The Emigrant Part 1

The Emigrant.

by Frederick William Thomas.

PREFACE.

This POEM was written under the circ.u.mstances which its t.i.tle implies.

Three years since, as the author was descending the Ohio, to become a citizen of the West, he wrote a considerable number of stanzas, expressive of his feelings, six or eight of which were published as a fragment on his arrival in Cincinnati, in the Commercial Daily Advertiser, and republished and noticed by different prints in a way that induced the author, from time to time, to add stanzas to stanzas, until they almost imperceptibly reached their present number. He wrote on, without any previous study of the style or manner in which the subject should be pursued--using the poetic license of light and shade as Fancy dictated. Being in ill health, and coming to a strange land, it was very natural for his Reflections to be of a sombre cast, without there being any thing peculiar in his situation differing from that of other Emigrants.

The reader will perceive that the metrical arrangement of the stanzas is the same as that used by Gray, in his Ode to Adversity, with this difference, that the Ode is written in lines of eight syllables, and the author has attempted the heroic measure.

After the POEM had been finished some time, the author delivered it in the Hall of the Lyceum to an a.s.semblage of Ladies and Gentlemen. Their reception and that of the several editors (to whom he is most grateful) who noticed its delivery, and gave extracts from the POEM, induced him to publish it.

The author has by him many ma.n.u.script pieces with which he might have swelled the volume to a much greater size; but as this is his first attempt at authorship, in the shape of a volume, he offers it, tremblingly, at the ordeal of public opinion, merely as a sample of his ware.

DEDICATION.

TO CHARLES HAMMOND, ESQ.

MY DEAR SIR,

Before I had the pleasure of your personal acquaintance, differing from you as I do on many political points, I imbibed some of those impressions against you, which ever attach to an exalted character, when he takes a decided stand in the political arena.

Permit me, Sir, in acknowledging how much those impressions were prejudices, to inscribe this volume to you, in testimony of my admiration for your talents, and respect for your virtues. And, moreover, as the first encouragement which I received, for this my first literary attempt of any length, proceeded from yourself; if it has merit, I know no one to whom I should more properly inscribe it than to the one, who being ent.i.tled to speak _ex cathedra_ on the subject, first cheered me with the hope of its success. And if it shall be found to be dest.i.tute of merit, while it shows that your judgment has for once been wrong, it will also prove that the error proceeded from a personal partiality, for which I am anxious to express my grat.i.tude.

I am, Sir, With the greatest respect, Your obliged friend and humble servant, THE AUTHOR.

CINCINNATI, _April 23, 1833_.

MEMOIR.

Frederick William Thomas was the oldest child of E. S. Thomas and Anna his wife. He was born at Providence Rhode Island, but spent his earlier years at Charleston South Carolina, where Mr. E. S. Thomas resided and edited and published the Charleston City Gazette.

While Frederick William was still young, Mr. Thomas removed to Baltimore Maryland, and there his son was educated and brought up to the profession of the law. Being unfortunate in business, when Frederick William was about nineteen, Mr. Thomas resolved to remove with his family to the west, which he did, making Cincinnati his place of residence. His son however, remained in Baltimore.

It was in the following year while journeying West, to join his family in their new home, that this poem--the Emigrant was suggested to him, by the a.s.sociations and the romantic scenery of the Ohio river, and while descending it most, if not all the poem, was written. He was about twenty-one when it appeared. It was followed by "Clinton Bradshaw," or the adventures of a Lawyer, published by Carey, Lee and Blanchard, of Philadelphia. This was called the best American Novel of its time. Mr. Thomas' next venture was "East and West" which was succeeded by "Howard Pinkney." During the years which intervened between the writing of these books he resided in the west, princ.i.p.ally in Cincinnati, and wrote tales, sketches, fugitive poetry, delivered lectures, and made political speeches. In 1840 when General Harrison was elected President, Mr. Thomas went to Washington City. After General Harrison's death, Mr. Tyler gave him an office under government and he continued to reside at the Capital, but wrote little except an occasional song or story. Some years elapsed and Mr. Thomas left Washington and went south on a lecturing tour. He was engaged to write for several newspapers and continued lecturing through the South and West. His literary efforts at this period were chiefly confined to Magazine articles, short poems and songs. His song "T'is said that Absence conquers Love," was one of the most popular of the day. He often spoke of the feeling he had in pa.s.sing of a summers night through a strange city and having his own words greet him from houses whose inmates only knew of his existence through them.

