I see, as plain as thee sits there, the wedding dinner

spread;

At our own table we were guests, with father at the

head,

And Dinah Passmore helped us both-'twas she stood up with me,

And Abner Jones with Benjamin-and now they're gone, all three !

It is not right to wish for death; the Lord disposes best.

His Spirit comes to quiet hearts, and fits them for His

rest;

And that He halved our little flock was merciful, I see; For Benjamin has two in heaven, and two are left with

me.

Eusebius never cared to farm-'twas not his call, in

truth,

And I must rent the dear old place, and go to daughter

Ruth.

Thee'll say her ways are not like mine; young people now-a-days

Have fallen sadly off, I think, from all the good old ways.

But Ruth is still a Friend at heart; she keeps the simple

tongue,

The cheerful, kindly nature we loved when she was

young;

And it was brought upon my mind, remembering her, of

late,

That we on dress and outward things perhaps lay too much weight.

I once heard Jesse Kersey say, a spirit clothed with

grace,

And pure, almost, as angels are, may have a homely face. And dress may be of less account: the Lord will look within ;

The soul it is that testifies of righteousness or sin.

Thee mustn't be too hard on Ruth: she's anxious I should go,

And she will do her duty as a daughter should, I know. 'Tis hard to change so late in life, but we must be re

signed;

The Lord looks down contentedly upon a willing mind. Bayard Taylor.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
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 that 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 that 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 hailed 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,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As Fancy reverts to my father's plantation,

And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well—
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in the well!

Samuel Woodworth

ANNABEL LEE.

Ir was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden lived, whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought Than to love, and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea;

But we loved with a love that was more than love,

I and my Annabel Lee

With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven

Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came,
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me.

Yes! that was the reason (as all men know),

In this kingdom by the sea,

The wind came out of a cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,

Of many far wiser than we;

And neither the angels in heaven above,

Nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

And so, all the night-tide I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life, and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea,

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

3

Edgar Allan Poe.

UP THE HILL A-BERRYING.

On a sunny summer morning,
Early as the dew was dry,
Up the hill I went a-berrying.
Need I tell you, tell you why?
Farmer Davis had a daughter,

And it happened that I knew,
On such sunny mornings, Jenny
Up the hill went berrying too.

Lonely work is picking berries;
So I joined her on the hill.
"Jenny, dear," said I, "your basket's
Quite too large for one to fill."
So we staid-we two-to fill it,
Jenny talking-I was still-
Leading where the way was steepest,
Picking berries up the hill.

"This is up-hill work," said Jenny:
"So is life," said I; "shall we
Climb it each alone, or, Jenny,

Will you come and climb with me?" Redder than the blushing berries

Jenny's cheek a moment grew; While, without delay, she answered, "I will come and climb with

you!"

Luella Clark