New Orleans Republican. [volume] (New Orleans, La) 1867-1878, 1872-08-18
The Old Oaken Bucket.

What is the best poem that each poet has
| written, and who is to be the Judge Ofeit,
! the poet or his readers ?. 1--WE are thesbest
! judges" the readers say, but the poet
| shakes his head, II am the only Judge, and
| if you do not agree with me it is because
! you know nothing of poetry" 1t is a
| pretty quarrel, and who will take part in it;
we shall not
We have no means of knowing what
! Shakespeare thought of himself at all but
| we know that Milton preferred Paradise
| Regained" to /" Paradise Lost" and the
| majority of those who read poetry for the
! pleasure that it gives them, share this pref
| erenCe. We know, also, that Goethe de-
claTed in his old age that " Hermann and
D0rothea' was his best poem, and we have
yet to see the man who did not agree with
him, That other poets have maintained
their worst to be their best work is not to
the point Though we admit the fact, for
there Is no way of ascertaining that such
was their settled conviction. Ii we could
get INTO the good grac0s of the poets, we
should discover that those poems, in every
instance, had been taken into the bOsoms
and business Of men. We should also, dis
cover that they were all simple in thought
and expression, SO simple, indeed, as to-
seem an Outgr0wth Of nature, and not the
upbuIdiug Of art The most celebrated,
poem Of the kind in the language, Gray's
VI.
So does Burns Mary in Heaven" Camp
bells " Mariners Of England, ," and Wolfes
g Burial of Sir John Moore
The quality which is the life of these
poems, and of which they are the perfect
expression, is simplicity. 1t is the quality
by which all the great works of art are
characterized, and which is generally the
last that an artist acquires. The difficult
ties that beset the road to it are only under
stood hv artists. fO I'll q aTDo do
exist If this is true of art in general, it is
especially true of the particular form of it
that we call poetry. Only great poets
know how to write simply What the
minor poets and pOetasters mistake for sim
pHcity, IS the commonplace. If Buras
could make poem out of pla.n statement
"A Mans o Man for a. That" WHY should
not Charles Maclzay make a poem out Of
equally plain statement, There's a Good
Time Coming, Boys?" There is no reason
why, except that Burns was a poet and
Mackay is not. As with Mackay, so with
Swain, and the rest Of the commonplace
school, not forgetting Eliza Cook, who
stood for a short time at the head Of her in
FAINT class.
1t would not be difficult to find their
cOunterparts in this country; the difficulty.
indeed, is to avoid finding them so thor.
Oughly Is the commonplace ingrained in the
American character. We can saw that onr
poets have not utterly failed in their at
tempts to write simply, but we can not say
that many of them have succeeded We
can count ON the fingers of one hand almost
every American poem memorable for its
simplicity. They are 'phe Farmer Sat in
His Easy Chair" "Hannah Binding Shoes. "
Florence Fane,' "The Barefoot Boy and
The Village Blacksmith Earlier than
these, in point of time, is Wood wOrth's
"Old Oaken Bucket" Il is not poetry, it
is scarcely pOetical, but it will live, because
1t awakens in many minds train of agree
able associations:
THE OLD OAKEy BUCKET.
How dear to this heart the scenes of my child
When fond recollection presents them TO vieyl
The orchard, the meadow the deep-tangled wild
And every loved spot which my infancy knew
The Wlde-spreading pond, and tbe well that stood
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell
The cot Of my father the dairy house nigh it,
ana cen the rude bucket that hung in the well
me old Oaken bucket, the iron bound bucket
Inc mosS-cOVeTed bucket which hung il the well.
That moss-covered vessel hail as a treasure,
FoI often at noon, when returned from the field,
found 1t the source of an exquisite pleasure,
- ne puTest and sweetest that nature Can yield.
No" dIueut seized 1t, with hands tLat were glow
ing
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem Of truth Overlooking.
ana dripping with cOoiness It rose from the
The old Oaken bucket the iron-bOnnd bucket
The moss covered bucket, arose from the we'll
How sweet from the green messy bIim to receive
1t,
As poised on the curb if inclined to nv lips
Not full b.ushing goblet could tempt me to leave
II.
Though filed with the nectar that Jupiter sips
And now, far removed from the loved hsbitation
The tear OF regret will intusively swell
As fancy reverts to my fathers plantation
And sighs for the Bucket which hangs in the
well
The old Osken bucket, the iron bound bucket,
The .moss-c0vered bucket that hangs in the well
The well in which the old oaken bucket
hung is still shown at Scituate, Massachu-
sets, the birthplace of WoOdsworth, and
the different features of the landscape
described by him are pointed out to his adj
mirers.
In What nav docs a LADY fraa4 n 49,. n