Clinton Bradshaw was also very popular. An American visiting Calcutta India, wrote home of the thrill it gave him to find it on the shelves of a book store there.

Mr. Thomas was popular in society for he was amiable and entertaining.

He was a fine belle letter scholar, and was remarkable for his conversationable powers--he had a fund of anecdote always at command.

He was a great observer and studier of Character and a believer in human nature.

The year 1866 found him again in Washington city where after a short illness he died. Recently his remains have been brought to Cincinnati, by his brother Calvin W. Thomas and placed beside those of his parents in Spring Grove Cemetery.

The Emigrant,

OR REFLECTIONS[1]

WHILE DESCENDING THE OHIO.

I.

We both are pilgrims, wild and winding river!

Both wandering onward to the boundless West-- But thou art given by the good All-giver, Blessing a land to be in turn most blest:[2]

While, like a leaf-borne insect, floating by, Chanceful and changeful is my destiny; I needs must follow where thy currents lave-- Perchance to find a home, or else, perchance a grave.

II.

Yet, dost thou bear me on to one I've loved From Boyhood's thoughtlessness to Manhood's thought, In all the changes of our lives, unmoved-- That young affection no regret has brought: Beloved one! when I seem Fortune's slave, Reckless and wrecked upon the wayward wave, Bright Hope, the Halcyon, rises o'er the sea, Calming the troubled wave--bearing my heart to thee.

III.

Alas! we parted: what a bitter sorrow Clings to the memory of our last embrace!

No joy to-day, no promise of to-morrow, No idol image, shall usurp thy place: For thee my holiest hope is upward given-- My love for thee is with my love for Heav'n, A dedication of my heart to thine, With G.o.d to smile on both, and consecrate the shrine.

IV.

Our home, when last I saw it, was all lone; Yet my affections peopled it with those Whose sunny smile upon my boyhood shone; Then came reality,--the heart-spring froze:-- There was the stream, the willow, and the wild wood, Where, emulous of height, in playing childhood, With hearts encircled, on the beechen tree, Dear one, I carved thy name, but then thou wert with me.

V.

Thou wert my nurse in many an hour of pain, My comforter in many an hour of sadness; And when my spirit leaped to joy again, Thou wert the one who joyed most in its gladness.

Ay, more than nurse--and more than comforter-- Thou taught'st my erring spirit not to err, Gave it a softness nature had not given, As now the blessed moon makes earth resemble heav'n.

VI.

How deep the bitterness alone to grieve In grief's deep hour--the death-watch of the night-- When Fancy can no more her day dreams weave, And there seems madness in the moon's pale light-- When sorrow holds us, like a life-long state, Not as a portion, but the whole of fate, When the mind yields, like sick men to their dreams, Who know all is not right, yet know not that which seems.

VII.

Why come such thoughts across the brow? Oh, why Cannot the soul sit firmly on her throne, And keep beside her strong Philosophy?

Alas! I am a wanderer and alone.

Beneath deep feeling reason's self must sink; We cannot change the thought, yet we _must_ think; And, O! how darkly come such thoughts to me-- The gathered pangs of years, recounting agony.

VIII.

Who has not felt, in such a night as this, The glory and the greatness of a G.o.d, And bowed his head, in humbleness, to kiss His merciful and kindly chast'ning rod?

The far off stars! how beautiful and bright!

Peace seems abroad upon the world to-night; And e'en the bubble, dancing on the stream, Is glittering with hope,--a dream--a very dream!

IX.

In sickness and in sorrow, how the breast Will garner its affections in their home!

Like stricken bird that cowers within its nest, And feels no more an anxiousness to roam; While a thick darkness, like a cloud, comes o'er The gallant spirit;--it can rise no more To wing its way, as if it sought the sky, But falls to earth, forlorn, as though it fell to die.