On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas, too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.

His eyes
- how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;

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10

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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,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,

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And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose ;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,

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'Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night."

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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;
His hosts he led through Alpine snows;
O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while,
His eagle flag unrolled, and froze.

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.

That led him on from crown to crown,

Hath sunk; the nations from afar

Gazed, as it faded and went down.

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That night hangs round him, and the breath

Of morning scatters, is the shroud

That wraps his martial form in death.

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Far, far below by storms is curled,
As round him heaved, while high he stood,
A stormy and inconstant world.

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?
Hear it in that battle peal!
Read it on yon bristling steel!
Ask it,
ye who will.

Fear ye foes who kill for hire?
Will ye to your homes retire?

Look behind you! they're a-fire !

And, before you, see

Who have done it! - From the vale
On they come ! And will ye quail ? ·
Leaden rain and iron hail

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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,
When fond recollection presents them to view!

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood, 15
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,

The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well

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The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure,

For often at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.

And now,

far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!

RICHARD HENRY WILDE

1789-1847

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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.