USA > Pennsylvania > Luzerne County > Annals of Luzerne County; a record of interesting events, traditions, and anecdotes > Part 28
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" The History of Wyoming," by Isaac Chapman, a resident of the valley, was printed and published at Wilkesbarre in 1830, by S. D. Lewis. It contains 209 pages. It is considered a standard work. It is of a 12mo. size, and is rarely met with. For a country pub- lication of thirty years ago, it exhibits a fair degree of mechanical skill, in respect both to printing and binding. " The Frontier Maid, or a Tale of Wyoming," a poem 26
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in five cantos, was written by Joseph McCoy, cashier of the Philadelphia Branch Bank. It was printed and pub- lished by Steuben Butler and Samuel Maffet, at Wilkes- barre, in 1819. It is a well-bound book of 205 pages, and its mechanical execution does credit to the publishers. The author subsequently becoming dissatisfied with his production, collected and burnt all the volumes that he could procure. The principal characters are Edith, the maid, Leslon, her father, Howard, her lover, Zorac (Abraham Pike), the Bugle Boy (Jonah Rogers), and Eutaw, a friendly Indian, who answers to Campbell's Outalissi. Edith was captured by the savages, and may represent any one of a half dozen young women who were carried into captivity from Wyoming, and who had a Howard lover, and a Leslon father to mourn her loss. After killing the Indians who had captured Pike, Rogers, Van Campen, and Pence, Zorac is represented in the poem as pursuing the captors of Edith, who was finally rescued. The rescue was accomplished by Eutaw, with whom she escaped down the Susquehanna in a canoe. She arrived at Wyoming on the night of the fatal 3d of July, 1778. Howard had been slain in the battle, and her father had fled, with the other inhabitants who sur- vived, towards the great or dismal swamp.
The poem commences thus :-
"The winds are hushed, and the heart it cheers, To see the heavens so bright ; The stars seem dancing for joy in their spheres, At the holy peace, the calm delight, That reigns o'er the quiet of the night.
II.
And does lone Susquehanna hear No rude alarm, no sound of fear, As under skies so blue and bright, She strays among her hills to-night ?
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In sooth there seems no sound abroad, In hill, or vale of that sweet flood, Save where, towards her secret den, The she-wolf speeds, and now and then, Shakes the wild briar, or rushing grass, As she hurries through the tangled pass : Or save where the fitful breeze proceeds, Ruffling the calm flood o'er, And rustling at times the long wild reeds, As it wanders down the shore. And are there indeed no sounds but these, On the shores of that wild flood ;
No rustling but that of the fitful breeze, No stirring in dell, or wood, But that by the diligent she-wolf made,
As she rapidly drives through the lowland shade !
III
Oh yes ! far other disquietude A boding doubt recalls ; For not remote, where the hurrying flood Comes roaring down the falls, The night is startled by strange alarms, Portending fearful doom ;
The voices of men and the elang of arms, Resounding far through the gloom.
For mustering there by the river bank, Where the fortress looks stern o'er the tide, With rampart and fosse in front and flank, And battlement bold and breastwork wide, And starry standards waving high, In the dusk of the midnight air, A band of heroes who death defy, A little band that must conquer, or die, For a bloody day prepare.
The following extract is descriptive of a messenger from the battle-field, and the flight of the women and children :-
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ANNALS OF LUZERNE COUNTY.
