1850-60.] WILLIAM HUliBARD 445 Early love of books, a warm imagination, cultivated by study and by the beautiful scenery of the fertile valley of the Mad river, with a heart full of pathos and of ardor, all contributed to " Wake to ecstasy the living lyre," and turn his thoughts into eloquence and poetry. His iirst published poetical produc- tion was in January, 1838. We have never known a writer of so much genius with so little ostentation. He has never sought, but always shunned notoriety. His poet- ical writings, if collected, would make a good sized volume. AT THE GRAVE OF SIMON KENTON. Tread lightly, this is hallowed ground ! — tread reverently here ! Beneath this sod in silence sleeps the brave old Pioneer, Who never quailed in darkest hour, whose heart ne'er felt a fear — Tread lightly, then, and here bestow the tribute of a tear. Ah ! can this be the spot where sleeps the bravest of the brave ? Is this rude slab the only mark of Simon Kenton's grave ? These fallen palings, are they all his in- grate country gave To one who periled life so oft her homes and hearths to save ? Long, long ago, in manhood's prime, when all was wild and drear, They bound the hero to a stake of savage torment here — Unblanched and firm, his soul disdained a supplicating tear — A thousand demons could not daunt the Western Pioneer. They tied his hands, Mazeppa-Uke, and set him on a steed. Wild as the mustang of the plains — and, mocking, bade him speed ! Then sped that courser like the wind, of curb and bit all freed. O'er flood and field, o'er hill and dale? wherever chance might lead ! But firm in every trial-hour, his heart was still the same — Still throbbed with self-reliance strong which danger could not tame. Yet fought he not that he might in the splendor of a fame, Which would, in ages long to come, shed glory on his name ; He fought because he loved the land where fii'st he saw the light — He fought because his soul was true, and idolized the right ; And ever in the fiercest and the thickest of the fight The dusk and swarthy foeman felt the ter- ror of his might. Are these his countrymen who dwell where long ago he came ? Are these the men who gloiy in the splen- dor of his fame ? And can they not afford to give a stone to bear his name ? never let them more presume the hero's dust to claim !
