I thread the crowded street;
A satchel'd lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and color'd hair:
And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!

I know his face is hid
Under the coffin-lid;

Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
My hand that marble felt;
O'er it in prayer I knelt;

Yet my heart whispers that he is not there!

I can not make him dead!
When passing by the bed,

So long watch'd over with parental care,
My spirit and my eye

Seek him inquiringly,

Before the thought comes that he is not there!

When, at the cool gray break
Of day, from sleep I wake,

With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy,

To Him who gave my boy;

Then comes the sad thought that he is not there!

When at the day's calm close,

Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am in spirit praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear.

The

grave,

that now doth press

Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe lock'd ;-he is not there!

He lives!-In all the past
He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And on his angel brow,

I see it written-"Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!
FATHER! Thy chastening rod

help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land,

Meeting at Thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that he is there!

CENTENNIAL ODE.

BREAK forth in song, ye trees!
As through your tops the breeze
Sweeps from the sea!

For, on its rushing wings,
То your cool shades and springs
That breeze a people brings,
Exiled though free.

Ye sister hills! lay down
Of ancient oaks your crown,
In homage due;

These are the great of earth,—
Great, not by kingly birth,
Great in their well-proved worth,

Firm hearts and true.

These are the living lights,

That from your bold green heights

Shall shine afar,

Till they who name the name
Of Freedom, tow'rd the flame
Come, as the Magi came

Tow'rd Bethlehem's Star.

Gone are those great and good
Who here in peril stood

And raised their hymn.'
Peace to the reverend dead!
The light, that on their head
Two hundred years have shed,
Shall ne'er grow dim.

Ye temples, that to God
Rise where our fathers trod !
Guard well your trust:

The faith that dared the sea,
The truth that made them free,
Their cherish'd purity,

Their garner'd dust.

Thou high and holy One!
Whose care for sire and son

All nature fills,—

While day shall break and close,
While night her crescent shows,
O, let Thy light repose

On these our hills!

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

Born at Scituate, Massachusetts, 1785-died 1842.

THE BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well!
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well.

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 ;—