" But hark ! what messenger of doom Comes shouting through the fearful gloom ? Down through the shoreland wood he flies, And far before him sends his cries. He bears a burning brand in flight, And from the path now starts to sight. Wild blows the wind, his upturned hair Is dashed with blood, his breast is bare, And down his naked neck and side Is streaming red the sanguine tide. "O fly !" he eries, "from worse than death ; I warn you with my dying breath. The foe in fury cross above ; Their hasty rafts already move. Fly ! fly ! into the mountain's height,
. And trust the shelter of the night." Fainting he falls while yet he speaks, And breathes his last amid their shrieks The dread alarmı in fearful cries, Down through the distant hamlet flies ; And mothers with their screaming care Of little ones, and all the fair, Flying tumultuous through the night, And mingling in the general flight, In wild distraction and dismay, Are hurrying on their mountain way. Now from the lofty paths they trod, As wistfully they glanced abroad. The distant fortress through the night, With rising fires is sparkling bright ; And now the flames are bursting high, And broad they kindle through the sky ; And mournful in funereal blaze : Where'er they turn their anxious gaze, Beyond the gleaming river way, Whose winding course they far survey, Mansion and cottage scattered wide, With fires innumerous light the tide. And now along the nearer shore, Where the lone Mill Creek's waters roar, As o'er the rocks her tide she flings, And forth into the river springs,
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The distant hum of shouting foes, In low and dismal murmur rose : And, lo! those casual flashings bright Too surely show their onward flight.
Edith, wandering at night on the lonely mountain, hears the report of a gun, and meets her father.
"Edith, my child ! Is there an ear An anguish'd father's voice to hear ?" A piercing shriek her soul expressed, And wild she rushed upon his breast. A moment lost in transport drear, Her soul forgot each care and fear ; But now recalled that near alarm ! And, fearful hanging on his arm, Around a dubious glance she cast : " Fear not"-the warrior said-"'Tis past. A deadly foe with demon spite, Pursued my footsteps through the night : Baffling the skill of his murderous eye, I fled by devious ways on high ; But still he seemed my track to mark, And still I heard him in the dark ; 'Till here among the cliffs withdrawn, I stood and watched him skulking on : And firing as thou heard'st the shock, He yelled and tumbled from the rock ! So we are safe retreat to seek, Oh ! tremble not, yet hear, yet speak !" Her half-repressed, heart-rending moan, Showed she now felt they stood alone ; And wildly did her wandering stare Inquire why Howard came not there. The weeping father o'er her hung : The awful silence of his tongue Told her his heart was all too weak The fate of that brave youth to speak. Filling his soul with dread alarms, She sinks unbreathing from his arms ; And o'er her he is bending low, And wild his words of anguish flow.
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Yes, he is gone ! my brave, brave boy, Pierced to the heart for me,
My earliest hope, my latest joy, And he was all to thee. And would'st thou kill whom he would save, Nor live to comfort me ?
Oh wouldst thou bow me to the grave, When I have none but thee ?
No, live, look up, my only one, Nor from my misery flee,
But weep with me, my hopes undone, And I will weep with thee."
A father's cries were in her ear, His lip was'on her cheek,
She clasped his neck those cries to hear, But had no word to speak.
"Yes, thou wilt live, my gentle child, And, while our grief we share,
Affliction of its gloom beguiled A placid smile shall wear."
His mantle o'er his child is cast, And lowly she reclines,
And shrilly blows the whistling blast, Among the mountain pines."
We have given the foregoing not because of its poetical beauties, for much of it is evidently of that character which, it is said, neither gods nor men can tolerate, but it is presented as a specimen of some of the poetry or rhymes which were composed in the valley forty years ago.
Asher and Charles Miner, during their editorial and publishing career, issued at Wilkesbarre a hymn-book, edited by Sampson Occum, who, for many years, preached the gospel to the Mohegan Indians.
They also published a small work, entitled "The Merry Fellow's Companion," composed of anecdotes, selected in part by Charles Miner. A work on Alchemy,
-
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written by Dr. William Hooker Smith, was published by the same gentleman many years ago.
We have made the following selections of poetry written at various periods by persons residing in, or at the time visiting, our county.
The first selection is a piece written by Charles Miner during the visit of a party of young ladies at his house. It was published in the " Literary Visitor" of September 16, 1814.
How dull and dreary is the day, Sad and cheerless look the fields, No merry thrush attunes his lay, No charm the joyous landscape yields.
