THE EXODUS OF EIGHTEEN SIXTY-THREE; OR, ORDER NUMBER ELEVEN.
To those living in Western Missouri, this poem needs no explanation; and to those not conversant with the facts, it is only necessary to say that during the great civil war between the Northern and Southern States, Gen. Thomas Ewing, on the 25th of August, 1863, issued an order called “No. 11,” commanding and requiring all the citizens of certain counties in Missouri to vacate their homes within fifteen days; those who could not prove their loyalty being permitted to remove into the military posts or to certain parts of Kansas—all others to remove from his district, which included the State of Kansas and the two western tiers of counties in Missouri. In consequence of this order, by the 10th of September the country was depopulated, except at or immediately near the garrisoned towns or posts.
The book of Exodus you’ve read—
That march across the parted sea,
When Israel, by Moses led,
Went from Egyptian bondage free;
But some there be who never heard
Of that exode in sixty-three,
The incidents that then occurred,
Or how or why it came to be.
While some remember, some have read,
And some have heard of “Order Eleven,”
When thousands into exile fled,
And thousands from their homes were driven.
Then wake, my muse—my memory, wake,
Relate that story, sad and true;
Set nothing down for malice’ sake,
Nor with extenuating view—
Impartially the tale relate,
Its incidents of grief detail;
Those incidents we’ll ne’er forget
Till life with memory shall fail.
Two years and more the war had raged—
The war was raging wildly still—
And madly was that warfare waged
Through summer’s heat and winter’s chill;
The North and South alike contend,
With equal ardor, equal zeal,
While varying fates to each portend
Alternate woe, alternate weal.
The cloud which rose in “Sixty-one”
The dark and stormy cloud of war,
Had darker grown, till moon and sun
Were hid, and hidden every star;
The howling storm tempestuous roared,
And lightnings flashed from crest to crest,
While chiefly were its torrents poured
Upon the suffering South and West.
Missouri’s western border lay
In that tornado’s wasting path,
And near the Kansas line for aye
It fell in all its greatest wrath;
‘Twas there the cruelties of war
In broader, deeper currents run
‘Twas brother ‘against the brother there,
And father ranged against the son.
Though by the Union soldiers bold
The posts and garrison were held,
The many guerilla bandits told
The rebel spirit still unquelled
And night and day those reckless men
Were found marauding here and there,
And watching for the soldiers then,
Bushwhacked and fought them everywhere
Till Quantrill, Todd, and Anderson,
And others such as they, became
A terror unto many a one
Who still maintained a loyal fame.
‘Twas said (I do not know how true’
But, true or false, the charge was made)
That citizens-and not a few-
Were leagued with them, and gave them aid;
And when the soldiers failed entire
To find or capture such a band,
They often wreaked their vengeance dire
Upon some farmer of the land;
And this, however much we blame,
Retaliating vengeance drew,
And citizens of loyal fame
In turn were made to suffer too,
Then as the contest fiercer grew,
And Time still rolled his car along,
Those bold marauders bolder grew,
And greater grew the mighty wrong,
Until those deeds of blood and sin,
In August, eighteen sixty-three,
Most sadly culminated in
The bloody Lawrence massacre.
I need not tell that story dread—
The world, I deem, has known it long—
But simply state to what it led,
Another grievous, cruel wrong:
The agents of the Government
Had many a time and oft proclaimed
That all should suffer banishment
Who aided those fierce bandits named;
And oftentime did they declare
In bitter language, far from chaste,
That, if those guerrillas harbored there,
They’d lay the rebel region waste.
Then, when the raid on Lawrence came
And it was known and told afar,
That those guerrillas known to fame
Came from the hills of Sni-a-bar;
When it was said by hundreds then
(Although it might not all be true),
That Jackson County long had been
Their haunt and general rendezvous;
That other neighboring counties, too,
Contributed their sons to swell
The numbers of that bandit crew,
And other bandit crews as well,—
It is a truth, no sooner had
That raid by Quantrell’s men been made,
Than forthwith came that order sad,
Long threatened and till then delayed.
