GEORGE W. CUTTER
Reading edition
George Washington Cutter, one of Kentucky's finest poets, was born in Massachusetts about 1809, but he early came to Covington, Kentucky, and entered upon the practice of his profession, the law. He commanded a company of Kentuckians in the Mexican War with great honor to himself and to them. He had been a constant contributor of verse to the periodicals of his time, but he did not publish his first book until after the war with Mexico. Buena Vista and Other Poems (Cincinnati, 1848) was his first collection, and it contained a preface signed from Covington, Kentucky, December, 1847. From this it will be seen that Cutter returned to Kentucky after the war, and that he was living in this State at the time of his book's appearance. Tradition has said that he wrote the title-poem, Buena Vista, a spirited war ballad, on the field of action immediately after the battle. His little volume contained thirty-seven poems, including The Song of Steam, which has been singled out by critics as his masterpiece, an ode to Henry Clay, his political idol, and his fine descriptive poem, The Creation of Woman. This, to the present writer, is the most exquisite thing Cutter did in verse. It is highly and consistently poetical, and it should be better appreciated than it has been. Cutter was married to Mrs. Frances Ann Drake, a famous Kentucky actress, but they were not happy and a separation by mutual agreement subsequently followed. Mrs. Cutter was the widow of Alexander Drake, of the well-known family of that name, and after parting with the poet she resumed her first husband's name, returned to the stage, and managed theatres in Kentucky and Ohio until her death in Oldham county, Kentucky, September 1, 1875. Cutter later removed to Indiana and was a member of the State legislature, after which service he removed to Washington City to accept a government position. In Washington Cutter continued his poetical output, life in the capital turning his attention to patriotic subjects. Poems, National and Patriotic (Philadelphia, 1857) proved the author to be, for the critics of his time, "the most intensely patriotic poet we have." This volume contained sixty-nine of what he regarded as his best poems. The Song of Steam and Other Poems also appeared in this same year of 1857, and it contained one of the poet's finest efforts, The Song of the Lightning. Cutter died at Washington, D. C., December 24, 1865.
Bibliography. The Poets and Poetry of the West, by W. T. Coggeshall (Columbus, 1860); Adams's Dictionary of American Authors (Boston, 1905).
THE SONG OF STEAM
[From Buena Vista and Other Poems (Cincinnati, 1848)]
Harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein; For I scorn the power of your puny hands As the tempest scorns a chain. How I laughed as I lay concealed from sight, For many a countless hour, At the childish boast of human might, And the pride of human power. When I saw an army upon the land, A navy upon the seas, Creeping along, a snail-like band, Or waiting the wayward breeze; When I marked the peasant faintly reel With the toil which he daily bore, As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, Or tugged at the weary oar;— When I measured the panting courser's speed, The flight of the courier dove— As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love— I could not but think how the world would feel, As these were outstripp'd afar, When I should be bound to the rushing keel, Or chained to the flying car. Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last, They invited me forth at length, And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast, And I laughed in my iron strength. Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change On the earth and the ocean wide, Where now my fiery armies range, Nor wait for wind or tide. Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er, The mountain's steep decline, Time—space—have yielded to my power— The world! the world is mine! The rivers, the sun hath earliest blest, Or those where his beams decline; The giant streams of the queenly west, Or the orient floods divine: The ocean pales where'er I sweep, To hear my strength rejoice, And the monsters of the briny deep Cower, trembling, at my voice. I carry the wealth and the lord of earth, The thoughts of his god-like mind, The wind lags after my flying forth, The lightning is left behind. In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine, My tireless arm doth play, Where the rocks never saw the sun decline, Or the dawn of the glorious day. I bring earth's glittering jewels up From the hidden cave below, And I make the fountain's granite cup With a crystal gush o'erflow. I blow the bellows, I forge the steel, In all the shops of trade; I hammer the ore and turn the wheel, Where my arms of strength are made; I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint; I carry, I spin, I weave; And all my doings I put into print, On every Saturday eve. I've no muscle to weary, no breast to decay, No bones to be "laid on the shelf," And soon I intend you may "go and play," While I manage this world myself. But harness me down with your iron bands, Be sure of your curb and rein; For I scorn the strength of your puny hands, As the tempest scorns a chain.