That, parting, showed a glimpse beneath
Of ample, throat-encircling ruff
As white as some wind-gathered wreath
Of snow quilled into plait and puff.

A few grave words, a question asked,
Eyelids that with the answer fell
Like falling petals,-form that tasked
Brief time;- yet all was wrought, and well!

Then "Brooklet," Winthrop smiled and said,
“Frost's finger on thy lip makes dumb
The voice wherewith thou shouldst have sped
These lovers on their way; but, come,

"Henceforth forever be thou known
By name of her here made a bride;
So shall thy slender music's moan
Sweeter into the ocean glide!"

Then laughed they all, and sudden beams
Of sunshine quivered through the sky.
Below the ice the unheard stream's
Clear heart thrilled on in ecstasy;

And lo, a visionary blush

Stole warmly o'er the voiceless wild,

And in her rapt and wintry hush

The lonely face of Nature smiled.

Ah, Time, what wilt thou? Vanished quite
Is all that tender vision now;

And like lost snow-flakes in the night,

Mute lie the lovers as their vow.

And O thou little, careless brook,

Hast thou thy tender trust forgot?

Her modest memory forsook,

Whose name, known once, thou utterest not?

Spring wakes the rill's blithe minstrelsy;

In willow bough or alder bush

Birds sing, with golden filigree

Of pebbles 'neath the flood's clear gush;

But none can tell us of that name

More than the "Mary." Men still say "Bride Brook" in honor of her fame; But all the rest has passed away.

George Parsons Lathrop.

HOW

Scituate, Mass.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

my

childhood,

OW dear to this heart are the scenes of
When fond recollection presents them to view!

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
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-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when returned 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-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, The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. Samuel Woodworth,

AT SEA.

T was off the cliffs of Scituate,

In old Massachusetts Bay,

We took a stiff northeaster,

About the break of day;

Lord! how it howled and whistled

Through the ratlines and the shrouds,

As the icy snow dashed pelting

Through the scud of lowering clouds!

Outspoke then our bold captain, —

"She fairly drifts astern;

Against this gale no Boston

Can the good barque make, this turn;
To beach her were but madness,
Where the wild surf runs so high,

Under our lee lies Scituate,

And there we can but try."

Then "Hard up!" cried the captain, -
Like a bird she bore away,
The blast just struck her quarter,
And she flew across the bay;
Before us broke the dreaded bar,
And by the helmsman stood

Our captain, as the brave barque plunged
Into the foam-tossed flood.

One plunge! the strong wave lifted her,-
Aghast stood all the crew!

Again, she rose upon the surge,

And it brought her safely through. Now, God bless Scituate Harbor,

And be blessed forevermore,

Who saved us from the sea's cold clasp,

By that wild, treacherous shore.

George Lunt.

Seaconnet Point, R. I.

NIGHTFALL ON THE SEACONNET SHORE.

E sat together, you and I,

WE

And watched the daylight's dying bloom, And saw the great white ships go by,

Like phantoms through the gathering gloom.

Like phantom lights the lonely stars
Looked through the sea-fog's ghastly veil,
Beyond the headland's rocky bars
We heard the stormy surges wail.

We sat together, hand in hand,

And watched, along the glimmering strand,

The wild, white breakers plunge and fall.

You spoke of pleasures past away,
Of hopes that left the heart forlorn,

Of life's unrest and love's decay,

And lonely sorrows proudly borne.

The sea's phantasmal sceneries

Commingled with your mournful theme; The splendors of your starry eyes

Were drowned in memory's deepening dream.

Darker and lonelier grew the night

Along the horizon's dreary verge,