# Oregon: Her history, her great men, her literature/Samuel L. Simpson

SAMUEL L. SIMPSON
Samuel Leonidas Simpson, the author of "The Gold-Gated West," has been called the "Burns of Oregon."
"His father was born in Tennessee on March 29, 1818, of Scotch ancestry. His mother was a granddaughter of Col. Cooper, a companion of Daniel Boone in Kentucky. Sam. L. Simpson crossed the plains to Oregon with his parents in 1846. His mother taught him the alphabet when he was four years old by tracing letters in the ashes on the hearthstone of the primitive cabin in Marion County in which the family lived. The first poems he ever read were selections from a worn volume of Robert Burns which was presented to Samuel L. Simpson's mother by Dr. John McLoughlin, at Oregon City, where the Simpson family spent the first winter. An occasional country school of three months in the year afforded the only opportunity the boy had for education until he was fifteen years old. Then he was employed as clerk in the sutler's store of his father at Fort Yamhill, a military post near the Grand Ronde Indian Reservation. Here he became acquainted with Lieut. Phil Sheridan (afterwards General), who gave him a copy of Byron's poems. When sixteen years old Samuel Simpson entered Willamette University, Salem, where he graduated in 1865. Soon afterwards he became editor of the Oregon "Statesman," continuing in that relation until the close of 1866. He was admitted to the bar in 1867, and began practicing; but clients were few and the profession of law was not to his liking; hence he entered the journalistic profession which he followed the remainder of his life, ​writing numerous poems. "Ad Willametam," or "Beautiful Willamette," as it is generally known, was written while the poet was a resident of Albany. It first appeared in the "Democrat" in that city, April 18, 1868.
"Samuel L. Simpson was married to Miss Julia Humphrey, of Portland, in 1868, who bore him two sons. He died in Portland June 14, 1900, and was buried in Lone Fir Cemetery."—George H. Himes.
BEAUTIFUL WILLAMETTE
From the Cascades' frozen gorges, Leaping like a child at play, Winding, widening through the valley, Bright Willamette glides away; Onward ever, Lovely river, Softly calling to the sea, Time, that scars us, Maims and mars us, Leaves no track or trench on thee.
Spring's green witchery is weaving Braid and border for thy side; Grace forever haunts thy journey, Beauty dimples on thy tide; Through the purple gates of morning Now thy roseate ripples dance, Golden then, when day, departing, On thy waters trails his lance. Waltzing, flashing, Tinkling, splashing, Limpid, volatile, and free— Always hurried To be buried In the bitter, moon-mad sea.
In thy crystal deeps inverted Swings a picture of the sky, Like those wavering hopes of Aidenn, Dimly in our dreams that lie; Clouded often, drowned in turmoil, Faint and lovely, far away— Wreathing sunshine on the morrow Breathing fragrance round today. Love would wander Here and ponder, Hither poetry would dream; Life's old questions, Sad suggestions, Whence and whither? throng thy stream.
​On the roaring waste of ocean Shall thy scattered waves be tossed, 'Mid the surge's rhythmic thunder Shall thy silver tongues be lost. O! thy glimmering rush of gladness Mocks this turbid life of mine! Racing to the wild Forever Down the sloping paths of Time! Onward ever, Lovely river, Softly calling to the sea; Time that scars us, Maims and mars us, Leaves no track or trench on thee.
SNOWDRIFT
Tenderly, patiently falling, the snow Whitens the gloaming, and in the street's glow Spectrally beautiful, drifts to the earth— Pale in life's brightness, and still in its mirth; Swarming and settling like spirits of bees Blown from the blossoms of song-haunted trees— Blown with the petals of dreams we have known, Rosy with heart dews of days that are gone.
Spirits of flowers, and spectres of bees— Emblems of toil and its guerdon are these— Thrown to us silently—cold, and so fair— From the gardens that gleam in the regions of air; As if the high heavens that gathered our sighs Wept for the promise the future denies;— Dreamingly lifted the glowing bouquet, Sweet with life's longing, and tossed it away!