Ah, stern and cruel that decree!
And oh, how cruel were the Fates
To those whose dwellings chanced to be
In Jackson County, Cass, or Bates!
Those three ill-fated counties view,
Which once had been so fair and fine—
The northern part of Vernon, too,
All bordering on the Kansas line;
Those counties which, ere war had spread
Its cruelties so far and wide,
Were famed abroad, and which were said
To be Missouri’s western pride.
But now this Eden of the West,
Which smiled in plenteous beauty’s bloom,
Was by this martial order dressed
In desolation and in gloom;
And citizens, howe’er they grieve,
Of every sex, of every age,
Were given but fifteen days to leave—
Ah, dark that dark historic page!
To leave their homes—each cherished home—
Those homes which gave to some their birth,
And homeless wanderers to roam
Upon a sin and blood stained earth!
Ah, hard the trial, hard indeed—
How well it is remembered yet!
For those who wandered then in need
Those suffering scenes will ne’er forget.
’Twas hard upon her loyal sons,
Who still the Union dearly prized—
’Twas harder on disloyal ones,
Who with the South had sympathized;
But loyal and disloyal too
Were, by the order called Eleven,
Compelled to bid their homes adieu—
Alike were they in exile driven.
’Tis true ’twas said in that decree,
That they who certainly could prove
A well-established loyalty
Might to the garrison remove—
Then some who loyalty did boast,
And some who truly loyal were,
Repaired unto the nearest post,
To live and be protected there.
’Twas small protection they received;
The most that they of that could boast—
Enrolled as guards, they then relieved
The soldiers stationed at the post.
But far the greater number who
Dwelt in that region doomed to waste
Got them from home and country too—
Perhaps to be no more possessed;
A sinking heart in every breast,
In all directions then they moved—
Toward the North, South, East, and West,
As stern necessity behooved.
Sad was the spectacle to see,
And sad and sorrowful the scenes
Of thousands forced from home to flee,
And yet without the needful means.
The hand of War and Theft, it seems,
Before had spoiled and shorn the land,
And only then the poorest teams
And carriages were at command—
Yea, some there were with none at all;
And they, though destitute, must go—
What greater hardships could befall,
Or be to them a heavier blow?
The widow and the orphan small,
The aged, infirm, the sick, the frail,
Without a friend on whom to call,
Whose sympathy could then avail!
The time was short—those days fifteen
Were passing rapidly away,
Within which time, as has been seen,
All must that order well obey.
The needful preparations then
By night and day were hurried on—
No Sabbath rest, no Sabbath when
All peace, all quietude had gone;
Sleep from the eyelids fled away,
The mind, in tossing to and fro,
Still asked the question night and day,
“O whither, whither shall I go?”
O how did grief and pain abound
Through those September nights and days,
When weary wanderers were found
On all the roads and public ways,
On every hand, on every side!
On every road which outward led
Was seen the slowly moving tide
Of those who from that region fled;
Through clouds of dust or burning sand,
Their weary way they wended slow,
Away from their dear native land,
Or homes adopted long ago.
The staunch old settlers of the West,
The hardy, gray-haired pioneers,
Who here had lived, and here had passed
Their many laboring, toiling years;
The men who, thirty years before,
Had come into the western wild,
And through whose labors, more and more,
The wilderness had bloomed and smiled,
Were sundering now the cherished tie
That bound them to those homes so dear—
More dear, as now fond memory’s eye
Looks back o’er many a by-gone year.
They who had seen in wild alarms
This land, so wild and waste at first,
Turned into fair and fruitful farms,
Ere war the land had stained and cursed;
They who had seen, by slow degrees,
Their numbers, once so small, increase,
And who with neighbors kind to please
Had lived in harmony and peace—
They and those neighbors now dispersed,
All gone, all banished—every one—
The work of thirty years reversed,
And in a fortnight all undone!
