That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when return'd 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-cover'd 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-cover'd bucket, which hangs in his well.

RICHARD

HENRY

DANA.*

Born at Cambridge, Mass: 1787.

THE LITTLE BEACH BIRD.

THOU little bird! thou dweller by the sea!
Why takest thou its melancholy voice,
And with that boding cry

O'er the waves dost thou fly?

O! rather, bird! with me

Through the fair land rejoice!

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim and pale,
As driven by the beating storm at sea;
Thy cry is weak and scared,

As if thy mates had shared

The doom of us. Thy wail-
What does it bring to me?

*See Note 6.

Thou call'st along the sand, and haunt'st the surge,
Restless and sad; as if, in strange accord
With the motion and the roar

Of waves that drive to shore,

One spirit did ye urge,—
The Mystery-the Word.

Of thousands thou both sepulchre and pall,
Old Ocean, art! A requiem o'er the dead
From out thy gloomy cells

A tale of mourning tells,-
Tells of man's woe and fall,
His sinless glory fled.

Then turn thee, little bird! and take thy flight
Where the complaining sea shall sadness bring
Thy spirit never more!

Come, quit with me the shore

For gladness, and the light

Where birds of summer sing!

THE MOSS SUPPLICATETH FOR THE POET.

THOUGH I am humble, slight me not,
But love me for the Poet's sake;
Forget me not till he's forgot;

I care or slight with him would take.

For oft he pass'd the blossoms by,

And gazed on me with kindly look; Left flaunting flowers and open sky, And woo'd me by the shady brook.

And like the brook his voice was low:
So soft, so sad the words he spoke,
That with the stream they seem'd to flow:
They told me that his heart was broke ;-

They said, the world he fain would shun,
And seek the still and twilight wood,-
His spirit, weary of the sun,

In humblest things found chiefest good;

That I was of a lowly frame,

And far more constant than the flower, Which, vain with many a boastful name, But flutter'd out its idle hour;

That I was kind to old decay,

And wrapt it softly round in green, On naked root and trunk of gray Spread out a garniture and screen :

They said, that he was withering fast,
Without a sheltering friend like me;
That on his manhood fell a blast,

And left him bare, like yonder tree;

That spring would clothe his boughs no more, Nor ring his boughs with song of bird,Sounds like the melancholy shore

Alone were through his branches heard.

Methought, as then, he stood to trace
The wither'd stems, there stole a tear,
That I could read in his sad face-

Brothers! our sorrows make us near.

And then he stretch'd him all along,
And laid his head upon my breast,
Listening the water's peaceful song.

How glad was I to tend his rest!

Then happier grew his soothed soul.

He turn'd and watch'd the sunlight play Upon my face, as in it stole,

Whispering" Above is brighter day!"

He praised my varied hues,-the green,
The silver hoar, the golden brown;
Said-Lovelier hues were never seen;

Then gently press'd my tender down.

And where I sent up little shoots,

He call'd them trees, in fond conceit : Like silly lovers in their suits

He talk'd, his care awhile to cheat.

I said, I'd deck me in the dews,
Could I but chase away his care,
And clothe me in a thousand hues,
To bring him joys that I might share.

He answer'd, earth no blessing had

To cure his lone and aching heart;
That I was one, when he was sad,
Oft stole him from his pain, in part.

But e'en from thee, he said, I go,

To meet the world, its care and strife, No more to watch this quiet flow, Or spend with thee a gentle life.

And yet the brook is gliding on,
And I, without a care, at rest;
While back to toiling life he's gone,

Where finds his head no faithful breast.

Deal gently with him, World! I pray ; Ye cares! like soften'd shadows come;

His spirit, well-nigh worn away,

Asks with ye but awhile a home.

0, may I live, and when he dies Be at his feet a humble sod; O, may I lay me where he lies,

To die when he awakes in God!

LYDIA HOWARD HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY.

Born at Norwich, Connecticut, 1791-died 1865.

INDIAN NAMES.

YE say they all have pass'd away,
That noble race and brave;

That their light canoes have vanish'd
From off the crested wave;

That, 'mid the forests where they roam'd,
There rings no hunter's shout:

But their name is on your waters,

"Tis where Ontario's billow

Like ocean's surge is curl'd,

Where strong Niagara's thunders wake
The echo of the world,
Where red Missouri bringeth

Rich tribute from the West,
And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps
On green Virginia's breast.

Ye say their cone-like cabins,
That cluster'd o'er the vale,
Have disappear'd, as wither'd leaves
Before the autumn's gale;

But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shore,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore.

Old Massachusetts wears it
Within her lordly crown,
And broad Ohio bears it

Amid his young renown;
Connecticut hath wreath'd it

Where her quiet foliage waves,
And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse
Through all her ancient caves.