English

Fair Saville! earliest village of the wood,
To break the reign of ancient solitude,
Where erst the dusky tennants of the shade,
Along the Mississippi's waters strayed;
Thou once did flourish on the lap of fame,
When to thy rude abodes adventure's wand'ring footsteps came.

I turn with reverential step and slow,
To trace the scenes my recollections know.
Where now thy cliffs bleak winter's wiles oppose,
When through the screeching air his blasts he throws,
There warring totems once prolonged their stay,

'Twas in the long ago,
'Twas in the age of woods
Of Young America,
That moving, rattling, slow
Towards the Western plain,
A single settler's train,
Drawn on by oxen teams,
Was seen, as when in dreams,
Strange sights and solitudes,
Upon our vision play.

The tall forests swim in a crimson sea,
Out of whose bright depths rising silently,
Great golden spires shoot into the skies,
Among the isles of cloud-land high, that rise,
Float, scatter, burst, drift off, and slowly fade,

The shepherd-king of Judah's olden days,
Waked his sweet harp to sing Jehovah's praise,
Then this his theme was in his happy hour:
" Captivity hath lost her horn of power.
The mighty Arm hath broke oppression's staff,
And drives the spoiler's hosts, as wind drives chaff,
And moves his kingdoms as the thistle down,
By wanton whirlwinds here and there is blown! "

How panting thousands of his faithful tribe,
Drank this sweet strain, no mortal can describe.
Young freedom then first raised his voice sublime,

Hail dawning Peace! Speed on thy glorious rise!
And with thy beams unseal the nation's eyes.
Let Islam in the blaze of scimitar
Proclaim his rites, and gorge the fangs of war,
But peace be unto thee, land of our sires,
Whose sacred altar flames with holier fires!
Let lawlessness no longer stagger forth
With his destructive torch, nor South nor North;
And let the humblest tenant of the fields,
Secured of what his honest labor yields,
Pursue his calling, ply his daily care,
His home adorn and helpless children rear,

Awake, my muse, ye goodly sights among,
The land of Boone and Kenton claims my song.
Thro' other scenes our lovers take their flight,
See where their wand'ring footsteps pass in sight.
Lo! where yon pleasant valleys meet the eyes,
And goodly hills their forests lifting rise!
Here, as we pass, along our cheerful way,
Small farms adjoining, stretch in green array.
And small farm houses, looking great trees thro,'
And neat dressed orchards, dot th' enlivened view;
And their quaint roofs by Autumn suns embrowned,

In bloom gemm'd depths, where Sylvan branches meet
Above dim paths, that thread a still retreat;
Where light on tip-toe shy, steals o'er your path,
Like some chaste maid unrobing at the bath;
There where old warrior pines on high doth tower,
In fashion quaint is built the Aylor bower.
Here 'Ona now a noon excursion made,
And wandered peaceful thro' the silent shade.
There, as she went, and could not turn nor stay,
But ling'ringly pursued her lonely way,
And gazed into the song-stirred woods beyond,

Where Summer crowns with orange blooms
The land of pines and cypress glooms;
We wander forth by field and lane,
In woody shades with plaintive strain.
Ye lonely bayous catch the sound!
Ye languid fen-brakes pass it round;
Ye pensive hills your silence break,
And let the mournful echo wake!
Of errant Pride's chivalric deeds,
Of frowning Caste's unholy creeds,
And their worse, sin-begotten heir,
Black Slavery, a lay I bring,
And of her painted crimes dare sing.

When Satan, hurled down from the skies,

Sing muse! of Saville and the direful day
When beauty fell, to ruthless hands a prey;
And life a sacrifice to savage hate,
Smoked on the alter of a peaceful State.
The pensive forest in his saddest wear,
Leaned on the threshold of the Autumn sere,
And mourned his ills in parting Summer's ear.
And waters leaving for the distant main
Sang their departure in a muffled strain.
The dove complaing at the barn was heard,
In wanton gales the naked orchards stirred.
And scarce within the dreamy vision's reach

Ye who read in musty volumes
Pages worn of Backwoods Times,
Of the red man and the white man,
In the thrilling days of danger,
In the gall of border troubles,
In the wastes of deadly revenge,
And the ruffian hands of torture;
And of long and fierce death grapples,
With the bloody hands of combat,
On the yawning edge of famine;
Of adventure's rustling footsteps,
When the knees of stoutest valor
Smote together as they paused, where
Lynx-eyed strategy lay crouching,
On the bosom of still ambush,

Bondsman's gloomy night has passed; The
The slavery of this land is dead;
No tyrant's power, however vast,
Can wake it from its gory bed.
For in the order of events,
And after an ignoble reign,
It died. None mourned its going hence,
Nor followed in its funeral train;
Ignoble birth, ignoble life,
Ignoble death, ignoble doom!
Conceived by fiends in deadly strife,