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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,
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.
Touch not a single bough!
And I'll protect it now.
That placed it near his cot;
Thy axe shall harm it not !
Whose glory and renown
Aud wouldst thou hew it down ?
Cut not its earth-bound ties ;
Now towering to the skies !
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.
I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
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
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 !
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.
THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.
LITTLE Ellie sits alone
By a stream-side on the grass,
And the trees are showering down
On her shining hair and face.
She has thrown her bonnet by,
In the shallow water's flow.
Now she holds them nakedly
While she rocketh to and fro.
Little Ellie sits alone,
Fills the silence like a speech,
While she thinks what shall be done, -
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!”
The tall pink foxglove bowed his head ;
RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES.
THREE YEARS SHE GREW.
Three years she grew in sun and shower ;
On earth was never sown :
A lady of my own.
The girl, in rock and plain, In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power
To kindle or restrain.
Or up the mountain springs ;
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.
Her virgin bosom swell ;
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
Such a number of rooks came over her head,
The horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,
Gazing, with a timid glance,
Deep and still, that gliding stream
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 !
Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Childhood is the bough where slumbered
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
Bear a lily in thy hand ;
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
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
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Thus Nature spake. The work was done,
She died, and left to me
THREAD AND SONG.
SWEETER and sweeter,
Soft and low,
Thy numbers flow,
To and fro;
Thread and song,
Late and long,
Quick, as it skips along.
Many an echo,
Soft and low,
Come and go;
Quick as thine,
On the line,
Dearer than brother:
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
MAIDEN ! with the meek brown eyes,
'Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Standing, with reluctant 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