Fragments of an Oregon Aeneid.
HE poetry appended to this introduction is a part of perhaps the longest poem ever written by Oregon's favorite bard. As its title will. readily suggest, it deals with life on the plains and in the early settlement of the Pacific Northwest. To say that this splendid effusion has remained unpublished for over twenty years is, perhaps, but to pass a fair and just commentary on the literary enthusiasm (or the lack of enthusiasm) heretofore prevalent in the state. But with the advent of largelyincreased population from more cultured quarters, and through the continuous spread of educational influences by our schools and colleges, the kind of enthusiasm referred to should, and evidently is. becoming more manifest and pronounced. There is ample justification, therefore, I think, for this effort to rescue from the apathy of chronic indifference this excellent tribute to the founders of the state, 'ere the heroes of the verse have become totally extinct.
The poem, as now presented to the public, lacks the final polish and finish of the author, as it was from the first rough draft that these fragments, after considerable pains and difficulty, were transcribed. The poet's habit usually was to block out a poem in the rough, and then immediately prepare a perfected copy for publication. The improved version of this poem went with the volume he had hoped to have published. But that volume, in keeping with the run of bad luck that seemed to keep the author in continuous companionship, fail
TRIKING at ease his golden lyre,
The laureled Mantuan has sung Beleagured Troy's immortal pyre, The daring raid Aeneas flung To wayward gates, the voyage long That tracks the silver wave of song, Until the worn and weary oar Had kissed the fair Lavincian shore; The Argos' classic pennon streams
ed to get into print. Just why it failed is a question as difficult to answer as it is to keep from asking the question. Moneyed men in Portland were appealed to to lend a helping hand, but money is proverbially "coy and hard to please," and does not always, therefore, represent the better promptings of the human. head and heart. The state will some day, if it does not now, take a becoming pride in its earliest literature. Among those who have contributed to her renown in this respect, no name will shine with brighter effulgence than that of Sam. L. Simpson.
As has already been intimated, the copy from which these fragments are taken was incomplete it was written with pencil on both sides of the paper and no care taken to number the pages. many places the lines are obscure and difficult to decipher. Where such was the case I have been forced to take some liberties with the verse, but always to the detriment of the poem. It would be bold asumption to pretend to improve. on the finished versification of such a painstaking writer. Hence I have tried to follow copy in all instances where it was legible. The attempt to arrange the pages in their intended order of natural sequence has not been devoid of embarrassing difficulties, and complete success is far from being claimed. But the reader, I am sure, will pardon a few mistakes in this respect, in view of the wholesome feast of song herewith submitted.
The minions of a perfumed age Already crowd you from the stage. The massive manhood of the past In yet another mould is cast; And yet, with calm and kindly eyes, You view the feast for others spread, And hail the blue benignant skies, Resigned and grandly comforted. It was for this you broke the way Before the sunset gates of day And, with a God-like faith endued, Had scaled the rugged crags of Fate, And with unsounding labors hewed The pillars of the future state. Before you scarred battalions wheel Into the mystic realm of shade, And on your grizzled brows the seal Of mysteries is softly laid. Once more around the old campfires That smoulder like fulfilled desires, Rehearse the story of your toils,
And cross your swords beside your spoils.
The lights and shadows down the lane, The oak beside the foot-worn stile. Whose wneeling shade a weary while Had told the hours of joy and pain; The pathway winding through the grain, The vine that clambered on the porch With many a fragrant purple torch; The veiled lights of household love, The sloping roof that wore the stain Of summer sun and winter rain, And browner chimney tops above The cluster of the orchard trees Bedecked with blossom, glad with bees; The brook that many a summer day Had many things to sing and say,- All these upon your vision cast Reflections that forever last. And now the last goodby is said. Good-by! the living and the dead In those sad words together speak, And all your chosen ways are bleak.
And now the cracking lashes send A thrill of action down the train. Their brawny necks the oxen bend And slowly move each covered wain; And horsemen gallop down the line And wheel around the loosened kine That straggle, lowing, on the plain, And lift glad hands to babes that laugh And dash the buttercups like chaff. Hurrah! the skies are jewel blue. In plumes of green and braid of gold; The Earth is wondrous to behold, And hopes are light and hearts are true. Hurrah! hurrah! the fair, the free, The sudden sweep of ecstasy That lifts the soul on wings of fire When fears consume and doubts expire- When the unfettered human thought The oriflamme of hope has caught And over sunset shore and seas, Is trailing robes of mysteries.
