Up and down in ceaseless moil : Quick and treacherous sands of sin. JOHN GREENLeaf Whittier, BOYHOOD. AH, then how sweetly closed those crowded days! That fade upon a summer's eve. Those weary, happy days did leave? And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this ;E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. WASHINGTON ALLSTON. IT NEVER COMES AGAIN. THERE are gains for all our losses, There are balms for all our pain, But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again. We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign; Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again. Something beautiful is vanished, And we sigh for it in vain ; RICHARD HENRY STOndard. The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; | And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, 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. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis 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 I sat, and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; And turned from her Bible to bless her child. Tis past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now, ELIZA COOK WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. WOODMAN, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas 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! 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 handForgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend, Old tree the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall hurt it not. GEORGE P. MORRIS. which, seek through the world, is weer met with elsewhere! Home, home, - sweet, sweet home! There's no place like home! there's no place like home ! John Stoward Fayne. / God's love, unchanging, pure, and true, - With such a prayer, on this sweet day, JOHN GREENLEAF WHITtier. THE POET'S FRIEND. LORD BOLINGBROKE. COME then, my friend! my genius! come along; O, while along the stream of time thy name ALEXANDER POPE. A GENEROUS friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows. POPE'S ILIAD. |