Soft as the touch of the white-handed moon Wreathing the world in a twilight of June, Gently and lovingly hastens the snow— Weaving a veil for dead nature below; Kissing the stains from the hoof-beaten street, Folding the town in a slumber so sweet, Surely the stars, in their helmets of gold, Pensively linger and love to behold.
​Thus our endeavor may fall of its prize—
Hope and ambition drop cold from our skies;
Yet on the pathway, so lonely and drear.
Rugged with failure and clouded by fear,
Spirits of beauty come out of defeat.
Cover life's sorrows and shield its retreat— Healing the heart as the fall of the snow
Brightens the darkness of winter below.
O, when the Angel of Silence has brushed
Me with his wings, and this pining is hushed.
Tenderly, graciously, light as the snow,
Fall the kind mention of all that I know— Words that will cover and whiten the sod.
Folding the life that was given of God;— Wayward may be, the persistent to rove— Restful, at last, in the glamour of love!
OREGON RAIN
It is raining, raining, raining!
And my spirit darkly rues
All the pleasures that are waning
In a carnival of blues.
For the constant drone and sputter
Of the shower seems to matter
Memories of Noah's cruise!
Surely neither navigation,
Irrigation, or oblation,
Nor the final conflagration
Such a streaming flood requires.
Nor the gentle mitigation
Of the regulation ration
Of the lurid liquid fire!
Lo, there's something awful in it— And I'll tell you in a minute
Of a fancy, damp and dire,
From some planet's spectral stare— Down, and down, within the hollow
Womb (if seas whore bright Apollo
Never drifts his yellow hair
O'er the rising blush of morn—
Nor the moon to any maiden ​Pours the silv'ry dream of Aidenn From her lily wreathen horn, Earth has fallen as of old, In the dying baron's wassail, Fell the wine-flushed cup of gold. Round about the dripping shrouds Of the weary dreary clouds In the charnel of the deep, Where the toiling globe of ocean Swings in dark, mysterious motion Round a misty realm of sleep; And a silence, dim, eternal, Hushes all the march of time— Only ever and forever, Like the wail of some lone river, Fraught with sorrow strange, supernal, Mourn the clouds, in ceaseless rhyme, As they ever weep and weep; Fallen world of wrong and sorrow, Never hope for brighter morrow— Doom has met thee at the tryst! In the glamour of thy dreaming Thro' the ivory-gated East; With the red and purple feast Of the roses he has kissed! For the gold-browed stars bave faced them Off to other loves and wars, And the sparkling crest of Venus That so often flashed between us Turns along the trail of Mars, O, the years shall wane and sicken, And the turbid clouds shall thicken, In the lonely lapse of time, Till the cavern gloom of sea Fills, anon, with massy waters, And Willamette's sons and daughters Rise to other lives sublime In an ocean broad and free! O the changes, slow, dramatic, Of the gloomy world terrene— Merging still to shapes aquatic As the ages shift the scene, Till the rustling woods that quiver Sweet with every sigh and sound, ​Never wake again, and never Song of bird is heard around; And the music and the beauty, Toil and battle, love and duty, Of the bright terrestial space Shall be hushed and chilled and faded In the ghostly deeps invaded By a cold and silent race; O thy hamlets of the meadows; And thy cities of the plain;— Have we not their fates and shadows In the sunny tropic main? Coral cities, wall and tower, Temples, arches, tree and flower, Wrought with all the soul of art! And the fishes, gold and scarlet— Silver-mailed, and purple-barred, Shine, like idle orient people, 'Mong the columns, flushed and starred; And a myriad shapes of terror, Dumb as death and black as error, Loiter slow in street and isle Or in slumber's horrid semblance Lure their prey with hellish smile. Thus forever and forever, Till the sad sea songs are sung, Name or fame of thee shall never Live on human lip or tongue; Set within the dim recesses Of the ocean's wildernesses Shall thy sculptured city shine, And the gold of mermaid tresses Match the emerald of thine! And I sit and look and listen While the pathos of the rain And the streaming tears that glisten On the misty window pane Weave a sadness in my fancy And a horror in my brain! Ah, believe me, land of apples, Swarming hives, and matchless grain, 'Tis a fate that with thee grapples In the sobblng of the rain: ​And its ceaseless hum and patter
Is the many million clatter Of a vast surrounding main,—
Beating, beating, nor retreating
Till its hoof prints weld the chain
or a people—fleeting, fleeting
Into ocean's finny main.
