Charles D. Platt.
Mr. Platt, the faithful principal of our Morris Academy, has of late, "at odd moments and in vacations," as he says, written verses of local reference and others, upon various subjects, which have been published in our local papers and elsewhere.
Born at Elizabeth, N. J., Mr. Platt lived there until 1883. He was graduated at Williams' College in 1877, taught in the Rev. J. F. Pingry's School in Elizabeth for six years, came to Morristown and took charge of the Morris Academy in 1883, and has retained that position to the present time.
Among the poems which refer to local interests are "Fort Nonsense," which we give in the opening chapter on "Historic Morristown"; "The Old First Church"; "The Lyceum" and "The Washington Headquarters", which last will follow this short sketch, as embodying so much that is interesting of that historic building and its surroundings.
Other of the poems might, perhaps, for some special qualities, better represent Mr. Platt than this; there is the excellent and gay little parody, which we would like to give, of "That Old Latin Grammar". "The Wild Lily" is charming. Then there are "Memorial Day"; "Easter Song"; "Modern Progress"; "A Myth"; and "John Greenleaf Whittier", the last written and published upon the occasion of the poet's death September 16th, 1892. Besides these, there are the "Ballades of the Holidays" which form a series by themselves, dealing in part with the subject of popular maxims, and including poems for Christmas, New Year's Day, Discovery Day and other holidays. We give
THE WASHINGTON HEADQUARTERS, MORRISTOWN, NEW JERSEY.
What mean these cannon standing here,
These staring, muzzled dogs of war?
Heedless and mute, they cause no fear,
Like lions caged, forbid to roar.
This gun[A] was made when good Queen Anne
Ruled upon Merry England's throne;
Captured by valiant Jerseymen
Ere George the Third our rights would own.
"Old Nat",[B] the little cur on wheels,
Protector of our sister city,
Was kept to bite the British heels,
A yelping terror, bold and gritty.
That savage beast, the old "Crown Prince",[C]
A British bull-dog, glum, thick-set,
At Springfield's fight was made to wince,
And now we keep him for a pet.
Upon this grassy knoll they stand,
A venerable, peaceful pack;
Their throats once tuned to music grand,
And stained with gore their muzzles black.
But come, that portal swinging free,
A welcome offers, as of yore,
When, sheltered 'neath this old roof-tree,
Our patriot-chieftain trod this floor.
And with him in that trying day
Was gathered here a glorious band;
This house received more chiefs, they say,
Than any other in our land.[D]
Hither magnanimous Schuyler came,
And stern Steuben from o'er the water;
Here Hamilton, of brilliant fame,
Once met and courted Schuyler's daughter.
And Knox, who leads the gunner-tribes,
Whose shot the trembling foeman riddles,
A roaring chief,[E] his cash subscribes
To pay the mirth-inspiring fiddles.[F]
The "fighting Quaker", General Greene,
Helped Knox to foot the fiddlers' bill;
And here the intrepid "Put." was seen,
And Arnold—black his memory still.
And Kosciusko, scorning fear,
Beside him noble Lafayette;
And gallant "Light Horse Harry" here
His kindly chief for counsel met.
"Mad Antony" was here a guest,—
Madly he charged, but shrewdly planned;
And many another in whose breast
Was faithful counsel for our land.
Among these worthies was a dame
Of mingled dignity and grace;
Linked with the warrior-statesman's fame
Is Martha's comely, smiling face.
But look around, to right to left;
Pass through these rooms, once Martha's pride,
The dining hall of guests bereft,
The kitchen with its fire-place wide.
See the huge logs, the swinging crane,
The Old Man's seat by chimney ingle,
The pots and kettles, all the train
Of brass and pewter, here they mingle.
In the large hall above, behold
The flags, the eagle poised for flight:
While sabres, bayonets, flint-locks old,
Tell of the struggle, and the fight.
Old faded letters bear the seal
Of men who battled for a stamp;
A cradle and a spinning-wheel
Bespeak the home behind the camp.
Apartments opening from the hall
Show chairs and desks of quaint old style,
And curious pictures on the wall
Provoke a reverential smile.
Musing, we loiter in each room
And linger with our vanished sires;
We hear the deep, far-echoing boom
That spoke of old in flashing fires.
But deepening shadows bid us go,
The western sun is sinking fast;
We take our leave with footsteps slow,
Farewell, ye treasures of the past.
A century and more has gone,
Since these old relics saw their day;
That day was but the opening dawn
Of one that has not passed away.
Our banner is no worthless rag,
With patriot pride hearts still beat high;
And there, above, still waves the flag
For which our fathers dared to die.