On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! His eyes - how they twinkled! his dimples how merry! 10 15 20 25 A wink of his eye and a twist of his head, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread; He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk, 30 He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, 35 JOHN PIERPONT 1785-1866 PIERPONT was born at Litchfield, Connecticut. After being graduated from Yale, he was successively a teacher, a business man, a lawyer, and finally a Unitarian minister. For twenty-six years he was pastor of the Hollis Street Church, Boston, and was an ardent supporter of the abolition movement - —a movement very active in the neighborhood of his church. At the age of seventy-six he volunteered as a chaplain in the Civil War, but his age and bodily infirmities prevented much active service. He was appointed to a clerkship in the government service at Washington, a position which he held until his death. THE EXILE AT REST His falchion flashed along the Nile; Here sleeps he now, alone; —not one Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son, Hath ever seen or sought his grave. Here sleeps he now, alone; - the star, That led him on from crown to crown, Gazed, as it faded and went down. 5 10 He sleeps alone; - the mountain cloud That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud 15 That wraps his martial form in death. Far, far below by storms is curled, Hark! Comes there from the Pyramids, And from Siberia's waste of snow, And Europe's fields, a voice that bids. The world be awed to mourn him?—No;· The only, the perpetual dirge, That's heard here, is the sea bird's cry, The mournful murmur of the surge, The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 5 ΤΟ WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS STAND! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? WOODWORTH was born at Scituate, Massachusetts, and died in New York city. The poem given here (first entitled "The Bucket") is the only one of a volume of verse which is now remembered. He wrote several operettas and dramatic pieces, but these have long since been forgotten. He was associated with Willis and others in the editorship of the New York Mirror, a journal of considerable literary note in its day. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well 15 20 The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well- RICHARD HENRY WILDE 1789-1847 ΤΟ 15 20 MANY of the poets of this early period - notably Freneau, Key, and Wilde were men of affairs in the main, whose verse making occupied only their leisure hours. Nearly all of them are remembered to-day by only one or two poems. The bulk of their writings has gone the way of most occasional verse. It was, in most cases, hastily put together, and was lacking in depth and sincerity of feeling, as well as in grace of form. |