THE FEAST OF APPLE BLOOM
And the days are rich with gold,
And the satin robe of the earth is set
With the jewels wrought of old;
When the woodlands wave in choral seas
And the purple mountains loom.
It is heaven to eome with birds and bees
To the feast of apple bloom.
For the cabled roof of the home arose
O'er the sheen of the orchard snow.
And is still my shrine when storms repose
And the gnarly branches blow;
While the music of childhood's singing heart,
That was lost in the backward gloom,
May be heard when the robins meet and part
At the feast of apple bloom.
And I think when the trees display crown
Like the gleam of a resting dove,
Of a face that was framed in tresses brown
And aglow with a mother's love;
At the end of the orchard path she stands,
While I laugh at my manhood's doom.
As my spirit flies with lifted hands
To the feast of apple bloom.
When the rainbow paths of faded skies
Are restored with the diamond rain,
And the joys of my wasted paradise
Are returning to earth again.
It Is sadder than death to know how brief
Are the smiles that the dead assume;
But a moment allowed, a flying leaf
From the feast of apple bloom.
​But a golden arch forever shines
In the dim and darkening past.
Where I stand again as day declines.
And the world is bright and vast;
For the glory that lies along the lane
Is endeared with sweet perfume
And the world is ours, and we are twain
At the feast of apple bloom.
She was more than fair in the wreath she wore
Of the creamy buds and blows.
And she comes to me from the speechless shore
When the flowering orchard glows;
And I sigh for the dreams so sweet and swift.
That are laid in a sacred tomb—
That are nothing at least but fragrant drift
From the feast of apple bloom.
THE NYMPHS OF THE CASCADES
The campfire, like a red night rose.
Blossomed beneath a gloomy fir
When weary men, in deep repose,
Heard not the gentle night wind stir
Her priestly robes high overhead,
Heard not the wild brook's wailing song
Nor any nameless sounds of dread
Which to the midnight woods belong.
The moon sailed onm a golden bark
Astray in lilied purple seas,
While forest shadows, weirdly dark,
Were peopled with all mysteries;
And all was wild and drear and strange
Around that lonely bivouac,
Where mountains, rising range on range,
Shouldered the march of progress back.
The red fire's fluttering tongues of flame
Whispered to brooding darkness there,
While spectral shapes without a name
Were hovering in the haunted air; ​And from the fir tree's inner shade,
A drear owl, sobbing forth his rune,
Kept watch, and mournful homage paid
At intervals unto the moon.
The travelers dreamed on serene,
Save one alone, whose brow, curl-swept,
Was damp from agony within;
Who tossed and murmured as he slept.
The fitful firelight on his face
Wavered and danced in elfin play,
Where ail the youth's enchanting grace
As light as dreams upon him lay.
The glamour of the rosy light
The heavy lines of care concealed.
And trembling shadows of the night
Beyond him, like sad spirits, kneeled;
For his had been the lustrous gift
Of genius, lent by God to few.
The splendid jewel wrought by swift
Angelic art of fire and dew.
But like the pearl of Egypt's queen,
'Twas drowned in Pleasure's crimson cup,
And lo, its amethystine sheen.
In baleful vapors curling up.
Soon wreathed his brain in that dark spell
That has no kindred seal of woe,
As phantoms, that in Orcus dwell.
In mystic dance swept to and fro.
Swept to and fro and maddened him
With gestures wild and taunts and jeers.