Though Sol to-day assumes his veil, And Flora wears a woeful face, Yet surely pleasure cannot fail To mingle here with so much grace.
Then, girls, ne'er heed the cold and rain, · But pleasure's company enjoy ; These hours will ne'er return again, With pleasure then the hours employ.
Come, laugh and sing, and chat and play, Be merry as the morning lark, Drive care and sorrow far away, And I will promise each a spark.
The following was written by Josiah Wright, and published in the "Literary Visitor" of March 10, 1815.
JACKSON AND HIS COMRADES.
When hostile southern Indians rose, A barbarous horde of savage foes, And threatened to exterminate The border settlers of the state,
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ANNALS OF LUZERNE COUNTY.
Who flew to arms their lives to save ? 'Twas Jackson and his comrades brave.
Who filled the savage breast with dread, As from their scattered ranks they fled- Our starry banners did display Triumphant in East Florida, And made the Indians peace to crave ? "Twas Jackson and his comrades brave.
When Britain sent a veteran host, To subjugate our southern coast, And seize New Orleans-glittering prize- Before the western men could rise, Who breast the shock the place to save ? 'Twas Jackson and his comrades brave.
When Packenham, and Gibbs, and Keane, All famed for feats of arms in Spain, Led on their troops to storm our line -- " Booty and Beauty" the countersign- Who sent a thousand to their grave ? 'Twas Jackson and his comrades brave.
Who beat the proud invading foe, And all his flattering hopes laid low, In haste compelled him to retreat, And safety seek on board his flect, Retrace his march across the wave ? 'Twas Jackson and his comrades brave.
Then let our rising nation prove Their gratitude, their joy, their love ; Let fame proclaim to distant climes, And tell the tale to future times, How Jackson and his patriot band Did succor Freedom's chosen land !
Below we give a production from the pen of Edward
.
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Chapman, brother of Isaac A. Chapman. It was pub- lished at Wilkesbarre in the year 1814 :-
COLUMBIA.
Columbia's shores are wild and wide, Columbia's hills are high, And rudely planted, side by side, Where forests meet the eye : But narrow must those shores be made, And low Columbia's hills, And low her ancient forests laid, Ere Freedom leaves her fields. For 'tis the land where, rude and wild,
.
She played her gambols when a child.
And deep and wide her streams, that flow Impetuous to the tide ; And thick and green her laurels grow, On every river's side.
But should a transatlantic host Pollute her waters fair,
We'll meet them on the rocky coast, And gather laurels there. For O ! Columbia's sons are brave, And free as Ocean's wildest wave.
The gales that wave her mountain pine Are fragrant and serene ; And never clearer sun did shine Than lights her valleys green. But putrid must those breezes blow, That sun must set in gore, Ere footsteps of a foreign foe Imprint Columbia's shore : For O ! her sons are brave and free, Their breasts beat high with liberty.
For arming boldest cuirassier, We've mines of sterling worth,
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For sword and buckler, spur and spear, Emboweled in the earth : But ere Columbia's sons resign The boon their fathers won, The polished ore from every mine Shall glitter in the sun : For bright's the blade and sharp's the spear Which Freedom's sons to battle bear.
Let Britain boast the deeds she's done, Display her trophies bright, And count her laurels bravely won, In well contested fight : Columbia can a band array, Will wrest that laurel wreath ; With truer eye and steadier hand, Will strike the blow of death : For whether on the land or sca, Columbia's fight is victory.
Let France in blood through Europe wade, And in her frantic mood, In civil discord draw the blade, And spill her children's blood : Too dear that skill in arms is bought, Where kindred life-blood flows, Columbia's sons are only taught To triumph o'er their focs :
And then to comfort, soothe, and save, The feelings of the conquered brave.
Then let Columbia's eagle soar, And bear her banner high, The thunder from her dexter pour, And lightning from her eye : And when she sees from realms above, The storm of war is spent, Descending like the welcome dove, The olive branch present : And then will beauty's hand divine, The never-fading wreath entwine.