That country full of golden grain,
So lately full of flocks and herds—
A solitary waste again,
Given up to waste, to beasts and birds!
Oh! could the hand a picture draw,
Or could the eye but view the whole,
And see, as the Omniscient saw,
The anguish of each stricken soul;
Or see each mournful incident—
The suffering scenes of sorrow, too,
When those thus doomed to banishment
Bade home and friends a long adieu,
It would have moved a stony heart
To sympathize with those who wept,
Or envy those who, ere the smart,
In death’s cold, lasting sleep had slept!
But human tongue can ne’er repeat,
No human mind can ever know
Or comprehend the aggregate
Of such accumulated woe
As then descended, like a flood,
To whelm the stricken souls with grief—
The souls that manfully withstood
The storms of sorrow past belief.
But though no one has seen it all,
Full many a one has seen his part,
And dark and heavily the pall
Of sorrows pressed on many a heart.
The mother—oh! that mother view,
Whose heart with anguish keen is riven!
Far distant then her husband true,
And she and hers in exile driven;
She and her little ones must roam—
No shelter on the broad green earth—
Their backs are turned upon the home
That gave those little children birth.
How ill prepared, alas, are they
To move upon the rugged road!
No safe conveyance to convey
Her children from that dear abode—
Naught but an old and worn-out cart,
Without a bed or box to hold
Her household goods or any part,
Or children dearer yet than gold;
The wheels, the shafts, and axle-tree
Were all that then remained of it;
And as for harness, scarce could she
A single trace of harness get;
No covering sheet to shelter them
From sun and from inclement skies;
A hope forlorn that cart did seem
To all but the most trusting eyes.
Their clothing, bed, and other things
Were in a bundle firmly bound,
Then fastened on the cart with strings
And ropes that passed them all around.
Her jewels then, the dearest yet,
The children of her love and pride,
Upon the package there she set,
And took her station by their side;
Then guiding still, and urging on
The horse so old, so service-worn,
She wept, as they from home were drawn,
With no fond hopes of a return;
How dark and deep was that abyss
Of grief and woe no tongue can tell—
With others deeper yet than this,
On which it pains the heart to dwell.
’Tis true, to such hard straits of need
Not all, thank Heaven! were then reduced;
But others worse than this indeed
Might then have been and were produced—
Yes, there were widows, poor and lone,
Of earthly friends and help bereft,
Alone, in the cold world alone,
With no protecting refuge left,
Or with dependent daughters there—
What sadder sight to see than they?
Not even a horse or cart to bear
Their little all of goods away.
And as they sought some poor abode,
Beyond that region desolate,
They walked the dusty, crowded road,
With faltering steps and feeble gait;
That road with wearied steps they tread,
Their feet now bare and worn and sore—
A cow, perhaps, behind them led,
Or driven slowly on before;
A bundle small—’tis all they now
Have strength to bear away from hence—
Another bound upon the cow,
Their choice effects the small contents.
’Twas thus, in eighteen sixty-three,
When driven from their cherished home,
The people of those counties three
As exiles then were forced to roam;
Though sharp and poignant was the sting,
They yielded to the cruel Fates;
Some went to counties neighboring,
While others went to distant States—
The fruits of toil, the work of taste,
As might in truth be well supposed,
By them abandoned in their haste—
All, all to ruin left exposed!
Their houses, farms, and orchards then,
With many a dear memento graced,
The harvested and growing grain
Were left to spoil or go to waste—
The cherished spots, the peaceful bowers,
Where infancy had passed away,
The garden and its blooming flowers
Were left to wither and decay!
Domestic fowls, domestic brutes,
Of many a favorite breed and kind,
The vineyard and its luscious fruits—
All these, and more, were left behind;
Yes, sadder yet—with objects still
Than those by far, by far more dear,
Some parted then who never will
Those objects see again fore’er.
