Far back in Columbia's morning,
When the century first begun,
Virginia, the "Mother of Presidents,"
Gave birth to a humbler son --
One of that class, patriotic,
Whose industry builds the state,
Who, pressing the stamp on the nation,
Make the name of America great.
That class who have planted her tenets,
In days full of hardships and fears,
And held her position in honor,
Though often in trials and tears;
That class who were first in the mission
To people her western frontiers;
To whom she owes half of her greatness -
Our American pioneers.
Over the mountains, westward,
On the "Dark and Bloody Ground,"
Our grand-father spent his childhood;
And there his true-love found.
With hopes that were strong and soaring,
He set out on the journey of life,
With the love of his heart beside him,
A brave and faithful wife.
She knew that migration northward
Meant hardships, in lands untried;
But she cheerfully bade them welcome,
If only she stood by his side.
She knew on the distant prairies,
Were dangers lurking nigh;
But she left her home behind her,
And bade her friends good-bye.
Oh! the toll of the years that followed!
The hardships, and the cares!
The hopes, the fears, the joys, the tears,
The pleasures and the prayers!
But nature, sweet ever, is sweetest
In lands that, to culture, are new;
And the hardest of days seemed the dearest,
While peace and prosperity grew.
When the tolls of the day were over,
The wife sewed or knitted till late,
And listened to him she loved dearest,
As he read of his country and state.
The Bible lay, worn, on the table;
The newspaper lay by its side;
For the service of God was his joy, and
The growth of his country, his pride.
O Iowa! still thy wide prairies
Rear marks of they early days.
Thy sugar-camps, gardens and orchards,
Thy rustling fields of maize,
The sobriety, earnestness, honor,
Of thy home-loving people, show
The stamp of they earliest builders
In the wilderness, long ago.
Eight childr'n were raised 'neath the roof-tree
Under influence such as this.
Eight characters grew to their fullness
In these scenes of domestic bliss.
In Iowa's land of cornfields,
By peace and prosperity blest,
Six children grew out of their childhood
Proud of their state in the west.
Her days of want were over,
And stilled her night alarms.
Round grandfather's home, fast growing,
Were churches, schools and farms.
And now, by the midway river,
Might his days flow peacefully on;
For his life was in its zenith,
And half of the century gone.
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Who heard when the order from Heaven
Went forth to the land of the free,
And said, to American freedom,
"ROLL ON TO THE WESTERN SEA?"
Yet thousands obeyed the mandate,
And bore their part in the plan
Of civilization's extension,
In its danger-fraught, vigorous van.
And then began the movement --
The greatest ever known --
O'er mountains towering skyward,
O'er prairies wide and lone.
In the old white-covered wagons,
With oxteams toiling before,
They traveled, with stores growing lighter,
While dangers grew more and more.
Each mile has its annals unwritten,
Of accidents, dangers, and crime,
Each day had its untold stories
Of scenes and of deeds sublime.
There's many a grave, lost -- forgotten
Save only by angels of God.
There's many a blood-stain, long faded,
Plowed under the ground where they trod.
Yet many a gay song went upward,
And many a grateful hymn,
As the trains, with their hopeful numbers,
Pushed forward with courage and vim;
For the strength of America started
Determined to plant, by the sea
That rolled two thousand miles westward,
Their homes 'neath the flag of the free.
Then sang the spirit of motion
In the heart of Virginia's son.
To the west was a call for people --
His children were going or gone.
Then farewell to the home he had told for!
Farewell to his looked-for rest!
With his children, who shared his spirit,
He took the wild road for the west.
Weeks grew into months as they journeyed,
Under their canopies white,
Watching the road in the daytime,
And guarding their camps by night.
But Heaven their destiny guarded;
No deaths made their numbers few,
When they left the last mount'n behind them.
Thank God! they were safely through.
There's a spot on an Oregon hillside,
Will be sacred and sweet evermore;
For here rose the family alter,
When the dangerous journey was o'er.
And still, of this home on the hillside,
Will memory oftenest sing
To the children who played in its orchards,
And round its shaded spring.
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Yet one more move -- again northward!
To Washington's unplowed lands,
He followed his children, years after,
And worked with willing hands.
And here his faithful companion
From her labors of love, found rest,
When the hands that had toiled for others,
Lay folded, at last, on her breast.
She built, by his side, their household;
She bravely upheld his hand,
And bore, with him, the hardships
Of life in unsettled lands.
She will share his rewards and triumphs,
As she stands by his side once more,
When the trumpet calls to victory,
And the reign of death is o'er.
A few more years roll over,
And now, for the Christian's rest,
Still working for his Master,
He waits, in the far northwest.
In the century best and grandest,
The sun of his life arose.
He saw it in its morning;
He has almost seen its close.
He has seen each child of his household
Set out on the heavenly way,
And from north to south on the western coast,
His grand-children's children play.
May each of his progeny living,
With those who life's burdens laid down,
Prove a jewel of honor unfading;
WHEN GRANDFATHER CLAIMS HIS CROWN.