  Matthias Denman, Robert Patterson and John Filson laid out the town of Losantiville, now the city of Cincinnati, in 1788. Filson, schoolmaster and surveyor, went out to explore the woods between the Miamis, but never returned. 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 three-score 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 plower 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 sepulcher, Except the wildwood dim; The mournful voices of the air Made requiem for him. The druid trees their waving arms Uplifted o’er his head; The moon a pallid veil of light Upon his visage spread. The rain and sun of many years Have worn his bones away, And what he vaguely prophesied We realize today. Losantiville, the prophet’s word, The poet’s hope fulfils,— She sits a stately Queen to-day Amid her royal hills! Then come, ye pedagogues, and join To sing a grateful lay For him, the martyr pioneer, Who led for you the way. And may my simple ballad be A monument to save His name from blank oblivion, Who never had a grave. |
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