Kentucky Gazette

LITERARY

A Poem has recently issued from the Philadelphia Press, from the pen of J. K. Paulding, under the title of "The Backwoodsman."

We have not yet met with the Poem, but have no doubt it is correctly described in the following words, by the Editor of the Democratic Press:

"The story, the scenery, and historical illustrations of the Poem, are altogether American. The sentiments glow with the fire of ardent feeling and genuine patriotism. It well deserves to be purchased and read by every American who has the heart, soul and pride, which ought to appertain to his character and country. It will, however, be better to quote it than to praise it."

The same paper has favored us with two extracts from the Poem, as samples of its sentiments and versification, which we copy.

The first is a burst of feeling called forth, on passing West Point, by the recollection of the late discussion, on the floor of Congress, respecting the merits of the captors of Andre during the revolutionary war:

Beneath its frowning brow and far below,
The weltering waves unheard were seen to flow
Round West Point's rude and adamantine base,
That call'd to mind old ARNOLD'S deep disgrace.
ANDRE'S hard fate, lamented, though deserv'd,
But men, who from their duty never swerv'd—
The HONEST THREE—the pride of yeomen bold,
Who sav'd the country which they might have sold:
Refus'd the proffer'd bribe, and, sternly true,
Did what the man that doubts them ne'er would do.
Yes! if the scroll of never-dying Fame
Shall tell the truth, 'twill bear each lowly name;
And while the wretched man, who vainly tried
To wound their honor, and his country's pride,
Shall moulder in the dirt from whence he came,
Forgot, or only recollected to his shame,
Quoted shall be these gallant, honest men,
By many a warrior's voice and poet's pen,
To wake the sleeping spirit of the land,
And nerve with energy the patriot hand.

In the following quotation (says the Press) the Poet alludes to the late war with Great Britain, and in glowing terms holds up to public detestation those Americans who did not do their duty. He felt the truth of what he was writing, and he has so written it that it will be felt as it ought by every man who reads it.

The Eagle and the Lion, now at strife
Stak'd in the bloody struggle life for life
On land our country bled at every pore,
At sea the palm of victory she bore;
On land, one dastard earn'd a load of shame;
At sea a train of glorious imps of fame
Retriev'd their country's honor, blow by blow,
And laid a thousand years at glory low.
Here in the south, a band of planters rag'd,
There, yelling fiends infernal warre wag'd;
And people doubt, ev'n to this distant day,
Which bore the palm of cruelty away;
Pity, that balms the wretch's sorest lot,
One never knew—the other had forgot
Could men, whose eyes first saw the blessed day
In this good land, at home, like women, stay,
Plead conscience to escape the coming fight,
And skulk behind some vile pretence of right
There have been such—oblivion shield their name,
Better forgot their story and their shame
Who would not battle bravely, heart and hand,
In any cause for this dear birthright land.
O, never may the heartless recreant know
The joys from conscious rectitude that flow
Nor ever, for one fleeting moment, prove
Man's dear respect, or women's dearer love :
Ne'er may he hold high converse with the brave,
But live with slaves, and be himself a slave;
Ne'er may he know the sober waking bliss
Of living in a freeman's home like this,
The poor man's long-sought, new-found, promis'd
Land,
Where gen'rous Plenty, with a lavish hand,
Pays honest Labor, from her boundless store,
And each day makes him richer than before.
Ne'er may the dastard know such happy place,
Nor such a country stain with deep disgrace
But pine on abject Afric's scorching sand,
Or, banish'd to old Europe's dotard land,
Grovel beneath some tottering tyrant's throne,
Nor dare to call his worthless soul his own—
Or live at home to know a fate still worse,
The gen'rous soul's most bitter biting curse—
Live in his native clime a wretch abhorr'd,
And dead his name descend in black record,
A freeborn slave, who would not lift his hand
To succor his own suffering native land.

Speaking of the above Poem, the National Advocate says, "There are many fine efforts of fancy, many noble sentiments of patriotism: and, take the work altogether, it is calculated to add new lustre to the fame of the author, who writes like an American on subjects purely American."