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Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflow

ing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the

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

well ;

ELIZA COOK,

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, Tirms j-coverel bucket which hang; in the well.

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,

Aud 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 !

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.

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade ; In al 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 oll ork stand !

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.

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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.

You bells in the steeple, riug 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.

'T is past, 't is past ! but I gaze on it now, Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling With quivering breath and throbbing brow : No magical sense conveys, 'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling And memory flows with lava tide.

The fortune of future days.

Little Ellie in her smile Chooses . . . "I will have a lover,

Riding on å 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 trenible

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?'

“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,
Anil her feet she has been dipping

In the shallow water's flow.

Now she holds them nakedly
In her hanıls 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.

“And the first time, I will send A whit rosebud for a guerdon,

Anc' he second time, a glove ,

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, An 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.”

But the third time, I may bend From my pride, and answer, ‘Pardon,

If he comes to take my love.'

“ Then the young foot-page will run, Then my lover will ride faster, Till he kneeleth at my knee :

I am a duke's eldest son ! Thousand serfs do call me master,

But, O Love, I love but thee!'

“He will kiss me on the mouth Then, and lead me as a lover

Through the crowds that praise his deeds ;

And, when soul-tied by one troth, Unto him I will discover

That swan's nest among the reeds."

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly,

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,

And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted,

Where the osier pathway leads,

Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted,

And a rat had gnawed the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds,

Sooth I know not! but I know She could never show him — never,

That swan's nest among the reeds !

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD MORNING.

A Fair little girl sat under a tree
Sewing as long as her eyes could see ;
Then smoothed her work and folded it right,
And said, “Dear work, good night, good night!”

Such a number of rooks came over her head,
Crying “Caw, caw !” on their way to bed,
She said, as she watched their curious flight,
“ Little black things, good night, good night!”

The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,
The sheep's “Bleat! bleat.!" came over the

road ;
All seeming to say, with a quiet delight,
“Good little girl, good night, good night !”

Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse !

Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem
As the river of a dream.

Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian ?

Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly?

Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar ?

O thou child of many prayers !
Life hath quicksands, Life hath snares !
Care and age come unawares !

Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.

Childhood is the bough where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered ;
Age, that bough with snows encumbered.

Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.

Bear a lily in thy hand ;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth.

O, that dew, like balm, shall steal Into wounds that cannot heal, Even as sleep our eyes doth seal ;

And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

LUCY.

Thus Nature spake. The work was done,
How soou my Lucy's race was run !

She died, and left to me
This heath, this calm and quiet scene;
The memory of what has been,
And nevermore will be.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THREAD AND SONG.

SWEETER and sweeter,

Soft and low,
Neat little nymph,

Thy numbers flow,
Urging thy thimble,
Thrift's tidy symbol,
Busy and nimble,

To and fro;
Prettily plying

Thread and song,
Keeping them flying

Late and long,
Through the stitch linger,
Kissing thy finger,

Quick, as it skips along.

Many an echo,

Soft and low,
Follows thy flying

Fancy so,
Melodies thrilling,
Tenderly filling
Thee with their trilling,

Come and go;
Memory's finger,

Quick as thine,
Loving to linger

On the line,
Writes of another,

Dearer than brother:
Would that the name were mine!

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.

MAIDENHOOD.

MAIDEN ! with the meek brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies !

'Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run !

Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood feet !

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove ; A maid whom there were none to praise,

And very few to love

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