Sad memory yet, though many suns
Have run their rounds, will call to mind
The day when fathers, husbands, sons,
Were to one common grave consigned;
When those bereft in anguish deep
Were forced to leave their homes, and them
To sleep in Death’s cold, lasting sleep—
The autumn winds their requiem.
Yes, memory backward still will tend
To that September Sabbath day—
The time was hasting to an end
When all must leave or disobey;
By far the greatest part had gone—
A few remained behind, and those
Made preparation from the dawn
To leave before the day should close.
Those families—but few they were—
By kindred ties together bound,
Old citizens together there—
And few more quiet could be found;
As preparation still they made
The cruel mandate to obey,
A band of soldiers came and bade
Those men to march with them away,
A little way, scarce out of sight—
Their place of execution found;
Six of the eight were killed outright,
And left upon the bloody ground—
Ah, sad and sorrowful the scene!
Methinks I see it even now:
A youth, a lad of seventeen,
With smiles upon his sunny brow,
A widow’s doting son was he,
Her stay, support, and comfort then—
Cold, cold in death that son! and she—
Will see him ne’er on earth again.
Another man I seem to see,
Of more than three score years and ten—
The blood upon his hair of gray,
As it was witnessed even then;
Two other fathers, who had passed
Their fifty years of life and more;
Two younger fathers lifeless cast,
And weltering in life’s purple gore—
All, all cut down, together slain!
And, oh! cut down at such a time—
The young, the old, and yet again
The men of vigor in their prime!
Their families, grief-stricken now,
Of loved and cherished ones bereft,
Compelled to leave their homes—but how?
Oh, what of hope or comfort left!
Their cup of grief seemed full before
Of bitterness, even to the brink;
But now that cup was running o’er,
And they that bitter draught must drink.
The floods passed o’er their heads that day
As wave still follows after wave—
Scarce help enough had they to lay
Those loved and lost ones in the grave.
Let Fancy’s hand portray the scene,
And with reality compare:
The wretched group, with anguish keen,
Assembled round the fallen there;
There, hard beside those murdered ones—
If I may use so harsh a word—
From widowed wives and orphaned sons
The wailing notes of grief were heard.
Imagine now that sire so old,
Whose grief no balm could sooth or ’suage;
Three score and fifteen years had told
His weary, toiling pilgrimage,
And he, in life’s long, devious way,
Had passed through many a trial sore—
But in the evening of his day
A sorer one than e’er before.
Two sons—his only sons—he saw
Cold, cold in death, and side by side—
A grandson and a son-in-law,
Whose blood the herbage green had dyed!
A neighbor kind, whose paling suns,
Like his, had passed the noon of life,
The father of his younger son’s
Now stricken, widowed, weeping wife
Another neighboring kinsman, too—
Hard, hard the trial to endure!
But what his feeble hands could do,
He did to give them sepulture.
No neighbors kind his hand to aid,
Excepting two, whose lives were spared,
And by whose hands the slain were laid
Within the shallow graves prepared;
In that rude grave, in bloody dress,
Without a dirge or funeral knell,
They laid them down all coffinless,
Hard by the spot on which they fell.
Then leaving them in death’s long sleep,
As now the evening sun declined—
Oppressed with gloom and sorrows deep,
They left those fallen ones behind.
Now would you see, on Fancy’s page,
That aged sire, as forth he led
The partner of his youth and age,
The mother of the buried dead?
She who, for fifty years and more,
Had borne with him life’s toils and cares,
Then with him came from out the door,
Where they had lived for thirty years.
Ah, yes! and see those widows too—
Five widows all so lately made,
Deprived in one short hour or two
Of those on whom their hopes were stayed;
With sinking and desponding mind,
And weeping orphans gathered round,
They bid adieu to all behind,
Not knowing where or whither bound.
