Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflow

ing, 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.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

ELIZA COOK.

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 tenipt 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.
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 !
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 !

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

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 !

I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair ?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with

sighs.
"T is bound by a thousand bands to my heart ;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start ;
Would you know the spell ? a mother sat there !
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
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.

1 sat, and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were

gray ; And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Years rolled on, but the last one sped, My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! I learnt how much the heart can bear, When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

You bells in the steeple, ring out your

changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he

ranges Come over, come over to me.

Little Ellie, with her smile Not yet ended, rose up gayly,

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe,

And went homeward, round a mile, Just to see, as she did daily,

What more eggs were with the two.

Pushing through the elm-tree copse, Winding up the stream, light-hearted,

Where the osier pathway leads,

Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. Lo, the wild swan had deserted,

And a rat had gnawed the reeds.

Ellie went home sad and slow. If she found the lover ever,

With his red-roan steed of steeds,

Sooth I know not ! but I know She could never show him -- never,

That swan's nest among the reeds !

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.

THREE years she grew in sun and shower ;
Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown :
This child I to myself will take ;
She shall be mine, and I will make

A lady of my own.
Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse ; and with me

The girl, in rock and plain,
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower,
Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.
“She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs ;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm,

Of mute insensate things. “ The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend ;

Nor shall she fail to see E'en in the motions of the storm Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy. “The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound

Shall pass into her face.
“And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell ;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."