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The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; | And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And turned from her Bible to bless her child.

Ande'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. Years rolled on, but the last one sped, The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. I learnt how much the heart can bear,

When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ;

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 'Tis past, 't is past ! but I gaze on it now, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, With quivering breath and throbbing brow :

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died, How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow- And memory flows with lava tide. ing!

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

ELIZA COOK

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

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.

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 !

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And 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!

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When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade ;
In all 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 old oak 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.

My heart-strings round thee cling,

Close as thy bark, old friend !
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend,
Old tree! the storm still brave !

And, woodman, leave the spot ;
While I've a hand to save,

Thy axe shall hurt it not.

I sat, and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray ;

GEORGE P. MORRIS

POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

Home Sweet Stome !

seend

Mid plasures and palaces shough we may wam Be it ever so hamble,

there's

no place like home! a charm from the sky

to hallow as there which, seek through the world, is meer met with elsewhere!

home,

sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home! There's no place Whe home!

Ich

Home,

CHILD
MEMORIAL
LIBRARY

John Howard

Sagne?

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Fair Nature's book together read,
The old wood-paths that knew our tread,
The maple shadows overhead,

The hills we climbed, the river seen
By gleams along its deep ravine,
all keep thy memory fresh and green.

Where'er I look, where'er I stray,
Thy thought goes with me on my way,
And hence the prayer I breathe to-day :

O'er lapse of time and change of scene,
The weary waste which lies between
Thyself and me, my heart I lean.

COME then, my friend! my genius! come along;
O master of the poet, and the song !
And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends,
To man's low passions, or their glorious ends,
Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise,
To fall with dignity, with temper rise ;
Formed by thy converse happily to steer
From grave to gay, from lively to severe ;
Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease,
Intent to reason, or polite to please.
0, while along the stream of time thy name
Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame;
Say, shall my little bark attendant sail,
Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale?
When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose,
Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes,
Shall then this verse to future age pretend
Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend!
That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art
From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart :
For wit's false mirror held up Nature's light ;
Showed erring pride, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT;
That REASON, PASSION, answer one great aim;
That true self-LOVE and SOCIAL are the same;
That VIRTUE only makes our bliss below ;
And all our knowledge is, OURSELVES TO KNOW.

Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor
The half-unconscious power to draw
All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law.

With these good gifts of God is cast
Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast
To hold the blessed angels fast.

If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?

ALEXANDER POPE.

The sighing of a shaken reed,
What can I more than meekly plead
The greatness of our common need ?

A GENEROUS friendship no cold medium knows,
Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.

POPE'S ILIAD.

PARTED FRIENDS.

But I've in vain essayed it,

And feel I cannot now.

FRIEND after friend departs :

Who hath not lost a friend ? There is no union here of hearts

That finds not here an end; Were this frail world our only rest, Living or dying, none were blest.

While memory bids me weep thee,

Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply
That moums a man like thee.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

EARLY FRIENDSHIP.

Beyond the flight of time,

Beyond this vale of death, There surely is some blesséd clime

Where life is not a breath, Nor life's affections transient fire, Whose sparks fly upward to expire.

There is a world above,

Where parting is unknown ; A whole eternity of love,

Formed for the good alone ; And faith beholds the dying here Translated to that happier sphere.

The half-seen memories of childish days,
When pains and pleasures lightly came and went ;
The sympathies of boyhood rashly spent
In fearful wand'rings through forbidden ways;
The vague, but manly wish to tread the maze
Of life to noble ends, —- whereon intent,
Asking to know for what man here is sent,
The bravest heart must often pause, and gaze,
The firm resolve to seek the chosen end
Of manhood's judgment, cautious and mature,
Each of these viewless bonds binds friend to friend
With strength no selfish purpose can secure :
My happy lot is this, that all attend
That friendship which first came, and which shall

last endure.

Thus star by star declines,

Till all are passed away,
As morning high and higher shines,

To pure and perfect day;
Nor sink those stars in empty night;
They hide themselves in heaven's own light.

JAMES MONTGOMERY.

AUBREY DE VERE.

FRIENDSHIP.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE.

(Died in New York, September, 1820.)

GREEN be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days ! None knew thee but to love thee,

Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,

From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying,

Will tears the cold turf steep.

HAM. Horatio, thou art e'en as just a man
As e'er my conversation coped withal.

Hor. O my dear lord —
НАМ.

Nay, do not think I flatter:
For what advancement may I hope from thee
That no revenue hast but thy good spirits,
To feed and clothe thee? Why should the poor

be flattered ? No, let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, And crook the pregnant hinges of the knee, Where thrift may follow fawning. Dost thou

hear? Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice, And could of men distinguish, her election Hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that Fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta’en with equal thanks; and blessed are

those Whose blood and judgment are so wellco-mingled, That they are not a pipe for Fortune's finger To sound what stop she please : Give me that

When hearts, whose truth was proven,

Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven

To tell the world their worth ;

And I, who woke each morrow

To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine,

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It should be mine to braid it

Around thy faded brow,

SHAKESPEARE.

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