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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,
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.
Touch not a single bough!
And I'll protect it now.
That placed it near his cot;
Thy axe shall harm it not !
Whose glory and renown
And wouldst thou hew it down ?
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Now towering to the skies !
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
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.
'T is past, 't is past ! but I gaze on it now, Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling With quivering breath and throbbing brow : No magical sense conveys, 'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died, And bells have forgotten their old art of telling And memory flows with lava tide.
The fortune of future days.
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 ;
On earth was never sown :
A lady of my own.
The girl, in rock and plain,
To kindle or restrain.
Or up the mountain springs ;
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.
Her virgin bosom swell ;
Here in this happy dell."