Fort Dearborn,Albery Allson Whitman was a 19th century African American poet who, despite being born into slavery, carved out a career for himself as a poet and orator. He served as a pastor throughout the south and mid-western regions of the United States. His poetry was universally well received and he became known as the “Poet Laureate of the Negro Race”. He is included in the anthology African-American Poetry of the Nineteenth Century where his efforts are described as “attempts at full-blown Romantic poetry”. Some even compared his verse to that written by well-known American and British authors who wrote in the Romantic tradition. One of Whitman’s poems is called Ye Bards of England which extols the virtues of the great literary figures from English history and begins:
Fort Dearborn by Albery Allson Whitman
Fort Dearborn is a strong and goodly place,
And o’er the frontier looks with valiant face
To greet the hostile tread of savage harm,
With tongue of thunder and an iron arm.
Far up he stands, on a commanding ground,
With grizly turrets rising high around:
Block houses rude protect the outer posts,
Where pass the sentries quick before the camping hosts.
Here, erst, as eagle drives the trembling dove
O’er meadows broad, to shelt’ring cliffs above;
Proud Black Hawk rose, stern monarch of the wood,
The red Napoleon of Solitude,
And drove young civilization from the West,
To fly and hover in loud Dearborn’s breast;
Till peace returning, with a gentle hand,
Beckoned her forth again to plant the flow’ry land.
Long since the Nation’s battle-arm had cleared
Her skirts of border outrages; and reared
By daring hands, the settler’s cabin stood,
By every steeam and in the mighty wood;
Since labor found in ease’s arms repose —
This strong avenger of his race arose;
And vindicating, or for woe or weal
The red-man’s homes, unsheathed the battle steel,
And made the border throat, alas! his bloody logic feel.
He saw neath mammon’s desecrating tread,
The turf-green dwellings of the sacred dead.
The forest sachem, and the honored sire,
No more, within their lofty homes, awoke the fire
Of burning council in the patriot breast;
His sun sunk now forever on the wigwam-smoking West.
His leaping streams with cascade sadness mourned,
His fleet canoe was from its moorings turned,
His squaws and children bade their fields adieu,
To starving on their tearful way pursue;
And bloody-armed aggression followed where they flew.
Oh! who can then approach the chieftain’s shade,
With ought but honor, e’en tho’ he was made
To tear his heart from ev’ry tend’rer tie,
And to his loved ones with an arm of hostile succor fly?
Great hero, peace! Thou and thy thousand braves,
Too weak to stand, too proud to e’er be slaves,
On valor’s lips, shall to the list’ning years
Be told: and urned in woman’s love and tears,
Thy name to Time’s remote end carried down,
Shall treasured be and claimed, by high Renown.
As some fierce comet rises in the West,
With locks of flame — and in deep crimson drest —
Swims ominously up a troubled sky,
Wlth fury stationed in his fiery eye;
While panting superstition drops a tear,
Prophetic looks, and thinks Time’s end is near;
So, in Migration’s pathway thou didst rise,
The flaming terror of the border skies,
And so aggression looked on thee with fearful eyes.
Young morn descending from her Eastern tour,
Now on the mountains chased a panting show’r;
The vap’rous slumbers of the valleys broke,
And to the waking fields a sweet breath’d greeting spoke.
On wings of song, enliv’ning cheer went round,
O’er sad-voiced woods by Autumn suns embrowned,
And o’er farm-studded vales, with here and there
An orchard neat, that crowned some rustic’s care,
And friendly cot, beside the hillside stream,
The rude ideal of his glory dream.
Then, in a gate that looked from Dearborn West,
Sir Maxey stood, and thus his soul exprest:
“My Dora! Oh, my Dora! Where is she?
Torn from my care, oh, saints, how can it be!
To pine away in desert wastes and die,
Or feed the savage lusts that on her breast may lie.
My only Dora! Would I ne’er had been;
Or that I never had my angel seen!
Oh, my life’s flower, doomed to droop and faint,
Where ling’ring exile mocks thy lone complaint!
Bereavement’s hand poured out my grief to full,
And gave me sorrow from a ghastly skull;
When from my side, that one who shared my cares,
The burden-bearer of my weighty years —
Was borne away, my home to light no more!
E’en then Hope whispered of a sainted shore.
But tongueless sits Despair, dark-plumed with dole,
And strikes her painful beak into my soul!
When something to my sad heart seems to say,
“‘Thy Dora pines in desert wilds away.'”
Two captains who upon their steeds had sate,
And heard him thus lamenting in the gate;
Now putting spurs, together eager cry:
“Withhold thy woeful ‘plaint, where chivalry
Will test his strength. Say to us, aye, oh Sire,
And we will rescue Dora ere the day expires.”
“Aye,” cries Sir Maxey, “hear a father’s vows;
Who rescues Dora, hath her for a spouse,
And purse of gold besides. Now, Westward fly,
And haste thy search, for we have this surety,
Of him, the only one who ‘scaped the foe,
Her captors on a Westward way did go.”
