by “A Native of Newark”

A sad’ning sound’s in the troubl’d air
        That fans the western main—
Britannia mourns in fix’d despair,
        Her bravest heroes slain.

Her honor gone, her banners torn,
        And trampled in the dust;
The dauntless few who brav’d her scorn
        Have proved their cause was just.

The din of war has died away,
        And foemen sheathe the sword;
Columbia spurns despotic sway,
        She owns no foreign lord.

Thanks to our sires who nobly dar’d
        Oppression’s iron front,
And the free rights of man declar’d,
        E’en in the battle’s brunt,

Who drew the sword but to oppose
        Stern arbitrary laws,
Nor sheath’d it till fair freedom rose
        And crown’d the glorious cause.

Let not the aged sire bewail
        His son, the prop of age;
He fought his country’s foes to quell
        And tame their vengeful rage.

Mourn not, ye weeping widow’d train,
        A husband’s timeless call;
Freedom forbids you to complain—
        See! freedom decks their fall.

Mourn not, ye noble orphan band,
        A brave departed sire;
The glory of your native land
        Lights up their fun’ral pyre.

Blest be the mem’ry of the brave,
        Who in the conflict died;
Each nobly sought a freeman’s grave,
        When freedom was deny’d.

Oh, may the rights for which they strove
        Endure thro’ lasting time;
May union, liberty and love
        Long bless this happy clime.

There’s sound of gladness and of joy,
        And heaven-ward pealing strains,
Of praise and thanks to God on high,
        Who broke the despot’s chains;

Who rent their galling yoke in twain,
        And snapt their iron goad;
Who eas’d the burden of their pain
        And laid aside their load:

Gave the lone orphan child a sire
        And calm’d the mourner’s wo;
Bade desolating war expire,
        And peace and joy to flow.

Columbians, venerate the name,
        The all comprising will,
Which ever was and is the same,
        The kind dispenser still

Of every good and every bliss
        Which men on earth enjoy;
Almighty sov’reign of the world,
        Jehovah the most high.

The Camp Homestead (pictured) is considered one of Newark’s great lost landmarks. Located at the present intersection of Broad and Camp Streets, it was the dwelling of Captain Nathaniel Camp, whom legend says General George Washington charged with defending the town during a visit there in 1777. The home is thought to have stood into the 1850s.

The above verses appear in a small volume issued in Newark in 1831, called The Aspect of the Times: A Political Poem, and Other Pieces. The title work is an unapologetic denunciation of Indian land claims (a vexatious issue of the times) and of “those, who continue, without regard to honor or truth, to blast and defame the real well-wishers of the Union.” The unidentified author despaired of changing anyone’s opinion, saying, “I fear, the case is hopeless.”

from the German of Hans Sachs

The Hatter

Come, all ye merchants, hither flock
And judge the virtues of my stock.
Of good clean wool I make each hat,
Beaten and felted smooth and flat.
I shape it well and give it style,
Making it durable the while.
When winter comes with ice and snow,
I make warm woolen socks also.

 

The Tanner

I dry the skins out in the air,
Removing first each clinging hair.
Then in the Escher stream I dash them,
And thoroughly from dirt I wash them.
Cow-skin and calf in tan I keep,
Long months in bark-soaked water steep,
Then with a brush of hair I scrape them
And on the selling counter drape them.

 

The Shoemaker

Just see my stock upon the line,
Big shoes and little, coarse and fine.
No matter what the shoes you wear
I’ll warrant you a fitting pair.
Of riding boots a goodly store
And ladies’ shoes I have galore.
Fire buckets, holsters all beside
Of leather made, you’ll find inside.

 

The Brewer

I boil sweet barley in big kettles,
Then let it stand until it settles,
Then in the bitter green hop flowers
I stir, and let it cool for hours.
Then into heavy casks I pour it,
Tight caulked and standing open for it.
When well fermented, ripe and heady,
The clear, strong, bitter beer is ready.

 

The Brushmaker

Behold me at my humble trade;
Behold the brushes I have made,–
Brushes of leather, soft, with gold,
For ladies’ slender hands to hold,
Brushes to smooth the satin’s sheen,
Rough brushes coarser stuffs to clean.
To dust your gems, your floor and stable,
Some brush of mine is always able.

 

The Jeweler

I, jeweler, make precious things,
Like seals and golden signet rings,
Neckchains all set with jewels rare,
Brooches and combs for throat and hair,
Dishes of silver, bowls of gold,
Goblets and vases manifold.
I stint no labor at my task
For those who bring the price I ask.

 

In The Newarker of March 1914 John Cotton Dana offered “roughly translated” versions of twelve poems on trades and occupations by Hans Sachs of Nuremberg. Accompanied by miniatures of Jost Ammon’s original woodcuts, the translations themselves were unattributed.

