The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1898-05-01
And they're leagued in as true and as holy

q IL
In their motto Of many in ONE
That will continue to be loved and sung as
long as the Union and the liberty it cher
ishes survive. sse2
THE Song of Steam, is superior as a
poem to &c Piuribus Unum," but not so
well suited to popular musical uses. Then
the composers who have welded it to
music have made too great an effort to
make the music expressive of the force and
power of steam for it to be "singable" by
the Masses and without the approval OF
the masses lasting popularity is not posi-
BILE to a song. The late Mrs. Sarah T.. Boil
tons Paddle Your Own Canoe" has been
largely superseded by very inferior songs
bearing the same name. Her sons gave the
title a vogue, and it has been used to float
literary trash welded to catchy music un-
til 1t has, for the time being, driven the bet
ter song out of the field. But it will surely
return to its own some day and be appre-
ciated by the children or grandchildren of
the people who failed to render to it's
author the appreciative support that was
her due. Hugh Peters, who committed sui
eide by drowning in the Ohio river,
was the author of a poem entitled MY
Native Land" which. although evidently
modelled after Lord Byron's Farewell TO
England" was a sadly. sweet song:
The BOAT swings from the pebbled shore,
And proudly drives her prov:
The crested waves roll up before;
1on dark, gray land / see no more
How sweet 1t seemeth now"
The dark, gray landv was Connecticut
AMI it is said that the poets grief at being
unable to return to his old home unbalanced
his reason and caused him to throw away
his life.
Mrs. Laura NJ. Thurston's "On Crossing
the Alleghenies." and ,sThe Green Hills of
My Fatheland," written in her Indiana
home, in memory of the East, and yet full
CT the hopeful spirit Of the new land, were
the equals OF Peters's famous lines. either
as poems or for the uses of the singer. John
B. Dillon, the historian of Indiana, con-
tributed a rare gem to the crown of West
ern song in his well-known Burial of the
Beautiful" beginning,
Where shall the dead and the beautiful
Sleep?'
1t has never been excelled and is not like
ly to be forgotten as long as the literature
of the Ohio valley shall be cared for and
its history preserved. ,sug
1t is true that some of the songs / have
mentioned were written subsequent to 1910.
but they We're all written by authors who
~ - V0AO hiloI IlllIC.
The period of greatest literary activity in
the Ohio valley was the next one. of TWEEN
ty years, extending from 1870 to 1860, and is
not considered in this paper, further than
in the cases of those older writers whose
productive lives Tapped over into or be-
You'd it. vff..
One of the very best songs written by an
early Western poet, or by any poet of any
are or country iC 'VTho aRnat Horn - hv
Gen. William O.. Butler, OF. Kentucky. This
beautiful song was contributed to William
Gibbs Hunts Western Review, published
in Lexington, In 1921, and was inspired,
we are told, by hearing an old-time boat
man playing his bugle in the evening, when
the rays of the setting sun cast a glamour
song, so true TO nature and to art, may
well close this imperfect sketch.
"Oh, boatman, wind that horn again,
For never did the listening air,
Upon its lambert bosom bear
so wild, so soft. so sweet a strain.
What though thy notes are sad and few,
BY every simple boatman blown,
Yet is each pulse to nature true,
And melody in every tone.
How OFT In boyhoods joyous days,
Unmindful of the lapsing hours,
I've loltered on my homeward way
BY wild Ohio's bank of flowers,
While some lone boatman from the deck
The scene with music overlooked,
As if to charm from storm and wreck
The boat where all his fortunes rode.
Delighted nature drank the sound
Enchanted; echo bore it round,
In whispers soft and softer still!
From hill to plain and plain to- kill,
Till cen the thoughtless, frollc boy,
Elate with hope and wild with joy,
Who gamboled by the riverside.
And sported with the fretting tide.
Felt something new pervade his breast,
Change his light step, repress his jest;
Bent Ger the food his eager, ear
To catch the sound. far off, Yet dear
Drunk the sweet draft but knew not why
The tear of rapture filled his, eye"
BEN S. PARKER.