Moral Pieces, in Prose and Verse/General St. Clair
GENERAL ST. CLAIR.
Neglected, and forgotten by his Country, poor and in obscurity, on one of the Allegany Mountains, in 1815, was still living the venerable Patriot.
DEEP in the western wild a mountain rose,
Its base was green, its summit white with snows,
Its shaggy cliffs were brown with endless shade,
While on its bosom humid vapours play'd,
And the soft sun-beams shunn'd it—half afraid.
Its cold, slow streams without a murmur crept,
Or bound in icy bands like pris'ners slept,
Save where the headlong cataract would dash
Across the strong roots of the mountain ash?
And sounding, rending, whirling in its course,
Pour on the distant vale its gather'd force.
And tho' a summer breeze would sometimes sigh
Among the trees whose branches sought the sky,
The ruffian winds with wild and jealous sway
Would drive the trembling stranger far away.
And here, thought I, might misery reside,
Sullen regret, or disappointed pride,
Or sick seclusion sigh o'er errors past,
Or mourning frailty seek repose at last,
Or here remorseful agony might weep,
Or stern misanthropy her vigils keep,
Or in these midnight cells might murder wait,
To lure the thoughtless traveller to his fate,
Or men like fiends, forever lost to shame,
Might perpetrate such deeds as have no name.
Yet in the centre of this fearful wood,
High on a cliff a rustic cabin stood;
It seem'd not like the secret haunt of guilt,
Where groans of anguish rise, and blood is spilt,
But such as pining want would not refuse,
And what unshelter'd poverty might choose.
Forth from its humble door unheeded goes,
A man of many years, and many woes;
His eye was on the earth, his step was meek,
The mountain winds blew coldly on his cheek,
And on his mantle thin their vengeance seem'd to wreak.
He brighter paths, and better days, had seen,
And high in honour's envied list had been;
Yet for no deed of wrong, no hateful crime,
Pass'd he in solitude his exil'd time:
Ah no! if doubts like these within thee rise,
Muse on his brow, and then those doubts despise.
A mild and manly dignity is there,
Tho' mark'd with age, and furrow'd o'er with care,
Yet not obscur'd by shame, or darken'd by despair;
And all abstracted from the world he seem'd,
As if of other climes and spheres he dream'd;
For as he rov'd, the mental eye he cast
Darkly on days, and hopes, forever past,
And something like reproach he might have said,
But said it not—and meekly bow'd his head.
Not thus he look'd, when in the hall of state,
The list'ning crowd approv'd the wise debate;
Not thus he mov'd, when to the trumpets clang,
The rending earth, and hollow mountains rang,
And dark'ning war-clouds gather'd o'er the plain,
And the high steed disdain'd the rider's rein.
For this sad man was once his country's pride,
Bred in her camps, and in her councils tried;
And when she first, serene in youthful charm,
Gave her weak hand to prop a mother's arm,
His dark eye flash'd, and on he rush'd to know
A soldier's want, and weariness, and woe;
Dauntless in danger, unsubdu'd by pain,
'Till gladness sparkled in her eye again.
And when, in later times, a host was seen,
With haughty step to print her vallies green,
And she arose with strength, he with her rose,
And firmly aim'd his falchion at her foes;
Assum'd the statesman's robe, the warrior's crest,
Mov'd when she call'd, and where she pointed, prest.
For her his arm was bar'd, his bosom burn'd.
For her his wakeful eye to Heaven was turn'd;
Nor deem'd it much that in her hour of woe,
He, toil, and pain, and agony should know;
And little reck'd he that her hour of strife
Should claim the strength and glory of his life;
But dream'd not once that she, for whom he rov'd,
Would ever glance upon him, unapprov'd;
Or through his panting side, with fury rude,
Plunge the sharp point of dire ingratitude;
Or turning from him with a demon's rage,
Strew with fresh thorns, the journey of his age.
Yet O my country, slumb'ring on the steep,
That beetles fiercely o'er the foaming deep,
A voice is on the breeze; unseal thine eyes,
The still, small voice of injur'd merit cries;
Arouse thine ancient spirit, rush to save
A suffering servant, e'er he seek his grave.
O man of sorrows! who wert wont to bear,
Ev'n in thy youth the agony of care,
Who like a rock in times of danger rose,
Be greatly firm to bear thy weight of woes.
Vet'ran, be firm! for on a threshold dread,
Thy weary, unsupported foot does tread,
The threshold of the grave; yet if no sin,
No poison'd spring of action boil within,
If on the arm of Deity thou trust,
Mix, free from terror, with thy kindred dust.
A day there is when thou shalt wake from sleep,
A world there is where thou shalt never weep,
It brightly gleams o'er Jordan's troubled flood;
A land where vice shall feel the avenger's rod,
And virtue's sons in faith behold their God.