And now the sun is wheeling down, And lights and shadows, gold and brown,
Are weaving sunset's purple spell. The teams are freed, the fires are made That put surroundings all in shade, And pleasant groups before, between, Are thronging in the fitful sheen; And night has come and all is well.
So pass the days, so fall the nights, A banquet of renewed delights. The old horizons lift and pass Like shifting changes of a dream, And in the heaven's azure glass Tomorrow's magic vistas gleam, With many a vale and mountain mass And many a swelling, shiny stream. The past is dead and dares not wrest Its shadow parts from head or breast. The air is incense and the breeze Is sweet with sacred melodies, And all the castled hills before In purple vistas sweep and soar.
And ever, as the sun goes down, The West is shut with rosy bars,. The night puts on her golden crown And fills the vases of the stars. It is a happy, happy time, As wayward as a poet's rhyme In dalliance with birds and flowers.
A hundred nights, a hundred days! Nor folded cloud, nor silken haze, Mellow the sun's midsummer blaze. Along the scorched and scorching plain, All slowly drags the wasted train. The dust starts up where e're you tread Like angry ashes of the dead, And veils you in its choking cloud, And wraps you in its awful shroud.
There is no longer any care,
To round the speech and speak men fair, Or any staying sense of shame. The hearts of men are sifted through, The chaff is winnowed from the grain, And every where the false and true Are stamped with signets deep and plain. For some are silent, some are loud, And urge like traits among the crowd. And some are mild, and some are sharp In word and deed, and snarl and carp And fret the camp with family broils. And some with tempers sweet and bland
Do seem to bear a magic wand, That lightens all the daily toils, As sandal wood in burning breaths, Sweet odor in its curling wreathes. And some go howling to their God, And feign to kiss the heavy rod; And some, maybe, with silent prayers, Bend not in any griefs or cares, But clench their teeth to do or die, Without a whine, or curse, or cry.
And so the dust and grit and stain Of travel wears into the grain; And so the hearts and souls of men Were darkly tried and tested then;
The desert mocks you all the while With that dry shimmer of a smile, That dazzles on a bleeding skull.
The bloom is withered on your cheek, You slowly move and slowly speak, And every eye is dim and dull. Alas, it is a lonesome land Of bitter sage and barren sand, Under a bleak and friendless sky, That never heard the robin sing, Or kissed the larks exultant wing, Nor breathed a rose's fragant sigh. A weary land, alas! alas!
The shadows of the vultures pass A spectral sign along your path; The hungry wolf, with head askance, Throws back at you a scowling glance Of malice, hate and coward wrath; A desert stretch, a reach of sand, That crumbles at your lifted hand; A dead, drear land, accursed, unknown, In withered shroud asleep-alcne— Only the glimmering ghosts of seas In broidery of flowers and trees And rivers blue and cool, that seem To ripple as in fevered dream. Only to taunt your thirst and fly The plains that glisten bleak and dry. A hundred days, a hundred nights- The goal is further than before, And all the changing shades and lights Enwreath your souls with dreams no more.
A weary sun is overhead,
And fadded pampas round you spread, A sere and sad eternity.
And if some grisly mountains rise Like riven temples in the skies, You turn in fear and pass them by.
And all are overworn and all Unmask their hidden frailties then; And some upon their Maker call
In fear that they have missed His ken. And all are overworn; the flesh Becomes a frail translucent mesh, That will not mask the spirit now.
A horseman with wild wavy hair, Black as the blackness of despair, Wheels into sight and gives you heed, And on his haunches reins his steed All quivering like a river reed, And sits him like a statue there Transfigured in the sunset sea- A Sphinx of speechless mystery. A moment thus in wonder lost, His eagle plumes all wildly tossed, And wheels again and swift as wind, The wild hair floating far behind, And sunset's cringled surges pour Along an empty waste once more. Gone! but that fantastic shade Across your desert path has played An omen sinister and dark- A fearful and presaging mark— Til stars are crimson and the sky Is wan with deadly treachery.
