bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he obtained official employment. His poems were chiefly written for periodicals and for delivering at various literary institutions, for which they are well adapted.] O'ER a low couch the setting sun The stern old Baron RUDIGER, Whose frame had ne'er been bent "They come around me here, and say That I shall mount my noble steed To tell me now, that I, Their own liege lord and master born,— "And what is death? I've dared him oft Has come to seek me here ? "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower,- Bid each retainer arm with speed, Call every vassal in; Up with my banner on the wall,— A hundred hands were busy then,— With many a martial tread, Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, Fast hurrying through the outer gate, "Fill every beaker up, my men, r: Pour forth the cheering wine; There's life and strength in every drop Thanksgiving to the vine! Are ye all there, my vassals true?- re! Fill round, my tried and fearless ones, Each goblet to the brim. "Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. Draw forth each trusty sword,— my board. And let me hear your faithful steel Bowl rang to bowl,-steel clang'd to steel, -And rose a deafening cry That made the torches flare around, there! e! bar, and followed his profession until 1834, when he obtained official employment. His poems were chiefly written for periodicals and for delivering at various literary institutions, for which they are well adapted.] O'ER a low couch the setting sun Had thrown its latest ray, Whose frame had ne'er been bent 6. They come around me here, and say That I shall mount my noble steed They come, and to my beard they dare To tell me now, that I, Their own liege lord and master born,— "And what is death? I've dared him oft Has come to seek me here? I've met him, faced him, scorn'd him, "Ho! sound the tocsin from my tower, And fire the culverin,— Bid each retainer arm with speed,- Call every vassal in; Up with my banner on the wall, The banquet board prepare,— A hundred hands were busy then,- Lights gleam'd on harness, plume, and spear, Fast hurrying through the outer gate, On through the portal's frowning arch, "Fill every beaker up, my men, Are ye all there, my vassals true?— "Ye're there, but yet I see ye not. Bowl rang to bowl,-steel clang'd to steel, That made the torches flare around, And shook the flags on high : "But I defy him :-let him come!" And with the black and heavy plumes MY CHILD. JOHN PIERPONT. [John Pierpont is an American poet, born at Litchfield, Connecticut, April 6, 1785. On the completion of his education he was an assistant master at a large school, and afterwards a private tutor. He subsequently studied for the bar, and was admitted in 1812. Finding but few clients, he abandoned his profession and became interested in mercantile transactions, but these resulting disastrously he sought solace in literary pursuits, and in 1816 published the "Airs of Palestine," a poem of some 800 lines, which is justly admired for the beauty of its language and the finish of its versification. Mr. Pierpont next studied theology, and was ordained as minister of the Unitarian Church in Boston, 1819. He visited England, France, Italy, and the East, 1835-6, and has since written many hymns, odes, and other brief poems, which are distinguished alike for energy of thought and moral precept.] I CANNOT make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; With tears, I turn to him, The vision vanishes-he is not there! |