The Richmond palladium. [volume] (Richmond, Ind.) 1855-1875, 1869-05-25
usr AND FEAR MOTT LET ALL THE ENDS At THY


tions have superseded New York Mir
rors, etc.
It has been since Mr.. Woodworth's
days on earth were ended, that many OF
the Western States were settled enough
to have q literature, and there have been
such great things for Hoosiers and other
Westerners to do; so many all absobiDg
topics in their midst, SO much native
genius and talent of their own;> so many
fortunes to be made; and 80 many grand
and glorious results in the future await
ing them, that they have never heard,
or have forgotten much that they would
have heard and remembered had they
lived nearer the Atlantic ocean and far
ther from the Mississippi river, and be.
lieved that at the point where the Ohio
river 10 formed--and where there is q
very coal smoky manufacturing city. in.
habited by hospitabie, Industrious, clev-
er, though rather smutty pcople-that
American civilization, refinement and
intellectually ends.
But east, west, north, and south
everywhere-sThe Old Oaken Bucket
is household poem. It belongs to the
common heart of the people. It is an
inscription on banners under which the
soldiers in a moral warfare contend
against the armies Of the aliens. It is
a sweet cradle song, tn at lisping child
can learn; and should prodigal, wan
derer from his fathers house, near it re-
peated or sung, or should he recall it to
memory, its spell would inspire the res
olution, 4 will arise, and go to my fa-
ther.' Il is sung at our fashionable
concerts. and in our quiet parIors.
1t was original, being copy OF moth
ing, yet finds response in the common
heart of mankind. And to-day. it is as
descriptive, as touching and tender, in
all its beauty, pathos aud melody, as it
was when the poets heart, and the po-
cts brain, clothe I'd in outer language the
sweet thoughts and emotions that went
singing through his inner self.
Here is a dear home picture as it were,
that haunting the artist amid the weary
tolls and trials of irksome city life, in an
hour Of inspiration, unmindful Of the
the present, and holding dear the past,
paints with such perfection, such nature
inspired skill, in colors of living light,
with an exquisit touch and harmonious
blending, that youth and old age recog-
nize in it counterpart to picture in
their own hearts.
None but an American could write
such poem. 1t has been copied SO of
ten and had such fame, that it seemed
useless to affix the authors name, until
at last, i'll many instances, the author
was forgotten while the poem was. ever
remembered. Aud because it was so
true. SO natural, so dear to every heart,
and awakened SO many echoes, we claim
it as . part of ourselves and forget him
who gave it to US.
Although the poem is so familiar, no
biographical sketch of the author is COM
plete without it, No one should think
to do it justice or add to it merit by
praise or complimentary criticism; it is
its own advocate. I make an exact
copy from q volume of poems published
by the author in New York, in the year
1881. The poetry members have made
some changes occasionally to suit them
selves. It is under the head of Pastor
nj Melodies, es,'-Air-The Flower of Dun
blame:
THE BUCKET.
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my child
When fond recollection presents them to view;
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild
wood,
Aud 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, and the dairy house nigh it.
And cen the rude bucket that hung in the we'll
The old oaken bucket, the iron.bound bucket,
The moss covered bucket which hung in the WE'LL
That moss-covered vessel hailed as treasure
For often at noon, when returned from the field,
/ found fhoo Of
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent sezed it, with hands that were glow
And quick to the whte-pebbled botto m it fell
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overfowing,
And dripping with GOODNESS, it from the we'll
The old oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the WELL
How sweet from the green messy brm to receive il,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not full gushing goblet could tempt to leave it
The brightest that beauty reve'ry sips.
And now far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my fathers plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hung in the we'll
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the WELT
It is said that many of Woodworth' q
poems we're copied into English papers.
his name being confounded with that of
Wordworth, and his pieces credited to
the latter poet. Although it was q high
complim ent to Woodwork in some res.
poets it was not in others; for Words.
worth, with all the true and beautiful
things he did write could not have writ
ten The Hunters of Kentucky because
he was an Englishman, as we'll as Ere
dom's Star and some others.
Really it is laughable,if nothing else, to
think that Johnny Bull, so firm in the
faith of himself, and asking the question
with such an extra toss of horns: Who
ever thinks of reading an American
book?' should attribute to one of his
greatest poets the effusions of an Amer
ican tradesman, who did not make poe.
try profession, but wrote because he
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