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In the " Wilkesbarre Advocate" of July 28, 1841, is published a poetical production bearing the caption of " Wyoming." It is from the pen of E. E. LeClerc, Esq., and bears the ring of the true metal ; but it is too lengthy for our pages.
The following is the production of a lady blind from her infancy-a daughter of the Honorable Charles Miner :---
LINES ON VISITING THE WYOMING MONUMENT.
(JULY, 1837.)
We sought the spot, and peaceful was the scene, As though an infant's chamber it had been ; A summer cloud just veiled the sun's bright glare, And nature laid her riehest earpet there ; A murmur, soft and low, from stream and grove, Seemed soothing as the voice of one we love; As though aerial spirits loved to keep
Their watch around this couch, where patriots sleep. Thus is the spot so beautiful and bless'd, Where from that day's fierce toil they sunk to rest ; That day of toil, that earned them glory, fame-
No! their bold hearts ne'er throbbed at glory's name : But deeper, holier feelings there prevailed, When haughty foes their humble homes assailed. And 'tis a holier voice than that of fame, Shall still such sufferings, and such deeds proclaim. And in the light that memory sheds around, As we approach the consecrated ground, Borne on the swelling tide of feelings strong, We see them eome, a living, honored throng- Claiming the tribute patriot hearts ean pay, When glory's loud acolaim has died away.
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ANNALS OF LUZERNE COUNTY.
ODE,
WRITTEN FOR THE "WYOMING LITERARY INSTITUTE," JULY 3, 1841.
BY AMOS SISTY.
Air-"Star-Spangled Banner."
Oh ! dark was the day when our forefathers fell ; When their homes by the red storm of war were o'erclouded ; When the Tory's fierce hate, and the Redman's wild yell, Left the Vale, now so lovely, in sorrow enshrouded : And the torch flaming high, Lit the summer eve sky,
When the shout of the victor, and woman's lone cry, Were sounds that were thrilling on Wyoming's shore, And her bravest and best were asleep in their gore.
It has passed-but that day, in our memories true, And the heroes who bled, shall be fitly recorded ; Nor longer, in vain, shall the past spirit sue ; The valor of lang syne will soon be rewarded. Though an age may have rolled Since the death-knell was tolled, And the bones of the warrior lie mouldering and old ; We the Monument raise, on Wyoming's fair shore- A land rendered saered by brave hearts of yore.
And oh ! should a foeman again in our Vale Bring the bright sword of war, and the cannon deep roaring Every arm would upraise, and the breath of the gale Send the star-spangled flag to the high heavens soaring ; By the river's elear tide, On the mountain's rock side,
Every son would the shock of invasion abide ; Their streams would run red with their enemy's gore, And free be forever fair Wyoming's shore.
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THE SONS OF WYOMING.
WRITTEN BY ANDREW BEAUMONT, SOON AFTER THE DEPARTURE OF THE WYOMING ARTILLERISTS FOR THE MEXICAN WAR.
Air-" The Star-Spangled Banner."
Oh, say, did you hear the loud clarion of war, · Send its summoning blast o'er our hills and our valley ;
And Mars, with his helmet, his buckler, and spear,
Call our youth round "The Star-Spangled Banner" to rally? Mid these stirring alarms, See our sons rush to arms-
While the passion for glory each gallant heart warms ;
And the sons of Wyoming shall hence be our boast,
Be the theme of our song and the soul of our toast.
Behold where the Fane of Religion ascends, Those youth clad in arms round the altar of freedom,
And pledge in the presence of kindred and friends,
Their blood and their lives, if their country should need them, Then the pæan rose high, And the shout rent the sky,
While the patriot tear stole from each generous eye.
And the sons of Wyoming shall e'er be our boast,
Be the theme of our song and the soul of our toast.
