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.

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ΙΟ

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

Let their welcome be !

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,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood,
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!

Wilde

RICHARD HENRY WILDE

1789-1847

MANY of the poets of this early period — notably Freneau, Key, and 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.

Wilde was born at Dublin, Ireland. When he was a mere boy his family came to America and settled in Baltimore. After the death of his father, he removed with his mother to Georgia, where he studied law and entered politics. He served several terms as a member of Congress from his adopted state. After traveling abroad for several years, he settled in New Orleans and devoted the remainder of his life to the successful study and practice of the civil law.

JOHN HOWARD PAYNE

1791-1852

THE life of John Howard Payne is of unusual interest. He was born in New York city and entered Union College. He left college early, however, and took to the stage. He won popularity as an actor both in America and in England. He also wrote plays and operas. The song Home, Sweet Home, first appeared in his opera, Clari, the Maid of Milan, which was produced at Covent Garden Theater, London, in 1823. He died at Tunis, Africa, where he was serving as United States consul. In 1883, at the expense of the late Mr. W. W. Corcoran, the philanthropist, his remains were removed to Washington.

HOME, SWEET HOME!

MID pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home;
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there,
Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere.
Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain ;
O, give me my lowly thatched cottage again!
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,-

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Give me them, and the peace of mind, dearer than all! 10
Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home!

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

How sweet 'tis to sit 'neath a fond father's smile,
And the cares of a mother to soothe and beguile !
Let others delight mid new pleasures to roam,
But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures of home!
Home! Home! sweet, sweet Home !

There's no place like Home! there's no place like Home!

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