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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 dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
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!
And I'll protect it now.
That placed it near his cot;
Thy axe shall harm it not !
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade ;
Here too my sisters played.
My father pressed my hand -
But let that old oak stand !
In childhood's hour I lingered near
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend !
And still thy branches bend,
And, woodman, leave the spot ;
Thy axe shall hurt it not.
I sat, and watched her many a day,
GEORGE P. MORRIS
Home Sweet Stome !
Mid plasures and palaces shough we may wam Be it ever so hamble,
no place like home! a charm from the sky
to hallow as there which, seek through the world, is meer met with elsewhere!
sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home! There's no place Whe home!
Fair Nature's book together read,
The hills we climbed, the river seen
Where'er I look, where'er I stray,
O'er lapse of time and change of scene,
COME then, my friend! my genius! come along;
Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor
With these good gifts of God is cast
If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The sighing of a shaken reed,
A GENEROUS friendship no cold medium knows,
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,
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,
Thus star by star declines,
Till all are passed away,
To pure and perfect day;
AUBREY DE VERE.
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
Hor. O my dear lord —
Nay, do not think I flatter:
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,
It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow,