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.

ON THE OTHER SIDE.

E go our ways in life too much alone;

We hold ourselves too far from all our kind;
Too often we are dead to sigh and moan;
Too often to the weak and helpless blind;
foo often, where distress and want abide,
We turn and pass upon the other side.

The other side is trodden smooth; and worn
By footsteps passing idly all the day.
Where lie the bruised ones that faint and mourn,
Is seldom more than an untrodden way;
Our selfish hearts are for our feet the guide
They lead us by upon the other side.

It should be ours the oil and wine to pour
Into the bleeding wounds of stricken ones;
To take the smitten, and the sick and sore,
And bear them where a stream of blessing runs
Instead, we look about - the way is wide,
And so we pass upon the other side.

Oh, friends and brothers, gliding down the years,
Humanity is calling each and all

In tender accents, born of grief and tears!
I pray you, listen to the thrilling call;
You cannot, in your cold and selfish pride,
Pass guiltlessly by on the other side.

MAUD MULLER.

BY JOHN G. WHITTIER.

AUD Muller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast-
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup.

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown,

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed: "Ah me!
That I the Judge's bride might be !

"He would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father would wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay;
And the baby should have a new toy each day.

But he thought of his sister, proud and cold, And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on, And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon, When he hummed in court an old love-tune.

And the young girl mused beside the well, Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's white glow,
He watched a picture come and go;
And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft, when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside well instead,
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover-blooms;

And the proud man sighed with a secret pain,
Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day

Where the barefoot maiden raked the hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor, And many children played round her door. But care and sorrow, and child-birth pain Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft, when the summer sun shone hot On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall Over the roadside, through the wall,

In the shade of the apple-tree again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;

The weary wheel to a spinnet turned,
The tallow candle an astral burned;

And for him who sat by the chimney lug,
Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,

A manly form at her side she saw,
And joy was duty and love was law.

Then she took up her burden of life again,
Saying only, "It might have been!"
Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
For rich repiner and household drudge
God pity them both! and pity us all,
Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;
For of all sad words of tongue or pen,

The saddest are these: "It might have been!"

Ah, well! for us all some sweet hope lies
Deeply buried from human eyes;

And, in the hereafter, angels may

Roll the stone from its grave away!

Yet with strong yearning, and passionate pain,
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence so long and so deep-
Rock me to sleep, mother— rock me to sleep!

Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like a mother's love ever has shone •
No other worship abides and endures —
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy lids creep-
Rock me to sleep, mother- rock me to sleep!

Come, let your brown hair just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Happy will throng the sweet visions of yore -
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep
Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep!

Mother, dear mother, the years have been long,
Since I last listened to your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my heart it shall seem,
Womanhood's years have been only a dream;
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes, just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep-
Rock me to sleep, mother-rock me to sleep!

進

KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GRAY.

WO brown heads with laughing curls,

Red lips shutting over pearls,

Bare feet white, and wet with dew,

Two eyes black, and two eyes blue;

Little girl and boy were they,
Katie Lee and Willie Gray.

They were standing where a brook,
Bending like a shepherd's crook,
Flashed its silver, and thick ranks
Of green willows fringed its banks;
Half in thought and half in play,
Katie Lee and Willie Gray.

They had cheeks like cherries red;
He was taller-'most a head;
She, with arms like wreaths of snow,
Swung a basket to and fro,

As they loitered, half in play,
Katie Lee and Willie Gray.