  William Orlando Butler, one of General Lew Wallace's favorite poets, was born near Nicholasville, Kentucky, in 1791. He was the son of Percival Butler, a noted Revolutionary soldier. He was graduated from Transylvania University, Lexington, in 1812. Butler studied law for a short time, but the War of 1812 called him and he enlisted. At the River Raisin he was wounded and captured and carried through Canada to Fort Niagara, but he was later exchanged. Butler was with General Jackson at the battle of New Orleans, and his gallantry attracted the attention of the general, who placed him upon his staff. In 1817 Butler returned to the law, married, and settled in the little river town of Carrollton, Kentucky, on the Ohio, his home henceforth. In July, 1821, the first draft of his famous poem, The Boatman's Horn (then called The Boat Horn), was published in The Western Review, a monthly magazine of Lexington, Kentucky. In describing his boyhood days at Covington, Indiana, General Lew Wallace very charmingly writes of his early love for the Wabash river, and for old Nebeker, the lonesome ferryman, who "welcomed me for my company. On the farther side, chained to a tree, he kept a long tin horn. A traveller, coming to the bank and finding us on the townward side, blew to get our attention ... when the voice of the big horn on the thither side called to us—How it startled me! What music there was in it! What haste I made to unship my oar!... And if since then I have been an ardent fisherman, believing with my friend Maurice Thompson that "Halcyon prophecies come to pass In the haunts of the bream and bass;" and if the song of Butler, the soldier-poet of Kentucky "Oh, boatman, wind that horn again! For never did the joyous air Upon its lambent bosom bear So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain"— is still a favorite of mine, with power to stir my pulses and return me to a freak of childhood full of joyousness alloyed only with thought of my mother's fears, the shrewd reader will know at once how such tastes inured to me. And as swimming seems to have been one of my natural accomplishments, I must have acquired it during my days at the ferry." This is far and away the best background for Butler's poem that has been done, and with it before the reader the famous poem must mean more to him. The poem was subsequently published as the title-poem in a small collection of his verse, entitled The Boatman's Horn and Other Poems. From 1839 to 1843 Butler was a Kentucky Congressman; and in 1844 the unsuccessful candidate for governor of Kentucky. Upon his Mexican War record, General Butler was nominated by the Democratic party for vice-president of the United States with General Lewis Cass, of Michigan, as the head of the ticket, but they were defeated by Martin Van Buren and Charles Francis Adams. In 1855 General Butler declined the governorship of the territory of Nebraska; and in 1861 he went to Washington as a member of the famous "Peace Congress." General Butler died at his home, Carrollton, Kentucky, August 6, 1880, in the ninetieth year of his age. Though famous as a soldier and politician, The Boatman's Horn is the work that will keep his name green for many years; and several of his other poems are not to be utterly despised.
THE BOATMAN'S HORN [From The Poets and Poetry of the West, edited by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, Ohio, 1860)] O, boatman! wind that horn again, For never did the list'ning air Upon its lambent bosom bear So wild, so soft, so sweet a strain! What though thy notes are sad and few, By every simple boatman blown, Yet is each pulse to nature true, And melody in every tone. How oft, in boyhood's joyous day, Unmindful of the lapsing hours, I've loitered on my homeward way By wild Ohio's bank of flowers; While some lone boatman from the deck Poured his soft numbers to the tide, As if to charm from storm and wreck The boat where all his fortunes ride! Delighted, Nature drank the sound, Enchanted, Echo bore it round In whispers soft and softer still, From hill to plain and plain to hill, Till e'en the thoughtless frolic boy, Elate with hope and wild with joy, Who gambolled by the river's side And sported with the fretting tide, Feels something new pervade his breast, Change his light steps, repress his jest, Bends o'er the flood his eager ear, To catch the sounds far off, yet dear— Drinks the sweet draught, but knows not why And can he now, to manhood grown, Tell why those notes, simple and lone, As on the ravished ear they fell, Bind every sense in magic spell? There is a tide of feeling given To all on earth, its fountains, heaven, Beginning with the dewy flower, Just ope'd in Flora's vernal bower, Rising creation's orders through, With louder murmur, brighter hue— That tide is sympathy! its ebb and flow Give life its hue, its joy, and woe. Music, the master-spirit that can move Its waves to war, or lull them into love— Can cheer the sinking sailor 'mid the wave, And bid the warrior on! nor fear the grave, Inspire the fainting pilgrim on the road, And elevate his soul to claim his God. Then, boatman, wind that horn again! Though much of sorrow mark its strain, Yet are its notes to sorrow dear; What though they wake fond memory's tear? Tears are sad memory's sacred feast, And rapture oft her chosen guest. |
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