Swift as the shadows of a flying cloud,
From Dearborn forth now rode the soldiers proud;
But ere their morn of glory had begun,
High in their brightest sky, appeared a brighter sun.
Rodney came leading Dora from a wood,
And in their presence like a vision stood.
Their steeds they reined, they made a martial bow;
On Rodney gazed, awed by his valiant brow;
Glanced then at Dora, and together sighed:
“Whose she shall be, the future must decide!”
But ere their admiration found a tongue,
She passed them by the village trees among.
“My life no more embraces pure delight,”
Sighs one, “With that fair maiden out of sight!”
The other echoes: “My life’s shine is o’er,
If I must see that beauty rare no more!”
“But,” then the other mourns, “her father vows,
That who rescues her hath her for a spouse!
Then, if the valiant task hath now been done
By yon stern slave, our prospects darken neath an eclipsed sun.”
“A slave contend,” his friend indignant spoke,
“In love’s fair lists, and wear a master’s yoke!
A servant dog, a stalwart negro clown,
Unhorse a knight, the queen of love to crown?
Nay, thanks to Jove, the negro’s proper sphere,
Is by him wilfully abandoned ne’er,
His longings suited to his station are;
For faithfulness he craves a master’s care,
And craves no more; he stoops a bashful face
From azure looks, and love’s white-arm’d embrace.
Born to be ruled, kind nature seals his breast
‘Gainst Cupid’s darts and Hymen’s visions blest.
In him ambition ‘s merest insolence,
And chivalry is brazen impudence.”
“Between us then,” the other aptly cries,
“The open list, of flow’ry conquest lies,
And let the god’s to excellence award the prize.”
Now, Dora turning from the perilous wild,
Ran to a waiting father’s long embrace,
And kissed the streams of joy from his face.
Brave Dearborn shouted o’er the rescued child,
Tlll loud rejoicings from his iron throat,
Rolled o’er the wastes and shook the hills remote.
Round after round the cheering cannon rung,
Old Solitude for once had found a tongue,
And spoke responsive, her deep lone retreats among.
All day the eyes of pleasure sparkled bright,
Around the evening hearth the circling news gave light;
The hand of valor, beauty’s fair hand shook,
And joy beamed forth in age’s sober look.
The tragic fate of Saville hindered not,
So much was sorrow in their mirth forgot.
Lo! where yon gloomy walls ascend on high;
Whose dismal windows meet the passing eye,
Where Memphis rises in her steepled pride,
And gazes on fair Mississippi’s tide,
Where Memphis, robed in glitt’ring wealth doth rise,
The boast of Tennessee, the pride of Southern skies.
Turn there thy foot, thou who hast wandered long
Thro’ life’s sad ways, and by the haunts of wrong;
Thou who hast heard of mammon hardened souls,
Who drank iniquity from brimming bowls,
Or who hast dreampt of Slavery’s grinding car,
Mounted by Crime, and dragged by dogs of war;
Followed by Famine, whose skeleton hand
Compels submission from a trembling land;
While empty Ignorance’s idiot smile,
The hard-gleaned tribute is, to custom vile:
Turn there thy foot, thou who hast heard or read
Of virtue, chained to lust’s infamous bed;
Pause at the door! The keeper comes! I hear
His footsteps on the stony floor anear!
The slow key grates, bolts move, oppressed I feel,
The sullen prison opes its jaws of steel;
And in the Hell of Slavery aghast I reel.
Among the sable inmates now I wend
My way, and they in fervent aspect bend
Their faces in the dust, cry, “Massa!” “Lord!”
But their bright tearful eyes speak more than cry or word.
They kiss their haughty keeper’s iron hand,
Pursue his way, or round him suppliant stand.
Ah! Christian, canst thou bear it? Turn thine eyes
To where yon sorrow burdened mother lies!
She upward looks, and wrings her anguish, see!
Say to her, “Woman, oh, what aileth thee?”
And thou shalt hear the tearful answer sad,
“Two children, once to cheer my life I had;
The one was three years old, a little girl,
Her brow was clustered o’er with many a curl,
Her eyes were bright, and blue as Summer’s skies!
But oh, my sweet faced darling!” loud she cries,
“My babe! Dear Willie! Oh, my two-month’s old!
Was from my bosom snatched away, by cold
And cruel hands — methinks I hear his cry —
To pine without a mother’s care and die!
Behold that mother, Christian, she is hushed
By yon stern keeper’s glance, e’en though her soul is crushed.
And yonder see hoar age from friendship torn,
And from the goodly scenes where he was born!
Burdened with grief, he leans toward the grave,
And drags his chains, a poor unpitied slave.
This is the slave pen, reader, this the place
Where boasting Slav’ry drives the sable race,
To wait, as trembling sheep the slaughter wait,
Their buyer’s entrance at yon iron gate.
Here tender hands of tearful remonstrance,
Entreating age’s humble upward glance,
The sudden out-bursts of the grief torn heart,
The infant’s ‘plaint, from parent arms apart,
The maniac’s wail and gaunt-eyed hunger’s sigh,
That e’en doth bring a tear in Heaven’s eye,
Cannot in man’s cold heart, awake dead sympathy.
