May 18, 1849: “Shullsburg, and the Wisconsin”, by Caroline L. Cage, published in the Milwaukee Daily Sentinel.
Perhaps many of our readers are already aware that there has been a spicy controversy going on lately, between the Wisconsin and Free Democrat, wherein they have each charged and convicted the other of plagiarism in their original publications of poetry.
By the following poem, which appeared in the last Free Democrat, it seems that the polite and gentlemanly editor of the Wisconsin (who would rather cut off his little finger than be ungallant to the ladies,) has unconsciously been crossing his lance with one of the gentler sex. Of course he cannot say anything farther in the premises after the lady comes out over her own signature and places him so completely hors du cambat.
Grown weary with the cares of day,
And abades now deep’ning into night,
I sought to while the eve away,
A letter short, in rhyme to write.
I knelt before the humble shrine,
Where I so oft my muse had wooed,
And lingered, seeking to divine
The reason of her sullen mood.
Ah! why, I cried; why treat me so?
Have I ungrateful been to thee?
Yes! you my smile shall never know,
’Till you my name from censure free.
Although 1 never soar alone
Where Editors pro-Slav'ry rise,
My humble verse has been my own,
And never cloth’d in borrow’d guise.
One of the Literati claims
That my vernacular, like a mask,
Is borrowed—or at least, six names,
Or parts of speech, from Cowper's task.
The words I stealthily inspired,
And which your Shullsburgh verse has cursed,
And by the Wisconsin so admired,
Are “free as granted, at the first.”
My line, so like, the evidence,
Comparison will plainly show,
Is still diverse, in every sense,
In sentiment, and language too.
And just because he's been to college,
Where brainless boys oft swell the grander,
He thinks he’s umpire of all knowledge,
Poetic judge, and pink of candor.
He's wrong, you know, the blame’s not mine,
'Twas Cowper's fault; how dar'd he write,
So long ago, a single line
So like that I would indite?
Oh lie! I cried—invective spare,
I thought you scorn’d censorious chat;
Perhaps you’re not the target there,
I ween it’s the Free Democrat.
Aye! Aye! she said, perhaps, indeed,
As vile “proscription” was my theme,
The vision of the Free Soil creed,
And Free Soil men, disturbs his dream.
Would he who praised the German bard,
Avenge the death of his poor “Fly”?
His vengeance should not fall so hard
On such un-humble worm as I.
O, would he lift his soul above
Such caviling, and school-boy play,
And sing us, like a Turtle Dove,
His classic lore from day to day!
Eagleville, Waukesha Co., May 9, 1849