Chapter XII: Canto XII

1874.
PAX VOBISCUM.

Nigh a hundred years are buried,
In the endless sweep of ages,
Nigh a total centenary
Hangs its harp upon the willow,
Since the rude log-cabin era,
When the city on the hillside
Was preempted by the stranger,
By the stranger surnamed Paulding;
Since the pioneer council
Came to "Watty" Dunn's old spring, and
Met in caucus and selected
A foundation for their court-house:
Chose a green and ample clearing
Near the well-known Wallace cross-roads.
Here alone in "God's first temples,"
Here with nature's wild communing,
Henry Clay, a youthful trav'ler
Through the wilderness, surprised them;
Found the little band assembled,
Paused, and shared their noonday luncheon.
Thus beheld Kentucky's hero,
The domain of future triumphs,
Thus his eyes beheld the section,
Destined soon to make him famous.
And the pioneer council,
All unconscious of his greatness,
Bade their stranger guest a welcome
To the tangled, gloomy woodland,
Bade him break the loaf of faring,
Bade him eat the salt of friendship.
Then they pointed out the clearing,
Where the building should be fashioned,
Thus the ground was consecrated,
In the statesman's august presence;
Thus a halo of true glory
Hung about the rude log court-house.
'Twas the first judicial movement
In the city of Lancaster,
'Twas an impetus that prompted
The erecting many houses,
'Twas the gath'ring of a people,
A community of workers.
Could the story of each household,
In the city on the hillside,
Be translated for my canto.
For the ditty I am singing,
Many a wail of grief and sorrow,
Many a sigh of hope defeated,
Many a smile of sweet fruition,
Schemes for profit and for pleasure,
Plans of varied speculation,
Schemes and plans of thought and action,
Would unfold their pages to us,
Would reveal their secrets to us.
Could the history unwritten,
Of each hearth and home be given,
Then I trow, the world of fiction,
With its brilliant, stirring pages,
With its "marvelous traditions,"
With its plots and strange denouements,
With its tragedies unnumbered,
And its comedies prolific----
Well I trow this world of fiction,
Would be "light and airy nothings,"
In the scale of real pictures,
By the light of life so earnest,
Of the suffering and doing,
Of the daring and enduring,
We should find imparted to us.
Could we lift the mystic curtain,
From the holiest of holies,
From the sacred, inner temple
Of each soul's unseen communion,
We should gather, we should garner,
Many lessons full of profit,
Lessons long and full of wisdom.
We should see the struggling victim
In the toils of the ensnarer;
See the troubled spirit writhing
'Neath the lashings of detraction;
See the burdened nature groaning
'Mid the polished shafts of envy;
See the sinner's cunning malice,
In the act of human torture;
See the Christian's anxious fightings,
Foes without, and fears within him.
All these lessons we should garner
From each spirit's veiled communion.
Change is written on the landscape,
Change is speaking from the hearthstone,
All the work of sure mutation,
Lays its impress on the city.
Could the earliest explorer
Of this Eden habitation,
Tread once more the waving blue grass,
'Mid her rivers, rills, and streamlets,
Not the aged Rip Van Winkle,
Oped his eyes in greater wonder,
Not the sleeper and the dreamer,
E'er beheld in more amazement.
Then the shaded, quiet woodland,
Was the home of untamed creatures;
Now the solitudes are teeming
With mankind and man's inventions;
Then the wolf, and bear, and panther,
Held their orgies in the caverns;
Now the silent grottoes foster
Only Nature's radiant jewels;
Then the rattle-snake's quick poison
Nerved its fangs to fierce encounter;
Now the bruised head lies harmless
'Neath the heel of the seed of woman;
Then the canebrake and the thicket
Harbored noxious weeds and vipers;
Now the undergrowth has vanished,
'Mid the golden sheaves of harvest;
Now the trees have laid their foliage,
In the dust of human footsteps,
Now the forest trees have fallen,
At the bidding of the woodman.
Oak and chestnut, hickory, walnut,
Poplar, sycamore, and locust,
Beech and elm and pine and cedar,
Laurel, holly, ash and maple--
All the trees have bent their growing
To the husbandman's caprices.
All the beasts have fled to westward;
All the reptiles skulk in hiding;
All the rivers and the brooklets
Have subdued their wild, free rolling.
Ancient mounds and Aztec relics,
Mural signs and hieroglyphics,
Toltec remnants and weird mummies,
All the arts and queer devices
Of a prehistoric people,
Have entombed their sylvan phantoms,
In an everlasting Lethe.
Now the woods and plains are surveys,
Of distinctive tracts and precincts,
Now the wide, primeval limits
Bound neat villages and districts.
There are Bryantsville and Fitchport,
Buckeye, Logan Town and Tyro,
Duncan Town and Buena Vista,
Hyattville, Paint Lick, and Lowell,
Clustered round the mother city,
The fair city on the hillside;
Clustered 'mid the charming bowers
Of the Garrard county woodlands.
Now the wild flower's timid blooming
Colors distant fields and by-ways,
And the city's rare exotics,
In the crystal greenhouse, flourish;
Rose and lily and camelia,
Tulip, fuschia, and verbena,
Rear their gorgeous tints to gladden
Many a sweet domestic picture.
All the knotted thorns and briers,
Serve in close-cut garden hedges;
All the grapevine swings are curling
Over tasteful, latticed arbors.
Apples, pears, and plums, and peaches,
Herbs and blossoms, fruits and berries,
Swell the trade of horticulture,
Birds and fowls and flesh and fishes,
Now supply the city's market.
Houses, homes of care and culture,
Public buildings grand and costly,
Deckings rural and artistic,
All the mart and traffic symbols,
Mark the once entangled wildwood,
Deck the erst embowered valley.
Nature views her splendid ruins,
In a garb of man's creation;
Smooths her rugged frowns and wrinkles,
'Neath the mask of modern pruning;
Draws her cloven foot in hiding,
Under skirts of art so simple;
Buries all her savage spirit,
In the graces of refinement;
Merges wilderness and mountain,
In the sea of cultivation.
And her name, no longer rustic,
Bears the soubriquet, Lancaster.
'Tis our birthplace, dear and sacred,
In the heart of old Kentucky,
'Tis the pride of Garrard county,
Fairest city of the hillside.
May she never know misfortune,
While the moons are waxing, waning,
May her blessings ever linger,
As the cycle brings its changes.
May the strife of human passions,
May all riots and dissensions,
May disease and flood and fire,
Lift their baleful shadows from her.
Let her children cling unto her,
'Mid the wreck of mind and matter:
Be her sons' and daughters' motto,
Stand, united; fall, divided.
God protect thee, fair Lancaster--
Cherished city, _pax vobiscum_.

FINIS.

APPENDIX.