And ne'er shall the page of our history declare, That the youth of Wyoming are wanting in duty ;
Beloved as companions-undaunted in war,
And the smiles of the fair are their " booty and beauty. ' For the same ardor fires, The same spirit inspires,
That guided in battle their patriot sires.
And the sons of Wyoming shall long be our boast,
Be the theme of our song and the soul of our toast.
The following was written by A. T. Lee, then an artist, on a visit to Wyoming. He is now, we believe, an officer of note in the United States army.
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ANNALS OF LUZERNE COUNTY.
THE SHAWANEE'S FAREWELL.
Farewell, Susquehanna, farewell, noble stream, Where the brown maiden sung once the loftiest theme ; I hear the waves dash at thy gray pebbled shore, But the leaves whisper o'er me thou wilt hear them no more.
We have fought long and hard, but the struggle is o'er, And the bowstring shall twang at these waters no more ; The scalp of the Sachem is torn from his brow, And the black wing of death is his canopy now.
I go, the pale faces have bade me depart, They have scattered the blood of my sire's noble heart ; The bones of a thousand lay white on the plain, But their loud whoops of war they'll ne'er mingle again.
Roll on, Susquehanna, as proud art thou yet As when my young eyes and thy glory first met, As when with light heart, o'er thy surface so blue, I steered round thy green isles my light bark canoe.
Farewell, ere the rays that now silver thy breast, Point up from the far purpled hills of the west; The red child shall wander, in spirits subdued, Through the dark pathless depth of that pine solitude.
There yet is a land to the wild hunter dear, Where the Miami rolls through the wilderness clear ; And there the lone child of the forest will go, And hunt by the lakes the brown buffalo.
TO THE SUSQUEHANNA,
ON ITS JUNCTION WITH THE LACKAWANNA.
BY MRS. SIGOURNEY.
Rush on, glad stream, in thy power and pride, To claim the hand of thy promised bride, For she hastes from the realm of the darkencd mine, To mingle her murmured vows with thine :
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Ye have met, ye have met, and your shores prolong The liquid tone of your nuptial song.
Methinks ye wed as the white man's son And the child of the Indian King have done. I saw the bride as she strove in vain To elcanse her brow from the carbon stain ; But she brings thee a dowry so rich and true That thy love must not shrink from the tawny hue.
Her birth was rude in a mountain cell, And her infant freaks there are none to tell ; Yet the path of her beauty was wild and free, And in dell and forest she hid from thee ; But the day of her fond caprice is o'er, And she seeks to part from thy breast no more.
Pass on, in the joy of thy blended tide, Through the land where the blessed Miquon died. No red man's blood, with its guilty stain, Hath cried unto God from that broad domain ; With the seeds of peace they have sown the soil, Bring a harvest of wealth for their hour of toil.
On, on, through the vale where the brave ones sleep, Where the waving foliage is rich and deep. I have stood on the mountain and roamed through the glen, To the beautiful homes of the Western men ; Yet nought in that region of glory could see So fair as the vale of Wyoming to me.
THE POOR MAN AND THE DOCTOR.
WRITTEN, IN 1812, BY JAMES SINTON, LATE CASHIER OF THE EASTON BANK, WHO FORMERLY RESIDED IN WILKESBARRE.
A poor man once, oppressed with grief, A doctor sought for aid, And begged for his children some relief, His wife, alas ! was dead.
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" Oh ! doctor, can you help my boy, Can you my daughter save ? He is my pride and she my joy, Oh keep them from the grave!"
" Fear not, good sir," the doctor said, " Your children health I'll give, For from this little vial here, One drop can make them live.
" Nor look surprised, for you shall see The dead I'll raise to life."
The poor man fled. "My God," says he, " He'll surely raise my wife."
HARVEY'S LAKE ASSOCIATION.
In olden times, that is, about sixty years ago, the young men of Wilkesbarre, Hanover, Kingston, Plymouth, and surrounding townships, formed a society which they called " The Harvey's Lake Association." The object of the society was to celebrate the 4th of July in each year, in a becoming manner, at the lake. A table was spread beneath the branches of the forest, and it was laden with wild game from the surrounding highlands, and fish from the clear waters of the lake.