We reproduce six of Dana’s selections (trades “all followed in Newark today”), and give the German originals from the work popularly known as Das Ständebuch (“The Book of Trades”), published in Frankfurt am Main in 1568.

 

             The Hatter (Der Hüter)

                Kehrt hie hereyn ir Kauffleut all,
                Schauwt, ob mein arbeit euch gefall,
                Von guter Wolln, sauber, nicht biltzet,
                Wol gschlagen, gwalcken und gefiltzet,
                Auch wol geformbt und zugericht,
                Gezogen Hüt und auch gebicht,
                Auch mach ich der Filtzsocken viel,
                Wenn der kalt Winter anbrechn wil.

 

             The Tanner (Der Läderer)

                Die Heuwt die henck ich in den Bach,
                Werff sie in den Escher darnach,
                Dergleich die Kalbfel auch also,
                Darnach wirff ich sie in das Loh,
                Da sie ir ruhe ein zeit erlangn,
                Darnach henck ichs auff an die Stangn,
                Wüsch darnach ab mit eim Harwüsch,
                Und habs feyl auff dem Leder Tisch.

 

             The Shoemaker (Der Schuhmacher)

                Hereyn, wer Stiffl und Schuh bedarff,
                Die kan ich machen gut und scharff,
                Büchsn, Armbrosthalffter und Wahtseck,
                Feuwr Eymer und Reyßtruhen Deck,
                Gewachtelt Reitstieffl, Kürißschuch,
                Pantoffel, gefütert mit Thuch,
                Wasserstiffl und Schuch außgeschnittn,
                Frauwenschuch, nach Höflichen sittn.

 

             The Brewer (Der Bierbreuwer)

                Auß Gersten sied ich gutes Bier,
                Feißt und Süß, auch bitter monier,
                In ein Breuwkessel weit und groß,
                Darein ich denn den Hopffen stoß,
                Laß den in Brennten külen baß,
                Damit füll ich darnach die Faß
                Wol gebunden und wol gebicht,
                Denn giert er und ist zugericht.

 

             The Brushmaker (Der Bürstenbinder)

                Ein Bürstenbinder nennt man mich,
                Allerley gattung mache ich,
                Schön bürsten für Frauwn und junckfrauwn
                Mit Golt vmbzogn lustig zuschauwn,
                Auch Kehrbürstn für die Kleider lind,
                Auch Börstwüsch für das Haußgesind,
                Auch Bürstn damit man Gläser schwenckt
                Wo die mit unlust wern behenckt.

 

             The Jeweler (Der Goldtschmid)

                Ich Goldtschmid mach köstliche ding,
                Sigel und gülden petschafft Ring,
                Köstlich geheng und Kleinot rein
                Versetzet mit Edlem gestein,
                Güldin Ketten, Halß und Arm band,
                Scheuren und Becher mancher hand,
                Auch von Silber Schüssel und Schaln,
                Wer mirs gutwillig thut bezaln.

by “Newark Muse”

There stood on the shores of the western sea,
        Where it heaves its awful surge,
A lonely being, who mournfully
        Chaunted his sorrowful dirge.

                “Where are the lands of my tribe,
                        Their hunting lands;
                Where gallantly struggled and died
                        The Indian bands?”

And the breeze of the forest came whistling along–
“The white men have seized them by treachery and wrong.”

                “Where are the graves of my race,
                        Their sacred graves;
                Which the Indian in his bloodiest frays
                        From insult saves?”

And a moaning voice was heard in the air–
“Their graves are profaned, for the white men are there.”

                “Where are the red men gone,
                        The warriors brave?
                For I see not a single one
                        On land or wave.”

And the song of the Indian was heard in the west–
“The white men have slain them, but now they’re at rest,
In the Great Spirit’s land they are free from their foes,
They hunt, and they sport, and in safety repose;
Come–lonely one–come to this happy abode,
And hunt with your fathers, through field and thro’ wood.”

“I come–at the sound of your voices I come,
And sweet is the message that calleth me home.
Farewell–farewell to my native land,
And cursed be the strangers who tread on its sand;
May the curse of a blighted heart be theirs,
And the Spirit of Might turn away from their prayers;
May they go to the grave without arms by their side;
May their tombs be insulted by scorn and by pride;
And at last may they wake in that terrible place,
Where no game can be found to allure to the chase.
I come–at the sound of your voices I come,
And sweet is the message that calleth me home.”

                He gazed on earth, and sea, and air,
                        Then sprang into the wave;
                And the last Indian, gladly, there
                        Embraced a watery grave.

Gutzon Borglum’s sculpture known as “The Indian and the Puritan” was dedicated in 1916. Commemorating the purchase of land along the Passaic on which Newark’s English-speaking settlers would build their town, it includes an inscription noting, “To the north and westward the Indians lingered as if reluctant to depart.”

The above lines appeared in the New-Jersey Eagle on June 6, 1828.