And waved the withered chaplets dim
That he had worn in flowery years;
His spirit furled its shining wings,
Never again to sing and soar.
And wove all wild imaginings
In shapes of horror evermore.
The sleeper started, raised his head,
Upon his elbow leaned awhile,
And gazed where deepest night o'erspread.
With wistful eyes and brightening smile. ​"I hear sweet music far away
The mountain nymphs are calling me!"
He murmured. "How divine a lay,
O soul of mine, is wooing thee!"
"Coming!" he whispered and arose,
And gropingly reached forth a hand,
As if another's to enclose.
Some ghostly guidance to command —
And lo! into the heavy night,
As led by forms unseen, he fled
Far from the waning firelight
Into the canyons dark and dread.
'Twas years ago, but trace or track
Of him has never yet been found.
For Echo only answered back
The hunter's call and baying hound;
Forever lost untract, unseen,
In the upheaved and wild Cascades,
Forever lost, untract, unseen,
A shadow now among the shades.
From some snow-wreathed and shining peak
His soul swam starward long ago.
And now no more we vainly seek
The secret of his fate to know;
While fires of sunset and of dawn
Flame red and fade on many a height,
The mystery will not be withdrawn
From him, long lost from human sight.
And yet I sometimes sit and dream
Of him, my schoolmate and my friend,
As wand'ring where bright waters gleam,
In some sweet life that has no end —
Within the Cascades' inner walls,
Where nymphs, beyond all fancy fair,
Soothe him with siren madrigals,
And deck him with their golden hair.
TO-NIGHT
When the stars gather in beauty to-night.
Glorious, love-litten—a heaven in bloom— Somewhere, astray, in a sorrowful plight,
Earth will be dreamingly toiling towards doom;
And the myriads at rest
On her storm-stricken breast.
Rocked into dreams, will be never afraid
Tho' stars marching over and stars streaming under,
Filling the deep with a pageant of wonder.
Guard and attend her with godlike parade.
When the stars gather in splendor to-night,
Darkness, O Planet, will cover thy face— Death-ridden darkness, in shapes that affright,
Black with the curses that blacken our race!
And the mist, like the ghost,
Of a hope that is lost,
Strangely will hover o'er fields that are bare;
And the seas, at whose heart the old sorrow is throbbing
Restless and hopeless, eternally sobbing— Madly will kneel in a tempest of prayer.
When the stars gather in armor, to-night.
Planet of wailing, thy fate shall be read!
Steal like a nun under scourge from their sight,
Gather thy sorrows, like robes, to thy head!
For the vestal white rose
Of the crystalline snows
Coldly has sealed thee to silence unblessed;
And the red rose is dead in thy gardens of pleasure— Forests, like princes bereft of all treasure.
Rise and upbraid thee, skeleton jest!
When the stars gather in vengeance to-night,
Gibbering history, too, will arise,
Rustling her garments of mildew and blight.
Only to curse thee. O mother of lies!
With thy goblet all drained,
And thy wanton lip stained— Singing wild songs where all ruin appears— What shalt thou say of this dust that was glory.
Dust that beseeches thes still with a story,
Deep in whose silence are rivers of tears? ​When the stars gather in triumph, to-night, Raining their Joy thro' the chill and the gloom.
Only one jewel, an emblem of light.
Marvelous planet, thy crest shall illume!
It was Calvary's first.
And its white lustre burst
Wide and resplendent, a dawn and a day!
Clasp it and keep it, O princeland of heaven,
The deep-bosomed worlds for that signal have striven—
Aeons of wrong shall not wrest it away!
When the stars gather in chorus to-night,
Singing the lullaby song of our Lord,
Childhood shall come to us, dimpled and bright.
Kissed by His promise, and fed by His word;
And our fears shall depart, And our anguish of heart.
Rending darkly the lengthy years through!
And the dust of the perished shall blossom, and beauty
Garland the lowliest pathways of duty.
Rich with the hopes that our spirits renew.