THE TRIUMPH OF LIBERTY.

1788-1888.

WRITTEN FOR THE MARIETTA CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

By R. K. SHAW.

We meet this splendid April morn
Where EQUAL LIBERTY was born.
We meet to celebrate the birth

Of her whose hand redeems the earth.
This day in joy and pride we meet
To worship at triumphal feet.
Her age this day-a hundred years,
As measured by the rolling spheres,
As measured by her works sublime
She grandly runs abreast of time.

Here FREEDOM built her perfect arch
Through which her faithful legions march;
Here wisely formed her model State,
Ilere reared her inner temple-gate,
And on its stainless pillars white
Her deft and matchless fingers write
"The human race are EQUAL-FREE;
"Mankind are born to liberty."

O, matchless boon of human years,
We celebrate thy pioneers.

We meet within that temple-gate
Where human slavery met its fate.
Here conscience trembles not in fear,
And woman walks the earth a peer.
Each plants his fig tree and his vine,
And says, "A part of earth is mine;
"I own the land that's great-and free;
"I worship God in liberty."

To lands untrodden by the slave

Earth's heroes came, the strong, the brave,

Who freedom's race had nobly run

When marching with a Washington.

They bought these hills at costly price

They tendered life a sacrifice;

Their manhood's strength, their manhood's years

They spent in war, in blood and tears;

They grandly grew to freedom's height

In freedom's struggle for the right.
Their works stand out in bold relief,
All others lean upon their sheaf.

The Mayflower on Atlantic's sea
Brought base alloy with liberty;
The Mayflower on Ohio's breast
Brought FREEDOM PURE unto the West.
Glorious day-glorious birth-

While human hands shall till the earth.

The freedom flag that they unfurled
Shall float in triumph o'er the world.
Our freedom made New England free,
Led Middle States to liberty.
More glorious than all the rest,
Made sunny South free as the West.
That banner crosses o'er the waves,
And lo! it breaks the chains of slaves;
'Tis planted on the old world's turf,
And Russia frees her Cossac serf;

It floats above the soil of Spain

And rends her bondsmen's links in twain.

And marching on in triumph still

It carries freedom to Brazil.

For human slavery can not be
Where floats that flag of liberty.

It bears aloft upon its folds

The thought that earth's redemption holds, "The human race are EQUAL-FREE;

"Mankind are born to LIBERTY."

The little spring that sparkled here

In billows washes o'er the sphere.
All men shall celebrate the day
When FREEDOM here her altar lay,
As we to-day here celebrate
Her pioneers-her model State.

Wise men, they left the cultured East,
Fought savage men and savage beast
Within the western wilderness,

And made it bloom with loveliness.
Grand was the thought their purpose led.
Magnificent its growth and spread;
For human records give no age

That bears a brighter, purer page.

To all the people gave the helm

And launched their state "The Freedom Realm."

Its keel and ribs are grand-are great

"All the people are the State,

And of and by them, government,

And for them, all its blessings sent."

And say what shall its limits be,
And what Our Freedom's boundary?
The narrow breadth of fifty States
Already in, or at the gates?

Nay more, far more than all of these,
Our country's limits shall be seas;
Columbia, on every side

Thou shalt be washed by ocean's tide.
Nor then is Freedom's measure full,
In other lands shall PEOPLE rule;
And when all men in every land,
On human rights, in freedom stand,
Shall FREEDOM in her grandest years
Plant laurels o'er her pioneers.

JOHN GRAY, WASHINGTON'S LAST SOLDIER.

BORN NEAR MT. VERNON, VA., JANUARY 6TH, 1764; DIED NEAR HIRAMSBURG, O., MARCH 29TH, 1868.

BY PRIVATE dalzell.

[Read at the Marietta Centennial Celebration.]

One by one the severed links have started
Bonds that bound us to the sacred past;
One by one, our patriot sires departed,
Time hath brought us to behold the last;
Last of all who won our early glory,

Lonely traveler of the weary way,
Poor, unknown, unnamed in song or story,
In his western cabin lives John Gray.

Deign to stoop to rural shades, sweet Clio!
Sing the hero of the sword and plow;
On the borders of his own Ohio,

Weave a laurel for the veteran's brow;
While attuned unto the murmuring waters
Flows the burden of our pastoral lay,
Bid the fairest of Columbia's daughters,

O'er his locks of silver crown John Gray.

Slaves of self and serfs of vain ambition-
Toilful strivers of the city's mart,
Turn a while, and bless the sweet transition

Unto scenes that soothe the careworn heart;
Turn with me to yonder moss-thatched dwelling,
Wreathed in woodbine and wild-rose spray,
While the muse his simple tale is telling,
Tottering on his crutches, see John Gray.

When Defeat had pressed his bitter chalice
To the lips of England's haughty lord,-
Bowed in shame the brow of stern Cornwallis,
And at Yorktown claimed his bloody sword;

At the crowning of the siege laborious—

At the triumph of their glorious day,

Near his chieftain, in the ranks victorious,

Stood the youthful soldier, brave John Gray.

While he vowed through peace their love should burn on-
While he bade his tearful troops farewell,

One alone unto thy shades, Mount Vernon,

Called the Chieftain with himself to dwell.
Proud to serve the Father of the Nation,
Glad to hear the voice that bade him stay
Year by year upon the broad plantation,
Unto ripened manhood toiled John Gray.

Sowed and reaped and gathered to the garner
All the Summer plenty's golden sheaves,-
Sowed and reaped, till Time, the ruthless warner,
Whispered through the dreary Autumn leaves:
"Wherefore tarry? Freedom's skies are o'er thee;
Winter frowneth ere the blush of May:
Lo! Is not a goodly land before thee?

Up and choose thee now a home, John Gray."

Thus he heard the words of duty's warning,
And he saw the rising Empire-star
Dawning dimly on the Nation's morning-
Guiding westward Emigration's car.
Heard and saw and quickly rose to follow.
He bore his rifle for the savage prey,
Bore his axe, that soon in greenwood hollow
Timed thy sylvan ballads, bold John Gray.

Blessed with love, his lonely labors cheering,
Blithe the hearthstone of that forest nook,

Where arose his cabin in the "clearing,"
"Near the meadow with its purling brook;
Where his children from their noonday laughter
Turned at eve and left their joyous play,
Húshed and still, when the great hereafter
Spake the Christian father, meek John Gray.

Oh, the years of mingled joy and sadness!

Oh, the hours-the countless hours of toil,
Shared alike through sorrow and through gladness
By loved hands now mouldering in the soil;
Oh, the anguish stifled in the shadow

Of the gloom that bore her form away!
'Neath yon mound she slumbers in the meadow,
Waiting, meekly waiting thee, John Gray.

All day long upon the threshold sitting,

Where the sunbeams through the bright leaves shineWhere the zephyrs, through his white locks flitting,

Softly whispers of "the auld lang syne."

How he loves on holy thoughts to ponder;