A Gorge in the Mountains (Kauterskill Clove) by Sanford Robinson Gifford
By Thomas Dunn English
From The Casket Vol. 16, 1840, pg. 151
Morn on the placid landscape. Nature woke,
And from her long night’s slumber proudly broke.
Gazed, smiling gazed on mountain, and on dale,
And tossed unto the skies her misty veil.
The sun was there to glad the morning’s birth,
And empty living fire upon the earth.
The deer stole slily from his hiding-place.
Basked in the beams, nor panted for the chase.
The squirrel leaped from rock to rock in pride;
The rabbit pattered up the mountain side;
While mingled with the wild-bee’s hum was heard
The whirring of the gaudy humming-bird;—
That painted insect of the feathered tribe,
Whom all can wonder at, but none describe,—
The red-head woodpecker with steady stroke,
Commenced his labor on the hollow oak;
The feathered choir with rapture-swelling throats,
Began in concert their melodious notes;
While from the low-growth, where it deep lay hid,
Came the shrill clarion of the katy did.
In deep delight creation seemed to swim,
And pour thanksgiving in their matin hymn.
What I Would Be.
By William Howe Cuyler Hosmer
From Later Lays and Lyrics by Hosmer, pg. 143
What would I be? Not rich in gold
And with a narrow heart,
Or, misanthropic, stern and cold,
Dwell from my kind apart?
I would not be a man of war,
Who looks on death unmoved,
Give me a title dearer far:
I would not wear a laurel crown,
Its leaves conceal the thorn;
Too oft the children of renown
Are friendless and forlorn.
Oh! let me lead a blameless life,
By young and old approved;
Called, in a world of sin and strife,
“The well beloved!”
God grant me power to guard the weak,
And sorrow’s moaning hush,
And never feel upon my cheek
Dark Shame’s betraying blush;
And when at my creator’s call
From earth I am removed,
Let Friendship ‘broider on my pall:
“The well beloved!”
THE frost is out, and in the open fields,
And late within the woods, I marked his track;
The unwary flower his icy fingers feels,
And at their touch the crispëd leaf rolls back;—
Look, how the maple o’er a sea of green
Waves in the autumnal wind his flag of red!
First struck of all the forest’s spreading screen,
Most beauteous, too, the earliest of her dead.
Go on: thy task is kindly meant by Him
Whose is each flower and richly covered bough;
And though the leaves hang dead on every limb,
Still will I praise his love, that early now
Has sent before this herald of decay
To bid me heed the approach of Winter’s sterner
In the Poems of Park Benjamin, editor Merle M. Hoover points out an incident in 1839 in which the Brother Jonathan accused Benjamin of plagiarizing Charles Dance’s “Song of the Grave Digger.” Hoover suggests that this was precipitated by the fact that Benjamin left Brother Jonathan to establish the New World, a rival journal. This petty enmity seemed to be both a stressful and positive happenstance for Benjamin, for his poems were scrutinized thereafter under the pretense of plagiarism, but he was also provided advertisement for his works—surrounded by scandal (16).
Benjamin’s poem, “The Old Sexton,” is the poem up for debate. I’ll place both poems back to back and you can judge whether or not it sounds as if Benjamin plagiarized Dance’s work. Hoover insists that this accusation is “unfounded;” however, I disagree to an extent (16). Benjamin’s poem (published in 1840) sounds reminiscent of Dance’s poem (published in 1830), not only because of the blatant copying of the phrase “I gather them in,” but also because of the cadence of both works. Furthermore, the subject matter is the same, and there are words such as “spade,” which echo in both poems. These seem to be loose claims, I’m sure; however, neither does Hoover offer adequate points to articulate his stance. Simply put, they’re far too similar, and Benjamin may be guilty.
The Old Sexton Park Benjamin
Nigh to a grave, that was newly made, Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade: His work was done, and he paused to wait The funeral train through the open gate: A relic of by-gone days was he, And his locks were white as the foamy sea— And these words came from his lips so thin, “I gather them in! I gather them in!”
“I gather them in! for, man and boy, Year after year of grief and joy I’ve builded the houses that lie around In every nook of this burial ground. Mother and daughter, father and son, Come to my solitude, one by one— But come they strangers or come they kin, I gather them in! I gather them in!”
“Many are with me, but still I’m alone! I’m king of the dead—and I make my throne On a monument slab of marble cold, And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold. Come they from cottage or come they from hall— Mankind are my subjects—all, all, all! Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin— I gather them in! I gather them in!”
“I gather them in—and their final rest, Is here, down here in the Earth’s dark breast”— And the sexton ceased—for the funeral train Wound mutely over that solemn plain: And I said to my heart—when time is told, A mightier voice than that sexton’s old Will sound o’er the last trump’s dreadful din— “I gather them in! I gather them in!”
Song of the Grave Digger Charles Dance
Poor mortals imagine they stand on the ground, Supported by all that is solid and sound; ‘Tis a plank, and beneath it my work’s to be found— I gather them in, I gather them in. The child, strong and healthy, careers on the heath— Not thinking, not caring, scarce knowing of death; In an instant he draws his last innocent breath: I gather him in, I gather him in. The youth, in the vortex of folly and crime, Advised to repent—answers, “Not in my prime” ; He would, if he knew he had run out his time: I gather him in, I gather him in. Says Fifty, “poor Sixty is breaking space; He must long for the health that he sees in my face.” Self-deceiver! he dreams not he’s first in the race: I gather him in, I gather him in. “Huzza,” says the dotard, “I’m turned of four score, And now I shall live to a hundred or more”; At nightfall his coffin is brought to the door: I gather him in, I gather him in. The drunkard exclaims, “Fill my cup to the brim, In water life sinks, but in brandy ‘twill swim”’ He dies as he speaks, and I make sure of him: I gather him in, I gather him in. The rich man observes his poor neighbor look old, And hugs himself on his resources of gold; A lackey all lace, says, “a knell must be tolled.” I gather him in, I gather him in. E’en while he was speaking, the moralist elf Was digging, unthinking, a pit for himself; His spade and his mattock are laid on the shelf; They’ve gathered him in, They’ve gathered him in.
Thoughts In Autumn
Anna Peyre Dinnies
From the Poets and Poetry of America by Rufus Griswold, 1842, pg. 385.
Yes, thou art welcome, Autumn! all thy changes,
From fitful gloom, to sunny skies serene,
The starry vaults, o’er which the charm’d eye ranges,
And cold, clear moonlight, touching every scene
With a peculiar sadness, are sweet things,
To which my heart congenial fondly clings.
There is a moral in the wither’d wreaths
And faded garlands that adorn thy bowers;
Each blighted shrub, chill’d flower, or sear’d leaf breathes
Of parted days, and brighter by-gone hours,
Contracting with the present dreary scene
Spring’s budding beauties, pleasures which have been.