THE FIRST PERIODICAL LITERATURE
169
Rich forest dells, where giant cedars stand,
Shading fresh treasures yet to be revealed.
The cunning artisan of every trade,
The learned professions, and the man of wealth,
Will for his journey here, be soon repaid
With ample competence, and blooming health.
Unlike the bee, that daily roams the bower,
Culling the nectar from each blushing stem,
Forsakes the rose, to taste some brighter flower,
But finds that none are quite as sweet as them.
You leave, the crowded towns, and worn out
Of old Columbia, for our virgin soil, fields,
Here industry, a richer harvest yields;
In new Columbia, health repays your toil.
Come seize the plough, the awl, the axe, the spade,
The pond’rous sledge, or what so e’er you please,
And soon your labour will be well repaid,
With showers of plenty in the lap of ease.
Then here united let us firmly be,
And when Columbia shall extend her laws,
We'll hoist the stars and stripes of liberty,
From Old Atlantic, to Pacific’s shores.
Shading fresh treasures yet to be revealed.
The cunning artisan of every trade,
The learned professions, and the man of wealth,
Will for his journey here, be soon repaid
With ample competence, and blooming health.
Unlike the bee, that daily roams the bower,
Culling the nectar from each blushing stem,
Forsakes the rose, to taste some brighter flower,
But finds that none are quite as sweet as them.
You leave, the crowded towns, and worn out
Of old Columbia, for our virgin soil, fields,
Here industry, a richer harvest yields;
In new Columbia, health repays your toil.
Come seize the plough, the awl, the axe, the spade,
The pond’rous sledge, or what so e’er you please,
And soon your labour will be well repaid,
With showers of plenty in the lap of ease.
Then here united let us firmly be,
And when Columbia shall extend her laws,
We'll hoist the stars and stripes of liberty,
From Old Atlantic, to Pacific’s shores.
9
To the Emigration of 1845
By Maj. Sullivan
Tune—“The Girl I Left Behind Me.”
In the Oregon Spectator, Vol. 1, No. 19, October 15, 1846, G. L. Curry, Editor
As slow our wagons rolled the track,
Their teams the rough earth cleaving,
And drivers all still looking back,
To that dear land they’re leaving—
So loth to part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us,
To turn our hearts wher’er we rove,
To those we’ve left behind us.
Their teams the rough earth cleaving,
And drivers all still looking back,
To that dear land they’re leaving—
So loth to part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us,
To turn our hearts wher’er we rove,
To those we’ve left behind us.