For many days a form of white Has wavered wearily on your sight, In fluttering glimpses as of wings, Or God's bright palm in bickerings. It is the sacred sign of each;
You dare not give the thought in speech, So wildly solemn is the sign, As if upon the Western stairs The Angel of a thousand prayers Were bringing sacred bread and wine.
The ox lies gasping in the yoke Beside the wagon that he drew, Where the forsaken campfires smoke
To hopeless skies of tawny blue;
And while you're straught you still must
The flight of life's delusive spark- The sombre pranks of grief that lie
So thick in human history, And oh, so dark on this bleak page Of drifting sand and dreary sage! The sulky levels of the day; The night with weird enchantment fills, And mythic forests stretch away Along the slopes of shadow hills, And in the solemn stillness breaks The wild wolf's music of the plains, As if a guardian spirit wakes The dreary dead in that refrain That swells and gathers like a wail, Of woe from Plutus' ebon pale, Then sinks in pulseless calm again.
And all their templed might of stone Is one eternal sculptured psalm. And now your Western course is led Where grassy billowed pampas spread Like sudden lashings of the foam Where tropic tempests smite the sea,
And snips are stripped to meet the blow- The pastures of the buffalo.
A ragged whirl of dust descried Upon the prairie's sloping side,
Portends a storm both fierce and free, As to the herds they come, they come, A swamping thunder cloud of life, Loud as Niagara and grand
As they who rode with plume and brand In Waterloo's world-making strife; Wide as the rush of udal seas That whelm their ancient boundaries, The trampling bison, miles along A black and billowed fiery mass, That withers like a flame the grass. Along the smoking plains they pass, Ten hundred, yea ten thousand strong. Meanwhile the creeping train is stopped; The wagon tongues are deftly dropped, And trainmen by their oxen stand
And soothe them with soft speech and hand. And yet, with lifted heads and eyes Aflame with wild and savage fire, They scorn their driver's startled cries, And snort and surge with savage ire, As if a sudden spirit woke
That could not brook the chain and yoke, And then the stormy pageant past They bend their quivering necks at last And with a heavy stride and slow Their dreams of liberty forego. And lo, it is a land of shades
And mystic visions and alarms;
The fretted spirit flames and fades In constant call to prayers or arms. But still advancing, the low sun Hangs like a gamut of red fire In the rich West of your desire, And on the brown plateau is wold And mellow swage of crinkled gold, Bordered with shadows gray and dun.
Again the still enchanted hour Of sunset beams in crimson flower, And purple-headed shadows sleep Like clustered pansies, warm and deep. Eastward of wreathen crag and wall, The road that wound and wound all day In many a dark and devious way, At last. with one swift curve. ascends The wide Plateau that smoothly bends Westward till rosy curtains fall On mountains massed and magical: And lo, you almost bend the knee In presence of God's majesty;
As there, in sunset's gold and rose, A pyramid of splendor glows,
So vast and calm and bright your dream Is dust and ashes in his gleam. A maiden speaks: "He led us far; It is the golden Western Star."
And then a youth: "Our goal is won;
'Tis the Pavilion of the Sun." A gray sage then in undertone: "It must be Hood! so grand and lone, The shining citadel and throne Of Terminus, that Roman god Who marched the line the legions trod And set the boundaries of the world Where Caesar's battle flags were furled. O for the dark-eyed prophetess Who sang in Syrian wilderness The gilded chariot's overthrow To lead for us the cymbaled song, To Him, the beautiful and strong, Who broke the brimming cup of woe And was our cloud and flame so long!
At last, with toils of steel and fire Like those who stormed ancestral Tyre, The way is hewn and you emerge Upon the Cascade's battled verge, And then beneath you and away To Ocean's shining fringe of foam The land of promise waiting lies, Serene as tented twilight skies When day is swooning into gloam. But 'tis the morning twilight now That veils the valley's misted brow- The bourgeoning and blooming dawn, The reveille of Oregon.
How brightly on your vision, first, The pictured vales and woodlands burst! The lakelets set like inlaid gems Along the prairies' flowery hems, The graceful crooks and silent sweeps Of happy rivers every where, And many a waterfall that leaps In rainbow garlands through the air, The meadows deep in tangled grass That gilds the horsemen as they pass With fragrant dust of floral gold; The crested forests of the fir
So redolent of musk and myrrh, And mighty musical and old; Their branches like dark banners stir, But leave their secrets all untold! The crendled hills' Etruscan bronze That frames the painted meads and lawns, The tangled skeins of wayward brooks That melt with laughter in wild nooks Of bramble rose and ferny fronds! The stunted maples and the groves Of oak the sweet-born spirit loves, The basking plains of fertile mold, In broadened maps of grain unsold, And still beyond the mountain heights, That smoulder in empurpled lights.
