Here, as in ancient and illustrious Rome,
May chiefs and heroes cheer thy humble home;
The wise, the brave, from public broils retreat,
To walk with heaven and thee through arbours sweet,
To share thy toils; thy little plans inspire,
And joke at night around thy glowing fire.
Still, near thy hut, upon the flowery green,
May Temperance, Hope, and Cheerfulness be seen,
Health, Plenty, Innocence, thy temples crown,
And Peace, each night, embosom thee in down,
And still, where'er thy humble roofs arise,
In northern climes, or under burning skies,
May guardian Liberty thy fields enclose,
Befriend thy friends and baffle all thy foes.
Cheered with the rural sweets on every side,
Slow through this charming vale we gayly glide,
Delightful spot! from stormy winds secured,
By mountains sheltered and in wilds immured;
Still as we pass rich level fields appear;
Chemung's huge barns and fertile farms draw near,
How changed those scenes from what so late they were!
Ere Freedom's banners waved triumphant here!
While o'er our coasts a powerful foe prevailed,
Here from behind the savages assalled;
In bloody bands ransacked our weak frontier,
Fire, rapine, murder, marked their fell career.
Amid his corn the gasping planter fell,
Deep sunk the axe and direful rose the yell;
The midnight cottage, wrapt in sweet repose,
In flaming ruins with the morning rose;
There slaughtered corses, babes and fathers lay,
The naked mothers driven mid fiends away.
To thee, brave Sullivan! who scourged this crew,
Thy country's gratitude shall still be due;
And future ages on these summits rear
Honours to him who planted freedom here.
We pause to mark amid this valley green
How changed the tenants, how improved the scene!
Where wretched wigwams late like kennels stood,
Where bark canoes stole skulking o'er the flood,
Where mangled prisoners groaned, and hatchets glared;
And blood-stained savages the fire prepar'd,
There glittering towns and villages extend,
There floating granaries in fleets descend,
There ploughmen chant, and mowers sweep the soil,
And taverns shine, and rosy damsels smile;
Thanks to the brave, who through these forests bore
Columbia's vengeance on the sons of gore;
Who drove them howling through th' affrighted waste,
Till British regions sheltered them at last..
Here, on the heights, where, suddenly array'd,
These hordes their last despairing effort made,
Where still the mouldering breastwork meets the view,
From whose defence as suddenly they flew,
Here, on th' approach of night, we lodgings found,
And buried all our toils in sleep profound.
Tribute to the memory of Anna Smedes.
Where twilight's sad and lingʼring ray,
With faint flush tints yon shad'wy hill;
The gravestone marks the tear-dew'd clay,
O'er which Affection muses still..
Enshrin'd within its bosom cold,
The corse of buried Anna lies;
Ne'er did sepulchral shroud infold,
A lovelier form, a fairer prize.
In this expedition against the hostile Indians, which was committed to the management of general Sullivan, and crowned with the most complete success, the only stand made by the savages was at this place, August 29th, 1799. After a short skirmish they were driven from this their last hold, and pursued beyond the Gennesee river. Forty of their towns, and upwards of one hundred and sixty thousand bushels of Indian corn were destroyed. The remnant of the tribes took refuge in Canada; and thus an immense extent of the most fertile country of the United States was laid open to the enterprise of our active and industrious settlers. The white population of these parts of the State of New-York, settled since, may be fairly estimated at three times the number of all the Indians within five hundred miles of the place.
TOUCH not again thy sacred lyre,
Forbear that melting hallow'd strain;
Twill reillume my bosom's fire,
"Twill wake my heart to feel again:
That heart which once, with youthful glow,
Felt all that love could ever know.
Impassion'd thought and joy were there,
And mazy Hope's enchanting dream;
But Hope was frighten'd at Despair,
And with her fled the lovely theme:
What then my wretched breast befel,
O Memory! forbear to tell.
Now cold that heart, to passion dead,
No longer fires my lukewarm mind;
Its pangs, its pleasures, all have fled,
And left a dizzy dream behind:
Alike reliev'd from joy and care,
Vibration only flutters there.
Then rouse it not with heav'nly sound,
Forbear that melting hallow'd strain;
To wake my bosom is to wound,-
O wound it not to die again:
For he whose vernal hour is o'er,
Must fly from love's enchanting shore.
"Tis when the sentient, wounded heart,
Pierced by Slander's keenest dart,
O'erwhelmed with woes,
Flies from the busy haunts of men,
Eager t' escape their vulgar ken,
And seek repose.
"Tis that blest hour when lovers stray
To taste those joys that shun the day,
Congenial hour,
When timid maids their lovers bless,
When by this light they first confess
Love's gentle power.
'Tis when the poet, Passion's child,
In Fancy's world now wanders wild,
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