cold,
By the good Christian knight, Elisha Kane!
Fitz-James O'Brien.

On September 12, 1857, the Central America was lost at sea in a great storm off Cape Hatteras. Captain William Lewis Herndon, of the navy, was in command. His tranquil courage preserved discipline up to the last, and until his passengers, officers, and crew were all in the boats. Seeing that the last boat was already overloaded, Captain Herndon refused to add to its danger, and, ordering it off, went down with his ship.

HERNDON

[September 12, 1857]

In 1857 Commodore Josiah Tattnall was appointed flag-officer of the Asiatic station, and, finding China at war with the allied English and French fleets, went to the scene of operations at Pei-ho. Just before an engagement, his flagship grounded and was towed off by the English boats; and when he saw the English in trouble shortly afterwards, he sailed in to their assistance, exclaiming, "Blood is thicker than water!"

BLOOD IS THICKER THAN WATER

[June 25, 1859]

Ebbed and flowed the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,
Near its waters swung the yellow dragon-flag;
Past the batteries of China, looking westward we could see
Lazy junks along the lazy river lag;
Villagers in near-by Ta-Kou toiled beneath their humble star,
On the flats the ugly mud fort lay and dreamed;
While the Powhatan swung slowly at her station by the bar,
While the Toey-Wan with Tattnall onward steamed.
Lazy East and lazy river, fort of mud in lazy June,
English gunboats through the waters slowly fare,
With the dragon-flag scarce moving in the lazy afternoon
O'er the mud-heap storing venom in the glare.
We were on our way to Peking, to the Son of Heaven's throne,
White with peace was all our mission to his court,
Peaceful, too, the English vessels on the turbid stream bestrown
Seeking passage up the Pei-Ho past the fort.
By the bar lay half the English, while the rest, with gallant Hope,
Wrestled with the slipping ebb-tide up the stream;
They had cleared the Chinese irons, reached the double chain and rope,
Where the ugly mud fort scowled upon their beam—
Boom! the heavens split asunder with the thunder of the fight
As the hateful dragon made its faith a mock;
Every cannon spat its perfidy, each casemate blazed its spite,
Crashing down upon the English, shock on shock.
In his courage Rason perished, brave McKenna fought and fell;
Scores were dying as they'd lived, like valiant men;
And the meteor flag that upward prayed to Heaven from that hell,
Wept below for those who ne'er should weep again.
Far away the English launches near the Powhatan swung slow,
All despairing, useless, out of reach of war,
Knew their comrades in the battle, felt them reel beneath the blow,
Lying helpless 'gainst the ebb-tide by the bar.
On the Toey-Wan stood Tattnall, Stephen Trenchard by his side—
"Old Man" Tattnall, he who dared at Vera Cruz,—
Saw here, crippled by the cannon; saw there, throttled by the tide,
Men of English blood and speech—could he refuse?
I'll be damned, says he to Trenchard, if old Tattnall's standing by,
Seeing white men butchered here by such a foe.
Where's my barge? No side-arms, mind you! See those English fight and die—
Blood is thicker, sir, than water. Let us go.
Quick we man the boat, and quicker plunge into that devil's brew—
"An official call," and Tattnall went in state.
Trenchard's hurt, our flag in ribbons, and the rocking barge shot through,
Hart, our coxswain, dies beneath the Chinese hate;
But the cheers those English give us as we gain their Admiral's ship
Make the shattered boat and weary arms seem light—
Then the rare smile from "Old" Tattnall, and Hope's hearty word and grip,
Lying wounded, bleeding, brave in hell's despite.
Tattnall nods, and we go forward, find a gun no longer fought—
What is peace to us when all its crew lie dead?
One bright English lad brings powder and a wounded man the shot,
And we scotch that Chinese dragon, tail and head.
Hands are shaken, faith is plighted, sounds our Captain's cheery call,
In a British boat we speed us fast and far;
And the Toey-Wan and Tattnall down the ebb-tide slide and fall
To the launches lying moaning by the bar.
Eager for an English vengeance, battle-light on every face,
See the Clustered Stars lead on the Triple Cross!
Cheering, swinging into action, valiant Hope takes heart of grace
From the cannon's cloudy roar, the lanyards' toss
How they fought, those fighting English! How they cheered the Toey-Wan,
Cheered our sailors, cheered "Old" Tattnall, grim and gray!
And their cheers ring down the ages as they rang beneath the sun
O'er those bubbling, troubled waters far away.
Ebbs and flows the muddy Pei-Ho by the gulf of Pechili,
Idly floats beside the stream the dragon-flag;
Past the batteries of China, looking westward still you see
Lazy junks along the lazy river lag.
Let the long, long years drip slowly on that lost and ancient land,
Ever dear one scene to hearts of gallant men;
There's a hand-clasp and a heart-throb, there's a word we understand:
Blood is thicker, sir, than water, now as then.
Wallace Rice.

In the fall of 1860 the Prince of Wales, travelling as Baron Renfrew, paid a visit to the United States, lasting from September 21 to October 20. He was the recipient of many attentions, and a great ball was given in his honor at the Academy of Music in New York city. While the ball was in progress, a portion of the floor gave way, but no one was injured.

BARON RENFREW'S BALL

[October, 1860]

'Twas a grand display was the prince's ball,
A pageant or fÊte, or what you may call
A brilliant coruscation,
Where ladies and knights of noble worth
Enchanted a prince of royal birth
By a royal demonstration.
Like queens arrayed in their regal guise,
They charmed the prince with dazzling eyes,
Fair ladies of rank and station,
Till the floor gave way, and down they sprawled,
In a tableaux style, which the artists called
A floor-all decoration.
At the prince's feet like flowers they were laid,
In the brightest bouquet ever made,
For a prince's choice to falter—
Perplexed to find, where all were rare,
Which was the fairest of the fair
To cull for a queenly altar.
But soon the floor was set aright,
And Peter Cooper's face grew bright,
When, like the swell of an organ,
All hearts beat time to the first quadrille,
And the prince confessed to a joyous thrill
As he danced with Mrs. Morgan.
Then came the waltz—the Prince's Own—
And every bar and brilliant tone
Had music's sweetest grace on;
But the prince himself ne'er felt its charm
Till he slightly clasped, with circling arm,
That lovely girl, Miss Mason.
But ah! the work went bravely on,
And meek-eyed Peace a trophy won
By the magic art of the dancers;
For the daring prince's next exploit
Was to league with Scott's Camilla Hoyt,
And overcome the Lancers.
Besides these three, he deigned to yield
His hand to Mrs. M. B. Field,
Miss Jay and Miss Van Buren;
Miss Russell, too, was given a place—
All beauties famous for their grace
From Texas to Lake Huron.
With Mrs. Kernochan he "lanced,"
With Mrs. Edward Cooper danced,
With Mrs. Belmont capered;
With fair Miss Fish, in fairy rig,
He tripped a sort of royal jig,
And next Miss Butler favored.
And thus, 'mid many hopes and fears,
By the brilliant light of the chandeliers,
Did they gayly quaff and revel;
Well pleased to charm a royal prince—
The only one from old England since
George Washington was a rebel.
And so the fleeting hours went by,
And watches stopped—lest Time should fly—
Or that they winding wanted;
Old matrons dozed, and papas smiled,
And many a fair one was beguiled
As the prince danced on, undaunted.
'Tis now a dream—the prince's ball,
Its vanished glories, one and all,
The scenes of the fairy tales;
For Cinderella herself was there,
And Barnum keeps for trial fair
The beautiful slipper deposited there
By his highness, the Prince of Wales.
Charles Graham Halpine.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

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