Ah, no! 'tis gone, 'tis gone, and never JOHN PIERPONT. JOHN PIERPONT was born in Litchfield, Connecticut, on the 6th of April, 1785, and received his collegiate education at Yale College, where he graduated in 1804. The next year he went to South Carolina, and was private tutor in the family of Colonel William Allston, where he commenced his legal studies. In 1809, he returned home, entered the celebrated law-school of his native town, and in 1812, having been admitted to the bar of Essex County, Massachusetts, opened an office in Newburyport. He soon, however, as other poets have done, abandoned the law, determining to find his pleasure and his occupation in literary pursuits; and in 1816 he published The Airs of Palestine, which was received with very great favor. At the close of that year, he entered the theological school of Harvard University, determined to devote himself to the ministry, and in April, 1819, was ordained as pastor of the Hollis Street Church, in Boston. In 1835 and 1836, he visited Europe for his health, going through the principal cities of England, France, and Italy, and extending his tour to the East, visiting Athens, Corinth, Constantinople, and Asia Minor. Soon after his return home, he collected and published, in 1840, all his poems, in one volume, in the preface to which he says, "If poetry is always fiction, there is no poetry in this book. It gives a true, though an all too feeble, expression of the author's feelings and faith,—of his love of right, freedom, and man, and of his correspondent and most hearty hatred of every thing that is at war with them; and of his faith in the providence and gracious promises of God." The longest poem of the volume is The Airs of Palestine. The subject is music, principally as connected with sacred history, but with occasional digressions into the land of mythology and romance. It has no unity of plan, but consists of a succession of brilliant pictures. Though this subject, so congenial to the "poet's verse," had been often handled, from Pindar to Gray, yet our author, nothing daunted, did not shrink from trying his own powers upon it. It is enough to say that he has succeeded. For beauty of language, finish of versification, richness of classical and sacred allusions, and harmony of numbers, we consider that it takes rank among the very first of American poems and will be among those that will survive their century. But Mr. Pierpont has aimed at something more than gratifying his own scholarly tastes and charming his readers with the love of the beautiful. He is a reformer, a whole-hearted and a fearless one; and a large number of his fugitive pieces have been written to promote the holy causes of temperance and freedom. Mr. Pierpont has also prepared an excellent series of reading-books for schools:-The Little Learner, The Young Reader, Introduction to National Reader, National Reader, and The Ame rican First Class Book. CLASSICAL AND SACRED THEMES FOR MUSIC. Where lies our path ?-though many a vista call, What hills, what vales, what streams, become the lyre? I love to wet my foot on Herion's dews; And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose. SONG OF THE SHEPHERDS. While thus the shepherds watch'd the host of night, Peace to the world:"-and in full concert came, Yon living lamps, charm'd from their chambers blue All?-all, but one, that hung and burn'd alone, Glow unextinguish'd;-'twas Salvation's Star. LICENSE-LAWS. "We license thee for so much gold," Says Congress,-they're our servants there,- So say our laws-" a draught to sell, Of this destroyer seize their swords, They're dealing,-will YE cut the cords Divorcing him from Heaven's high sway; In which is felt the fiercer blast Of the destroying angel's breath? Which binds its victim the more fast? Which kills him with the deadlier death? Will ye the felon fox restrain, And yet take off the tiger's chain? The living to the rotting dead The God-contemning Tuscan' tied, Till, by the way, or on his bed, The poor corpse-carrier droop'd and died,— Lash'd hand to hand, and face to face, In fatal and in loathed embrace. Less cutting, think ye, is the thong That to a breathing corpse, for life, Four hundred dollars is the sum prescribed by Congress-the local legislature of the District of Columbia-for a license to keep a prison-house and market for the sale of men, women, and children. See Jay's View of the Action of the Federal Government in Behalf of Slavery," p. 87. 2 Mezentius. See Virgil, Eneid, viii. 481-491. Lashes, in torture loathed and long, The drunkard's child, the drunkard's wife? Are ye not fathers? When your sons O holy God! let light divine Break forth more broadly from above, HYMN.1 O Thou, to whom in ancient time And prophets praised with glowing tongue; Not now on Zion's height, alone, Thy favor'd worshipper may dwell; From every place below the skies, The grateful song, the fervent prayer- To heaven, and find acceptance there. In this, thy house, whose doors we now To thee shall Age, with snowy hair, O thou, to whom in ancient time The lyre of prophet-bards was strung, To thee, at last, in every clime Shall temples rise, and praise be sung. Written for the Opening of the Independent Congregational Church in Barton Square, Salem, December 7, 1824. MY CHILD. I cannot make him dead! Is ever bounding round my study-chair; I walk my parlor floor, And through the open door, I hear a footfall on the chamber stair; To give the boy a call; And then bethink me that he is not there! I thread the crowded street; A satchell'd lad I meet, With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair, Follow him with my eye, Scarcely believing that he is not there! I know his face is hid Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there! I cannot make him dead! So long watch'd over with parental care, My spirit and my eye Seek it inquiringly, Before the thought comes that he is not there! When, at the cool, gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that he is not there When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, Whate'er I may be saying, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Not there! Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear; Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe lock'd;-he is not there! |