On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen! And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. His eyes 5 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 And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ; He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, 66 'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night." 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 Nor sire, nor brother, wife, nor son, Hath ever seen or sought his grave. That led him on from crown to crown, Hath sunk; the nations from afar Gazed, as it faded and went down. 5 10 That night hangs round him, and the breath Of morning scatters, is the shroud That wraps his martial form in death. 15 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. WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS. STAND! the ground's your own, my braves! Will ye give it up to slaves? Will ye look for greener graves? Hope ye mercy still? What's the mercy despots feel? Fear ye foes who kill for hire? Look behind you! they're a-fire ! And, before you, see Who have done it! - From the vale 15 20 25 Let their welcome be ! THE author of The Old Oaken Bucket was born at Scituate, Massachusetts, and died in New York city. The poem given here 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 BUCKET How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood, 15 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well 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 now, far removed from the loved habitation, RICHARD HENRY WILDE 1789-1847 5 IO 15 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. |