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. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; 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 I almost worshipped her when she smiled, '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, ELIZA COOK WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. And I'll protect it now. Whose glory and renown And wouldst thou hew it down? I sought its grateful shade; Here too my sisters played. My father pressed my hand- But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, And still thy branches bend. 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, She has thrown her bonnet by, Little Ellie sits alone, 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, Shall strike ladies into trouble, "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 "Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river, There to put away all wrong; 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 ; — She did not say to the sun, "Good night!" The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ; And, while on her pillow she softly lay, RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. (LORD HOUGHTON.) THREE YEARS SHE GREW. THREE years she grew in sun and shower; On earth was never sown : A lady of my own. "Myself will to my darling be In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn Or up the mountain springs; Of mute insensate things. "The floating clouds their state shall lend E'en in the motions of the storm By silent sympathy. "The stars of midnight shall be dear "And vital feelings of delight Her virgin bosom swell; Here in this happy dell." |