Where the foothills are wedded to prairies, In their dimples of beauty and grace, And the oak swings a shadow that varies On the daisies that dial the place, And on crescents of vines and in hollows, Redlipped in the strawberry time, And on glades where the forest half follows The brooks and their troubadour rhyme:- On those sun-rippled knolls and those
Beloved of the wandering kine,
In the skirts of the woodland where fairies Embroider with rose and with vine,
There's a tent and a smoke that is curling Above in the beautiful dome
Like a genial spirit unfurling
Soft wings on the promise of home. And the ax of the woodman is ringing All day in the fir-shaded halls,
Where the chipmunk is playfully springing And the blue-jay discordantly calls. And the redchips are flagrantly flying On the asters that sprinkle the moss, Where flowers of summer are drying And the sun-lances glimmer across. There's a bird that is spectrally knocking Or a gleaming old stub over there,
For the fir-top is trembling and rocking In the blue of the clear upper air. There's a cracking of fibre-the thunder Of centuries crushed at a blow; Its companions are stricken asunder Making room for a chieftain below.
A pheasant whirs up from the thicket,
In the hush that comes after the fali,
And the squirrel peeps out from his wicket, And the blue-jay renounces his call; While the panther lies crouched
In the gloom of the canyon anear,
And the brown bear looks over his shoulder As the buck blows the signal of fear; But there's never a pause in your duty,
And the echoing ax is not still,
As you waste the green temples of beauty For the puncheon and rafter and sill That are wrought in a cabin so lowly. The trees clasp hands overhead;
But the heart calls it home and the holy Love-lights on it's hearthstone are shed. It is staunch as its humble; the ceiling Of fragrant red cedar is made, With an edging of silver revealing A succession of sunshine and shade. And the Word has a place not a trifle Obscured in a pageant of books;
And above the broad mantle your rifle Is hung on artistical hooks.
0 the freshness of hope and the fancy That illuminate home and the heart,
And the grace of the bright necromancy That excels the adorning of Art!
And you rise and look out and the glory Of Hood is before you again,
While the sun weaves a gold-threaded story In the purple of mountain and glen. Stand up and look out from the mansion
That adorns the old homestead today, On the fruitage of hopes-the expansion Of dreams that are real and to stay.
While the shadows of Hood have been wheel- ing
Away from the face of the sun,
What a glamour of change has been stealing On the fields you have valiantly won, Till a state in the shimmering armor, Of the Pallas of Athens has come,
And her purple is fringed with the warmer Refulgence that circles the home. Like the castles that fade at cockcrowing Her enchantments arise and advance Where the cities of commerce are glowing Like pearls in the braids of Romance.
As for you, you are gray, and the thunder Of battle has smitten each brow Where the beauty of youth was turned under By Time's immemorial plow;
But the pictures of memory linger
Like the shadows that turn to the East,
And point with tremulous finger
To the things that have perished and ceased. The trail and the footlog have vanished, The canoe is a song and a tale.
And the flickering church spire has banished The red-man away from the vale.
A giant was dragged from the fountain To be harnessed with steel to the car,
While the red wing that flashed on the moun
Flits by on the sentient wire.
The cayuse is no longer in fashion, He is gone with a flutter of heels;
And the old wars are dead, and their passion In the crystal of culture congeals. And the wavering flare of the pitchlight That illumined your cabin before Is a will-o'-the-wisp and witch-light That encumbers the fancies of yore, When you danced to old Arkansaw gaily, In brogans that followed the bear, And quaffed the delights of Castly From a fiddle that wailed like despair,
And lightly you wrought with the hammer, And so truly with ax and with plow,
And you blazed your own path through the grammar,
And were festively keen for a row.
But you builded a state, in whose arches Should be carved well your deeds and your
As posterity lengthens it marches
In the golden star-light of your fame.
N. B.-This poem is copyrighted by The Pacific Monthly, but may be reproduced in whole or in part by any other periodical, provided full credit is given this magazine and
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