The Rhode Island Republican

POETRY.

For the R. I. Republican,

THE WESTERN COUNTRY,
A POEM.
BY ALVAN BARNABY.
[No. 3.]

WESTERN DISTRICT, (N. Y.)

Now where the trav'ller wends his way,
Far t'ward the beams of setting day,
Beneath his feet with feeble roar,
Fair Canandaigua laves the shore;
High tow'ring hills around her stand
Like sentinels to guard the strand,
While Boreas wrestling with the breeze,
Tosses up her tide in mimic seas,
Sports with the wave's bright foamy crest,
Or dances on her azure breast-

As when on Nebo Moses stood,
And cast his eyes o'er Jordan's flood,
The day full half her course had run,
Thron'd in her zenith roll'd the sun,
And shed his bright meridian beam
Full on the consecrated stream;
Whose waves in beams of glory roll'd,
And seem'd one sheet of burnish'd gold.

Basking beneath a milder Sky,
He saw the land of promise lie-
So the bright western shores are seen
Mantled in robes of fairest green,
Here Canandaigua rears her crest,
The dawning glory of the west;
There Bristol, Bloomfield, Richmond, yield
The choice products of the field;
Lima's and Avon's vales are seen
Clad in their rural robes of green,
Whilst o'er the hills the harvest roll'd,
Waves like a moving sea of gold,
And rich in all her peerless charms,
Livonia spreads a thousand farms;
There Spring with verdure Dansville fills,
While winter lingers on the hills.*

Cold on their tops the breezes blow.
And twine their heads in wreaths of snow,
Nursed by the demon of the storm
The hemlocks rear their tow'ring form,
Or scattered round in fragments lay
Their whirlwind splinter'd trunks display
Where Alleghany's loftiest hills
Fling from their sides a thousand rills,
Consolidating in their course,
The various streams with eager force.
Unite their strength and mingling flow,
Along the dark ravines below.

Whene'er Cynthia climbs the midnight sky,
And the lone panther wakes his cry;
O'er the dark stream's tumultuous roar,
The wild wolf howls along the shore;
Deep in the lonely glens profound
A thousand echoes swell the sound.
Above the scene the sire of storms,
Wheels his dense clouds in shapeless forms,
Sends the cold blast's congealing sting,
Or speeds the lightning's fiery wing;
Still the wild stream with gath'ring force,
Winds thro' the glen its varying course,
And not a ray of light can throw
A glance upon her wave below,
Save here and there a straggling beam
Sheds a faint lustre on the stream-

Till from the dark dells fair and free,
Roll the bright waves of Genesee.
Along her forest mantled shore
The Indian wigwam rose of yore,
And even now the eye may trace
The footsteps of the wild-man race
Where the lone hunter's lair is made,
Deep in th'unfrequented shade :
While his fond partner smiles with joy,
To view their tree-rock'd slumb'ring boy;†
She sees him cradled on the wind,
Anticipation feeds her mind,
And where the sleeping infant lies,
Rends nor his calm with pensive eyes
And thus in wild effusions roll.
The fond affections of her soul:-

Sleep on, Outelissa, thy father has gone,
The dun deer shall bleed ere thy father return
At night in our camp he shall rest from his toil,
And thou, Outelissa, shall share in the spoil.

Thro' the forest he wanders he heeds not the blast,
The storm-shrouded mountains beneath him aro cast,
The streams of the valley he leaps at a bound,
And the cries of the panther are echoed around.

He trusts in the power of the great Manahon,
To guard in his absence the life of his son,
His bounty shall nourish, his spirit shall save,
From death and from danger the son of the brave.

Thy mother a watch o'er thy slumbers will keep,
The grove-scented zephyrs shall fan thee to sleep,
Then hush, Outelissa, thy father has gone,
He toils in the forest to nourish his son.

Thy footsteps soon fleet as thy father's shall be,
Then thou thro' the woodland shalt wander as free,
O'er the wild Alleghany disdaining the storm,
And the panther shall fall by the strength of thine arm.

When the brow of thy father is shaded with years,
And the furrows of age on his visage appears,
Then thou shalt protect him--the foot of the foe
Before thee shall fly with the speed of the doe.

Or crush'd by thy prowess in death he shall bow,
While the laurel of conquest shall wave o'er thy brow,
Thy mother shall smile when she sees thee return,
And thy Father rejoice in the fame of his son.'

Then hush, Outelissa, thy father has gone,
The dun deer shall bleed ere thy father return,
At night in our camp he shall rest from his toil,
And thou, Outelissa, shall share in the spoil.

*The village of Danville is surrounded by mountains which have an appearance, beautifully romantic. It is situated on a broad plain, consisting of a soil not inferior to any in the world, through which runs the Canaseraga, a tributary stream of the Genesee--the apple trees here are frequently in blossom, when within a mile and a half the mountains are Covered with snow.

†The Indian women usually attend their husbands on their hunting excursions, carrying their infants upon their backs in a kind of basket or knapsack, fitted for that purpose. Thus burdened they will travel over mountains and through extensive swamps enduring the hardships of the most inclement seasons, uncomplaining and apparently with pleasure. In the vicinity of their hunting ground they erect a camp consisting of bark and the branches of trees where the women during the absence of