1830-40.] CHARLES A. JONES, 205 THE PIONEERS. Where are the hardy yeomen Who battled for this land, And trode these hoar old forests, A brave and gallant band ? Oh, know ye where they slumber No monument appears. For Freedom's pilgrims to draw nigh. And hallow with their tears ? Or were no works of glory Done in the olden time ? And has the West no story Of deathless deeds sublime ? Go ask yon shining river, And it will tell a tale Of deeds of noble daring. Will make thy cheek grow pale . Go ask yon smiling valley. Whose harvest blooms so fair, 'Twill tell thee a sad story Of the brave who slumber thei'e : Go ask yon mountain, rearing Its forest crest so high ; Each tree upon its summit Has seen a warrior die. They knew no dread of danger, When rose the Indian's yell ; Right gallantly they struggled, Right gallantly they fell ; From Alleghany's summit. To the farthest western shore. These brave men's bones are lying Where they perished in their gore ; And not a single monument Is seen in all the land. In honor of the memory Of that heroic band. Their bones were left to whiten The spot where they were slain, And were ye now to seek them. They would be sought in vain. The mountain cat has feasted Upon them as they lay; Long, long ago they mingled Again with other clay : Their very names are dying, Unconsecrate by fame. In oblivion they slumber. Our glory and our shame. THE OLD MOUND.* Lonely and sad it stands : The trace of ruthless hands Is on its sides and summit, and around The dwellings of the white man pile the ground ; And curling in the air, The smoke of thrice a thousand healths is there : Without, all speaks of life, — within. Deaf to the city's echoing din, Sleep well the tenants of that silent Mound, Their names forgot, their memories unre- nown'd. Upon its top I tread, And see around me spread Temples and mansions, and the hoary hills. Bleak Avith the labor that the coffer fills, But mars their bloom the while, And steals from nature's face its joyous smile : And here and there, below, The stream's meandering flow Breaks on the view; and westward in the sky The gorgeous clouds in crimson masses lie. The hammer's clang rings out, Where late the Indian's shout
- In the western part of Cincinnati (demolished years
ago b}' a Vandal curiosity), near what is now the junction of Fifth and Mound streets.