I see the mournful cavalcade,
The small procession moving slow—
As hastened on the evening shade,
When evening sun was sinking low;
With preparation badly made,
Conveyances both small and rude.
A long adieu again they bade—
And all behind was solitude.
No fancy sketch nor idle dream
The incidents my pen relates.
How many citizens, I deem,
In Jackson County, Cass, and Bates,
Can now go back in memory—
Call up those griefs so manifold,
And testify, and say with me,
The half has never yet been told!
That gloomy fortnight passed away—
The wheel of time still moving on—
And when expired the fifteenth day,
The suffering citizens were gone;
The mandate had been well obeyed,
Depopulation’s work was done,
And Ruin’s hand not long delayed,
Ere its destructive work begun.
Deprived of its bold peasantry,
The land to hastening ills a prey—
Gone all that brought prosperity—
How swift, how rapid its decay!
And where was that bold peasantry—
The country’s wealth, the country’s pride—
When one short month had passed away?
Dispersed and scattered far and wide!
Those who together dwelt for years,
Some who had been together nursed—
Far sundered, and those pioneers
In different regions all dispersed!
’Mongst strangers, in a land of strife,
Their suffering lots apart were cast,
And bitter was that bitter life,
Contrasted with the by-gone past.
As when to Babylon the Jews
Were borne a conquered, captive band,
They sat beneath the willow trees,
And mourned a desolated land;
So did Missouri’s exiles then,
In eighteen hundred sixty-three,
With heavy hearts, go sighing when
Their harps they hung upon the tree.
The hymns of praise which long ago
With true devotion they had sung,
When now essayed, would sink so low,
And, faltering, die upon the tongue;
The bosom oft would heave with pain,
Or from the eye would start the tear,
Whene’er that well-remembered strain
Of “Home, sweet home,” fell on the ear.
Full well the joys of happy homes
Could they in truth appreciate,
When they were homeless, and their homes
Were empty, waste, and desolate.
How wild and desolate the scene
Which then appeared unto the view!
A solitary waste was seen
By travelers, in passing through,
From north to south for eighty miles—
The length of that deserted land;
The land which once was decked in smiles
Lay lonely as the desert sand.
Except near garrison or post,
No sign of civil life was seen—
A passing traveler at most,
And they now few and far between;
But bands of soldiers raided o’er
The land in desolation dressed,
And guerrilla bandits, as before,
Did still the wasted land infest;
The goods and chattels which had been
For want of transportation left,
Were taken by marauders then,
Or by the cowardly hand of theft.
Another dire affliction sore
Soon fell on that ill-fated land,
Which spread unchecked the country o’er,
With naught its progress to withstand;
’Twas after frost of autumn came
And killed the grass and herbage green,
When sun and winds had dried the same—
The raging prairie fires were seen.
They swept across the prairies wide,
And through the farms deserted there—
The billowy flames like ocean’s tide—
And left them fenceless, brown, and bare;
The houses, farms, and orchards too,
Were, by the conflagration dire,
Consumed in places not a few,
And naught remained but marks of fire.
The labors of the yeomanry,
The fruits of many years of toil—
In one brief hour all swept away
From off the bare and blackened soil;
’Tis sad to contemplate the scene,
’Twas sadder then that scene to view—
The land in nakedness was seen,
With naught its verdure to renew.
’Twas then, when weeks had come and gone,
Since first the exodus began,
There came, at chill November’s dawn,
With wearied steps, an aged man,
Returning, as it were, by stealth
To where misfortune dire had come,
To view the wreck of former wealth,
To see a desolated home.
The fencing round his farm was gone;
The fire had swept it all away,
And hurrying through the orchard on,
Had left it withering in decay;
The dwelling which with youthful hands,
Long time ago, he builded there,
Now lay in ashes, coals, and brands—
The wreck of earthly visions fair;
His barns and granaries no more,
His crops of grain and hay consumed,
A visage dark the landscape wore,
Which in its beauty lately bloomed.