We extract the following from a poem dedicated to "The Patriots of Harvey's Lake," in 1811. It was written by a rude mountain native of Luzerne a few days before he joined his patriotic brethren to celebrate the national birthday :-
To Harvey's Lake let us repair, Convivial seenes exhibit there, Our Independence there revive, And keep our freedom still alive, And celebrate in social glee The day that set our country free.
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The landscape there, the dale and hill, Is in a state of nature still. Beneath a wide-spread oaken shade Shall we our sylvan table spread ; July the fourth here we'll record, While trout and venison crown the board, With rural viands of the best, And juleps too to give them zest. Our Independence there we'll boast, Its heroes not forget to toast- Join in their deeds, their virtues name, And nobly kindle with their flame,
'Gainst cursed ambition all forewarn, And give to Freedom ages yet unborn.
The following lines were written by Edward E. Le- Clerc, Esq., on the death of Lieut. James Monroe Bowman, of the United States Army, eldest son of General Isaac Bowman, late of Wilkesbarre. Lieutenant Bowman died at Fort Wayne, Arkansas, on the 21st of July, 1839, beloved by his fellow-soldiers, and lamented by all who knew him in his native Wyoming :-
BOWMAN, UNITED STATES ARMY.
" Bring flowers ! pale flowers, over the bier to shed, A crown for the brow of the early dead."
MRS. HEMANS.
Bring banners ! bright banners, to shroud o'er the dead, The flag of the stripe and the star ; Bring banners to wave o'er the soldier's head, Which have streamed from the battle car, When the earth was stained with the life-blood red, As it gushed 'mid the carnage of war ; For when warriors die, oh ! surely 'tis meet That a banner should be their winding-sheet.
Bring laurel ! green laurel, to wreathe o'er his bier, Who died in a southern clime ; 27
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Who calmly met death without shrinking or fear, In the midst of his manhood's prime : . Bring laurel, and shed o'er it many a tear, For he fell in his summer's time ; Since surely 'tis right that a warrior's name Should be decked with the laurel that breathes of fame.
Bring cannon ! great cannon, to boom o'er the grave ; When a soldier in armor dies,
Bring cannon to knell o'er the bed of the brave ; Let its echoes to heaven arise,
And its snowy white clouds o'er him curtain-like wave, His war-belt to form in the skies ;
For when warriors march on to that spirit land,
The cannon should speak to its shadowy band.
Bring sorrow ! deep sorrow, to the warrior's tomb, And with it affection's soft tear,
While for ever around it let memory bloom, Its darkness and stillness to cheer ; For who shall not sigh, when its chambers of gloom Charnels all that the heart holds most dear ? Then bring love's warm tear, for who, who will not weep?
Though proud is the calm of the soldier's last sleep.
CHRISTMAS.
WRITTEN BY RICHARD DRINKER, ESQ., DECEMBER 25, 1830, AND PUBLISHED IN THE SUSQUEHANNA DEMOCRAT.
Turkeys ! who on Christmas bled, Turkeys ! who on corn have fed, Welcome to us now you're dead, And in the frost have hung.
" Now's the day, and now's the hour," Through the market how we scour, Seeking turkeys to devour, Turkeys old and young;
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Who would be a turkey hen ? Fed and fattened in a pen- Killed and eat by hungry men- Can you tell, I pray ?
Lay the proud old turkeys low, Let the young ones run and grow, To market they're not fit to go, Until next Christmas day.
From the Susquehanna Democrat.
UPON MY LIFE IT'S TRUE!
As Terrence McFadden was digging and grubbing, He all at once stopt, and his poll began rubbing, While his mug from blood-red turned the color of Icad, " Och murther !" he cried, " here's an Indian above me, On the brink of the ditch-help, Pat, or we're dead !
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