Now every day in Newark Is a whooptedooden day. And every soul in Newark Seems to rather like that way, For it keeps the circulation Circulating, and the blood, Mixing with the clay of humans, Makes a living, lusty mud, Which is bound to be so fertile That for years and years to come The growth of coming Newark Puts all rivals on the bum, And the Newark of the future Is going to be so great That New Jersey of the future Will be changed to Newark State.
Newark’s Feigenspan brewery advertised on buildings and billboards across the state and the region, branding its wares “P. O. N.” for “Pride of Newark.” Giant illuminated letters shone from its buildings in the Ironbound even while the plant was shuttered during Prohibition, taken later as proof “that hope burned eternal in the brewer’s breast.” (New Jersey. A guide to its present and past)
Colonel Bill Lampton’s lines appeared in the June 1916 issue of The Newarker, and were reprinted the following year in The Newark Anniversary Poems.
In the long days pleasant gloaming, ‘Twixt the sun and stars, When the soul would fain go roaming Free from mortal bars; Gentle night winds stir the roses, As the door of daylight closes In the Western sky; And the shades of dusk fall thickly, As oblivion gathers quickly Over men who die; Tunefully the streamlet’s tinkle In the leafy grove– Tallies with the rhythmic twinkle Of the orbs above.
Distant drowsy bells are telling Midnight on the air, Denizens of field and dwelling Slumber everywhere; Troops of shadows flee to cover, As the smiling moon peeps over Each umbrageous hill; And amid its lustrous glimmer Dusky woodland aisles grow dimmer, And more silent still; Rills and rivers smile unwrinkled By the slightest breeze, While the foliage droops unsprinkled On the dusty trees.
Crickets chirp and birds are singing At the break of day, While the lavish sun is flinging Streams of tints away; Busy farmers, brown and burly, Haste to labor, bright and early, Ere the day be clear; Making hillside echoes chatter With the loudly rattling clatter Of the reaping gear; While the gleeful children ramble ‘Mid the orchards cool, Or with laughter splash and gamble In some quiet pool.
In 1882 Frederick Pilch, a Newark attorney, published Homespun Verses, a compilation of mostly seasonal poetry sampled here.
‘Twas summer, and the spot a cool retreat– Where curious eyes came not, nor footstep rude Disturbed the lovers’ chosen solitude: Beneath an oak there was a mossy seat, Where we reclined, while birds above us wooed Their mates in songs voluptuously sweet. A limpid brook went murmuring by our feet, And all conspired to urge the tender mood. Methought I touched the streamlet with a flower, When from its bosom sprang a fountain clear, Falling again in the translucent shower, Which made more green each blade of grass appear: “This stream’s thy heart,” I said; “Love’s touch alone Can change it to the fount which maketh green my own.”
Part of a circle of expatriate artists and writers that included fellow poets Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Kinney penned verses and essays from Italy for the Newark Daily Advertiser, of which her husband was the founding publisher. She returned to Newark after the Civil War.
“A Dream” is from the volume Poems, published in 1867.
The dank and sulky tenements Are wilting weary with the heat; While from the doorways, children spill And clot the humid, huddled street. The pools of faces flood the stoops And dribble into every space, Until this packed humanity Seethes like a vat in every place! The sallow mothers with their babes; The playing, sprawling children there; The flaccid moldy aged men; The boys with their disheveled hair– This weltering humanity Is saturated with the heat That wedges into every crack, Pressing and beating on the street! But while a hurdy-gurdy trolls, A sentimental tinsel tune; And cars are droning down the tracks; And weary pallid mothers croon, In every eye, a flare or gleam Reveals the sea-shore in a dream!
This poem was part of Louis Ginsberg’s 1920 collection The Attic of the Past and Other Lyrics.
The bright sun has been hid so long,– Such endless rains, such clouds and glooms! But now, as with a burst of song, The happy Summer morning blooms.
The brooks are full, it is their youth; No hint of shrunken age have they; They shout like children, and in truth, No human child so careless-gay.
How fresh the woods, each separate leaf Is shining in the joyful sun. Strange! I have half forgotten grief; I think that life has just begun.
In the 1860s Richard Watson Gilder worked as a correspondent and editor of the Newark Daily Advertiser. He frequently took charge of the selection and, sometimes, composition of poetry for its front pages. He went on to co-found the Newark Morning Register in 1869.
The lines above are taken from Gilder’s 1901 collection Poems and Inscriptions.