Another one, who, in his haste,
Had left his flocks and herds behind,
Returned when weeks away had passed,
To seek and save what he could find;
Than some by far more fortunate,
He found his lonely dwelling there;
But oh, how darkly desolate
That dwelling and surroundings were!
He passed through each now empty room,
Which echoed back his voice again—
A solitude so full of gloom,
Where’er he turned, appeared to reign;
And still that silence so intense
Was rendered deeper, more profound,
By knowing all were banished hence,
That this was now forbidden ground.
The crowing of domestic fowls,
The bleating of the flocks of sheep,
The bark of dogs, their solemn howls,
Appeared to make the gloom more deep;
The herds of cattle, sheep, and hogs
In those few weeks so wild had grown
They fled away; and even dogs
Would scarce their master’s presence own.
The fencing down, his farm seemed lost—
All wasting his ungathered grain,
While orchard fruits, touched by the frost,
Lay rotting in the sun and rain.
“See ‘The Exile’s Lament.’”
He visited the homes, so lone,
Of those who once his neighbors were;
But they, those neighbors kind, were gone,
And none to bid him welcome there;
For though the doors were open then,
The rooms all tenantless he found,
While gloomy silence reigned within,
And wasting solitude around—
’Twas lonely, lonely everywhere,
Upon the then untraveled roads;
But lonelier, more lonely far,
In those untenanted abodes.
He passed the little village through,
He walked its lone and silent street—
That street was then deserted too,
And bore no marks of human feet.
Abandoned every dwelling-place,
Abandoned every shop and store;
And Desolation’s frowning face
Seemed scowling out from every door.
He passed the church, that sacred place
Where often he had bowed in prayer;
But weeks and months had fled apace
Since worshipers assembled there;
How many months, or years complete,
How many, many weary days,
Before those worshipers shall meet
Within that church for prayer and praise!
Another one, when chillingly
Cold Winter spread his mantle o’er
That land deserted, came to see
The home where he had dwelt before;
The snows of winter, cold and deep,
Around and on each dwelling lay,
As o’er the rough, unbroken sweep,
Through driving snows he made his way.
The howling storm blocked up his way—
He felt the cold's intensity;
Ah! who can e'er forget that day,
The last of eighteen sixty-three?
No cheerful, blazing fires were there
Within the dwellings which he passed,
But empty, cheerless, bleak, and bare,
As round them howled the bitter blast.
Successively he passed them by,
The hospitable homes of men
Who ne'er perhaps will occupy
Those hospitable homes again;
And as those cheerless homes he passed,
His thoughts, so sad, still sadder grew,
Till his own home he reached at last,
To find it lone and cheerless too;
The wailings of the dying year,
The winds from out the evening's gloom—
The only sounds to greet his ear,
The only welcome to his home.
"'T was not always thus," he sighed;
"There was a time, nor long ago,
Ere war, upon secession's tide,
Brought desolation, death, and woe,
That from this now deserted hearth
The light of cheerfulness was spread;
When wife and children joined their mirth
With friends, now numbered with the dead.
But they, those happy days, have flown,
And now the days are dark and drear;
While in my empty house alone,
I wait and watch the dying year."
'Twas there, in days gone by, that he
And those he loved and held most dear
Had watched with hope's expectancy
The coming of a bright new year;
But oh, how changed! no prattling tongue
Was heard within the tempest's pause;
No childish hand its stockings hung
To catch the gifts of Santa Claus.
And when the New Year morn' appeared,
A colder one sure never blew;
A colder wind had never stirred
The leafless groves he hurried through,
As, burdened with his grief and woe,
And blinded by his tears and pain,
Returning through the drifted snow,
He sought his loved ones once again.
'Twas later in Time's calendar,
While Winter yet held vigorous reign—
There walked the hills of Shi-a-bar
A female known as Crazy Jane.
