OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. OLD Master Brown brought his ferule down, Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls, ANONYMOUS. THE BAREFOOT BOY. BLESSINGS on thee, little man, Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! With thy turned-up pantaloons, And thy merry whistled tunes; With thy red lip, redder still Kissed by strawberries on the hill; With the sunshine on thy face, Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace; From my heart I give thee joy, — I was once a barefoot boy! Prince thou art, the grown-up man Let the million-dollared ride! O for boyhood's painless play, Sleep that wakes in laughing day, Health that mocks the doctor's rules, Knowledge never learned of schools, Of the wild bee's morning chase, Of the wild-flower's time and place, Flight of fowl and habitude Of the tenants of the wood; How the tortoise bears his shell, How the woodchuck digs his cell, And the ground-mole sinks his well; How the robin feeds her young, How the oriole's nest is hung; Where the whitest lilies blow, Where the freshest berries grow, Where the ground-nut trails its vine, Where the wood-grape's clusters shine; Of the black wasp's cunning way, Mason of his walls of clay, And the architectural plans Of gray hornet artisans !— For, eschewing books and tasks, Nature answers all he asks; Hand in hand with her he walks, Face to face with her he talks, Part and parcel of her joy, Blessings on the barefoot boy! O for boyhood's time of June, Crowding years in one brief moon, When all things I heard or saw, Me, their master, waited for. I was rich in flowers and trees, Humming-birds and honey-bees; For my sport the squirrel played, Plied the snouted mole his spade; For my taste the blackberry cone Purpled over hedge and stone; Laughed the brook for my delight Through the day and through the night, Whispering at the garden wall, Talked with me from fall to fall; Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, Mine the walnut slopes beyond, Mine, on bending orchard trees, Apples of Hesperides ! Still as my horizon grew, Larger grew my riches too; All the world I saw or knew Seemed a complex Chinese toy, Fashioned for a barefoot boy! -- O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 27 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. THE DESERTED GARDEN. I MIND me in the days departed, To a garden long deserted. The beds and walks were vanished quite; THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view ! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew ;The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; | And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure; For often, at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well. How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. And now, far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs. "T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart; Not a tie will break, not a link will start; Would you know the spell?-a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair. In childhood's hour I lingered near I sat, and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; And turned from her Bible to bless her child. 'Tis past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now, ELIZA COOK WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'T was my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea, And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my handForgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend, Old tree the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall hurt it not. GEORGE P. MORRIS |