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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
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs.

'Tis 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
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me that shame would never betide
With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide ;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat, and watched her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were

gray;

And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped,
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled !
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now, With quivering breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me, 't was there she died, And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

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 a 1 their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my hand-
Forgive 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 PERKINS MORRIS.

SEVEN TIMES TWO.

ROMANCE.

You bells in the steeple, ring out your changes,

How many soever they be,

And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he

ranges

Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys,

And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days.

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily While a boy listened alone :

Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are

over,

And mine, they are yet to be;

No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught discover:

You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,

Preparing her hoods of snow;

She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: O, children take long to grow.

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster,

Nor long summer bide so late;

And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover, While dear hands are laid on my head; "The child is a woman, the book may close over,

For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story - the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree;

The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O, bring it!

Such as I wish it to be.

JEAN INGELOW.

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.

LITTLE Ellie sits alone

Mid the beeches of a meadow,
By a stream-side on the grass,
And the trees are showering down
Doubles of their leaves in shadow,
On her shining hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by,
And her feet she has been dipping
In the shallow water's flow.
Now she holds them nakedly
In her hands all sleek and dripping,
While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses

Fills the silence like a speech,

While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach.

Little Ellie in her smile Chooses. . . "I will have a lover, Riding on a steed of steeds! He shall love me without guile, And to him I will discover

The swan's nest among the reeds.

"And the steed shall be red-roan,
And the lover shall be noble,
With an eye that takes the breath.
And the lute he plays upon

Shall strike ladies into trouble,
As his sword strikes men to death.

"And the steed it shall be shod All in silver, housed in azure,

And the mane shall swim the wind; And the hoofs along the sod Shall flash onward and keep measure, Till the shepherds look behind.

"But my lover will not prize All the glory that he rides in, When he gazes in my face.

He will say, 'O Love, thine eyes Build the shrine my soul abides in, And I kneel here for thy grace.'

"Then, ay then he shall kneel low With the red-roan steed anear him, Which shall seem to understand Till I answer, 'Rise and go! For the world must love and fear him Whom I gift with heart and hand.'

"Then he will arise so pale,

I shall feel my own lips tremble
With a yes I must not say;
Nathless maiden-brave, Farewell
I will utter, and dissemble ;-
'Light to-morrow with to-day.'

"Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river,

There to put away all wrong;
To make straight distorted wills,
And to empty the broad quiver

Which the wicked bear along.

"Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain

And kneel down beside my feet ; —
'Lo, my master sends this gage,
Lady, for thy pity's counting!
What wilt thou exchange for it?'

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She did not say to the sun, "Good night!"
Though she saw him there like a ball of light;
For she knew he had God's time to keep
All over the world and never could sleep

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ;
The violets courtesied, and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.

And, while on her pillow she softly lay,
She knew nothing more till again it was day;
And all things said to the beautiful sun,
"Good morning, good morning! our work is
begun."

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. (LORD HOUGHTON.)

THREE YEARS SHE GREW.

THREE years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown :
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.

"Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse; and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm,

Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend ;
Nor shall she fail to see

E'en in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

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