Poor Crazy Jane! 'T was long ago,
And in the sunny morn of life,
She came where Sni's clear waters flow,
And there became a loving wife;
To husband, and to children too,
Love's silken cord then bound her heart;
Ill fortune cut that cord in two,
And bore those loving ones apart.
Time passed; she lived, but reason fled—
A harmless maniac was she;
From place to place she went, 't was said,
To seek her long-lost children three;
She went, she came without debarr,
And strangers oftentimes would meet
Poor Crazy Jane of Sni-a-bar
On public road or village street.
At intervals of time and space,
The weather foul, the weather fair,
Would find her near the old home place,
Still wandering back and forward there.
An interval of years had passed
Since they had seen her face so plain,
And citizens had almost ceased
To speak or think of Crazy Jane;
But when the land was lying waste,
And all its citizens were gone,
She came, those paths again she traced,
Still by those strange impulses drawn—
The last, last visit to the home
Where she had passed youth's happy days
The last, last time her feet will roam
The old and still remembered ways.
It never, never can be known
How far, how long she wandered there,
For she was all alone, alone,
With none to witness her despair.
A few there were—some very few—
Who, in their solitary way,
When passing that lone desert through,
Had met the hopeless Mrs. Gray;
And piteously she made complaint,
That none to her would open the door,
Though she from hunger then was faint,
And from the cold was suffering sore.
Night followed night, day followed day,
And still she wandered up and down;
Still farther on she made her way,
Beyond the then deserted town;
On, onward still, her footsteps tend;
She walked as through a wilderness—
No human eye to see the end
Of that lone journey of distress.
That journey ended—when or how
The great Omniscient only knows;
All that we know, or can know now—
It ended ere the winter's close.
Within a farmer's dwelling lone,
Beyond the county's southern bound,
Up in a garret there is shown
The spot where Crazy Jane was found;
That dwelling lone, that garret cold,
Had witnessed her expiring breath;
But they nor aught will e'er unfold
The secret of that lonely death,
Whether by wasting and disease,
Whether by hunger, thirst, or cold,
Or from a cause more sad than these,
Has never yet, nor will be told.
But yet, imagination keen
Can pierce the darkness and the gloom,
And vividly portray the scene
Of death in that small upper room;
Or, taking wings, the spirit trace
From garret cold to shining Heaven,
Where joys eternal took the place
Of suffering caused by Order Eleven.
But time would fail; we need not dwell
Or longer yet delineate
The pains and hardships which befell
Those in that region situate;
But many thousands yet there be
Who travel o'er those scenes in thought—
Troublous scenes of "sixty-three"—
Which Order Number Eleven wrought.
By military force constrained,
By martial force constrained,
All drank of that same bitter cup;
Some to the dregs the goblet drained,
And swallowed every bitter drop.
And did they suffer thus for naught,
Enduring ills with fortitude?
Was Order Eleven only fraught
With ill, without attendant good?
We may not say, for human ken
Can never see within the shade,
And tell what evils might have been,
Had that stern order ne'er been made.
But those who witnessed those events,
Those thousand hearts with sorrows riven,
All viewed them as the consequence
Of Ewing's Order Number Eleven.
And if it should be said to-day,
As some perhaps will say it should,
That private interest should not weigh
Against the general public good;
That all those separate griefs and woes
Were given with the best intent,
To rid the land of public foes
And benefit the Government—
We ask, shall Government benign
Take what our bill of rights defends,
And private property assign
To public use without amends?
Shall they, those loyal pioneers,
Who long ago this region sought,
Who labored and who toiled for years
On lands so wild, which then they bought,—
Bought from that Government which late
By agents drove them homeless hence,—
Must they now bow, yield to their fate,
Nor dare to ask a recompense?
And will that Government, for which
That sacrifice was asked and made,
Deny to all, deny to each
The claim so just, so long delayed?
Forbid it Heaven! O Justice, wake!
No longer let thy hands withhold
The means which, well applied, might make
Amends for ills so manifold!