Ah, Tennessee, hast thou a Hermitage,
Where dwel’st a laurelled hero and a sage?
Great sage! Proud leader of the daring band,
Who loosed red havoc from the battle hand
On Blount’s poor fort, till hardy sea-worn tars,
With crime acquainted, and athirst for wars,
Withdrew, their heads hung, from the scenes of blood,
Or o’er the mangled inmates weeping stood!
Let Silence rest her hand upon thy mouth,
And cease thy boasts, Oh, vain Chivalric South!
Say to thy mem’ry, “Ah, lead me not back
In yon deep ghostly past, with visions black!”
Thou may’st forget that from their brake-bound seat,
As free, true hearts, as e’er to freedom beat,
Were dragged in chains, fastened by Slavery’s laws,
Or chased by blood hounds, from whose gaping jaws,
Dropped human gore, to stain the sacred soil
That bloomed and grew beneath the hand of toil.
Thou may’st forget, in a repentant soul,
The wigwams of the wasted Seminole;
And in the world’s great temple, at the shrine
Of patriotism, kneel neath hands divine.
Lo! where yon whirling to and fro
Of men in business tide, doth so
Intoxicate with eagerness;
And in the eddy of voices hear,
The shrill cry of the auctioneer!
“Agoing! going!” rises clear.
While crowds of anxious list’ners press,
And doubt and gaze, and sigh and guess;
Shrewd speculation, in the face
Of business looks: his quick eyes trace
The way of vantage, till he make
A fortune, or a fortune break.
Suspense’s trembling speech is heard,
For now the crier, word by word,
Sinks lower, lower, “going, gone,”
The bargain’s clasped, the work is done;
And now he calls another one.
There, rising as the wave-dashed rock,
Firm in his tow’ring scorn;
There, standing on the buyer’s block,
See that sad form, but not forlorn.
In other climes was he not born?
Yes, where yon Western bowers spread
Their green luxuriance o’er the head
Of bare-armed labor, and the sound
Of rural sports, the long year round,
Is heard on care’s enlivened way;
He once hath known a brighter day.
There where young industry’s strong arms
Hath in the forests hewn down farms,
And in the vale his pastures spread,
And by the waters clean flocks fed;
Full harvests reaped upon the hills,
And in the valleys built his mills;
There, once he mingled, true and brave,
A home-guard loved, and faithful slave.
‘Tis Savllle’s Rodney, Dora’s friend,
A faithful servant to the end.
And do you ask why he is sold?
I answer, then you shall behold.
There is a famous spring by Dearborn’s walls,
Whose rush bound wand’ring to the heart recalls,
Of frontier daring, olden memories,
That oft bring brightness, oft tears to the eyes.
Here erst the Sachem, in his plumy pride,
Beheld his clans reposing at his side,
When on the tongue of forest councils burned
The words of war, or, when, in peace returned
From weary hunting grounds, they cheerful lay,
To watch the painted face of dying day.
Here civilization met his savage foe,
And with an arm of lightning laid him low,
And on the open hights of triumph stood,
Clasping this lucent treasure of the wood.
Here now the peaceful villagers repair,
To soothe the burdened ear of cumb’rous care.
Lo! yonder lab’rer, from his field comes by,
And nears with quick’ning steps and brightened eye.
Here trysting whispers linger in the shade,
Where rustic courtship clasps his bashful maid,
And sober converse, to the scene endeared,
Tarries till vespers soft are in the village heard.
Hail thou best blessing of the varied train,
That cheers life’s journey thro’ earth’s weary plain!
Nectar for gods, and bright wines for the king,
But draughts for lab’rers from the running spring.
Now Dora stood at this ancestral spot,
And list’ning to the waters sing, forgot
That she was waiting for her running over pot.
Loud jovial labor in the field was done,
And sounds of mellow night-fall had begun.
The swallow told her stories in the eaves,
The groaning wain creaked home beneath its sheaves,
The swain garrulous in his empty weal,
Debated with the hills, till sudden wheel
Of rooky clamor from the elms, made
His hair stand up, till he had crossed the shade.
The shrill cock blew, the hillside barn behind;
And crow belated, asks the sent’nel wind,
Which way was nearest to his roosting mates.
The reaper homeward sang thro’ slamming gates,
And o’er the sheep-cote woods a moon hung pale,
Like some lone shepherdess that hears a lover’s tale.
Now Dora wond’ring what the waters said,
Leaned o’er the rocks and lingered in the shade,
Till Rodney, standing at her elbow, spake:
“You to obey, this only chance I take,
Now to my aching heart the secret ope;
May I to hear some pleasant tidings hope?”
Then Dora answered, “Oh! my faithful slave,
In my distresses well didst thou behave.
The life of me, and of my father too,
Are to thy manly, brave exertions due;
But thou hast kindled, by thy interest,
The fires of jealousy in many a breast.
Hence, thou art sold. The two commanders here
Have followed thee with bitterness severe,
Till for thy safety, father has thee sold,
Away to Memphis, Tennessee, I’m told.
But Rodney, bear it! In God’s strength be bold!”
