Poems (White)/Over the Hills

by Jeannie Copes White

OVER THE HILLS

"Over the hills and far away,"
That is what sweet poets say;
But all the hills that I can see
Are in the state of Tennessee.
Tis nature's boundary firm and strong;
Will last for age on ages long.
They bound the nation long ago
From Indians who went to and fro
In hunting, fishing, savage wars,
And cruelties practiced without cause.
This held the white man captive here;
To go beyond: it was their fear.
It closed such wonders from their sight—
The vast domain that was their right,—
The peaceful beauty of these hills,
The vales and falls, the caves and rills,
The mines and rocks and pasture land,
The gardens, stocks and wheat so grand,
The scenes of beauty all around,
The corn and grain that here abound,
The apple orchard, grapes and fruit,
For any palate they will suit.
It seems no riches can be found
That is not in this land around.

But when these hills at last were scaled,
From this fair land so many hailed,
To reach a greater country far
That beckoned with a golden star;
And so our nation was enlarged,
With cities, schools, and riches charged.
But back here in these hills to-day
My heart in anguish wants to say
That all around the purest race
Show Anglo-Saxon on their face.
A race where blood is pure and clean
Live in these hills, by us unseen;
Their face and figure very fair,
With clear, blue eyes and golden hair,
Save when 'tis found in darker hue;
Refinement and a brain show through.
The sweet faced men, with artless grace,
Drawn from a love of God, well placed;
The modest, gentle, friendly maid,
With hands to work at any trade,
And heart so loyal, brave and true,—
To know them is a pleasure too.

But I have wandered from my theme,
In rapture o'er some happy scene.
My heart still cries aloud in pain
For these dear folks:—some of this same,
The little Anglo-Saxon child
Upon these mountains vast and wild
Are fading their sweet lives away.
The hook-worm is the cause, they say.
Some wasted to the very bone,
While others in great swelling shown.

Their minds are weakened by the scourge,—
They cannot learn, nor work the forge.
The land where first the white man came—
Dear victims these.—Who is to blame?
Some cannot read the simplest line,
Or write their names, except by sign.
Ah! How my heart goes out to them,
This fairest race,—the mountain stem.
When money thus our nation take
And schools for negro race they make—
A plea from one, a cry grown wild,
I make for this white mountain child.