SPIRIT that breathest through my lattice, thou
That cool'st the twilight of the sultry day!
Gratefully flows thy freshness round my brow;
Thou hast been out upon the deep at play,
Riding all day the wild blue waves till

now,

Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray,

And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee

To the parched land, thou wanderer of the sea.

Nor I alone- a thousand bosoms round
Inhale thee, in the fulness of delight;
And languid forms rise up, and pulses bound
Livelier, at coming of the wind of night;
And languishing to hear thy welcome sound
Lies the vast inland, stretched beyond the sight.
Go forth into the gathering shade; go forth,
God's blessing breathed upon the fainting earth.

Go, rock the little wood bird in his nest,

Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse The wide, old wood from his majestic rest,

Summoning from the innumerable boughs

The strange, deep harmonies that haunt his breast;
Pleasant shall be thy way, where meekly bows
The shutting flower, and darkling waters pass,
And where th' o'ershadowing branches sweep the grass,

Stoop o'er the place of graves, and softly sway
The sighing herbage by the gleaming stone,
That they who near the churchyard willows stray,
And listen in the deepening gloom, alone,

May think of gentle souls that passed away,
Like thy pure breath, into the vast unknown,
Sent forth from heaven among the sons of men,
And into the boundless heaven again.

gone

The faint old man shall lean his silver head

To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
And dry the moistened curls that overspread

His temples, while his breathing grows more deep;
And they who stand about the sick man's bed

Shall joy to listen to thy distant sweep,
And softly part his curtains, to allow
Thy visit, grateful to his burning brow

Go-but the circle of eternal change,

Which is the life of Nature, shall restore,
With sounds and scents from all thy mighty range
Thee to thy birthplace of the deep once more;
Sweet odors in the sea air, sweet and strange,
Shall tell the homesick mariner of the shore;
And, listening to thy murmur, he shall deem
He hears the rustling leaf and running stream.

XXIX. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

WOODWORTH.

[SAMUEL WOODWORTH, the author of this pleasing and popular poem, was a native of Weymouth, in Massachusetts, and was born about 1790, and died in New York, at the age of about fifty. He was a printer by trade, and lived many years in Boston. He was a man of considerable literary talent, and published in New York a volume of fugitive pieces, called Melodies, Duets, Trios, Songs, and Ballads, which reached a third edition.

Woodworth was also the author of a well-known patriotic song, called The Hunter of Kentucky.]

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 wild wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which 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 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.

XXX.-A FRIGATE AMONG THE SHOALS.

COOPER.

[JAMES FENIMORE COOPER was born in Burlington, New Jersey, September 15, 1789, and died September 14, 1851. In 1805 he obtained a midshipman's warrant, and entered the navy. He continued in the service for six years,-long enough to obtain that knowledge of nautical affairs which he turned subsequently to such good account in his novels, and then resigned his office. His literary career began with Precaution, published in 1820, a rather feeble transcript of English forms, which neither had, nor deserved to have, much success. But The Spy, which soon followed it, was a great step in advance. It was a vigorous and original work, and in spite of obvious faults, was much read and admired, and hailed as a production full of promise. The success of this novel determined Mr. Cooper's career as a man of letters. He devoted himself to his new profession with great industry, and produced in rapid succession a large number of works of fiction, showing great fertility of invention, and making his name widely known abroad as well as at home. In these novels he appears to equal advantage in two very distinct paths of literary creation: in nautical scenes and characters, and in the incidents and manners of pioneer life in our country. His Long Tom Coffin and Natty Bumpo are both original conceptions, and admirably sustained. His works of fiction are unequal, as might be expected from their great number, and none of them show the constructive skill of a great artist. They are all open to criticism; but, on the other hand, they have great excellences. They bear the stamp and impress of power; they seize upon the attention with a strong grasp; they stir the blood and kindle the mind. They have the elements of enduring popularity.

Mr. Cooper resided many years in Europe, and published several volumes of travel. ling sketches. He also wrote a History of the United States Navy, and several smaller works.

Mr. Cooper's character was peculiar and decided; creating strong attachments and equally strong dislikes. There was no neutral ground in his nature. He had fixed opinions, and was bold and uncompromising in expressing them. He was exact in his dealings and generous in his disposition. His integrity and uprightness no one ever called in question. He had less fear of public opinion, and more self-reliance, than are common in our country; and his courage and truthfulness were worthy of all praise. He was an ardent patriot, and as ready to defend his country when in the right, as to rebuke her when he deemed her in the wrong. He was affectionate in his domestic relations, and his home was the seat of a cordial and generous hospitality.

The following extract is taken from The Pilot, which was published in 1823. The scene is on the coast of England, and the time is that of our revolutionary war. An American frigate is caught by a gale, in a landlocked bay, and is obliged to seek the open sea through a narrow passage among shoals. Mr. Gray, the pilot, from whom the novel derives its name, has recently been taken on board; and no one, except the cap tain, knows who he is. He turns out to be the celebrated Paul Jones. Griffith is the first lieutenant.]

THE confident assurances which Griffith had given to the pilot, respecting the qualities of his vessel and his own ability to manage her, were fully realized by the result. The helm was no sooner put a-lee than the huge ship bore up gallantly against the wind, and dashing directly through the waves, threw

the foam high into the air, as she looked boldly into the very eye of the wind; and then, yielding gracefully to its power, she fell off on the other tack, with her head pointed from those dangerous shoals that she had so recently approached with such terrifying velocity. The heavy yards swung round, as if they had been vanes to indicate the currents of the air, and in a few moments the frigate again moved, with stately progress, through the water, leaving the rocks and shoals behind her on one side of the bay, but advancing towards those that offered equal danger on the other.

During this time the sea was becoming more agitated, and the violence of the wind was gradually increasing. The latter no longer whistled amid the cordage of the vessel, but it seemed to howl surlily as it passed the complicated machinery that the frigate obtruded on its path. An endless succession of white surges rose above the heavy billows, and the very air was glittering with the light that was disengaged from the ocean. The ship yielded, each moment, more and more before the storm, and in less than half an hour from the time that she had lifted her anchor, she was driven along, with tremendous fury, by the full power of a gale of wind. Still the hardy and experienced mariners, who directed her movements, held her to the course that was necessary to their preservation, and still Griffith gave forth, when directed by their unknown pilot, those orders that turned her in the narrow channel where safety was alone to be found.

So far the performance of his duty appeared easy to the stranger, and he gave the required directions in those still, calm tones that formed so remarkable a contrast to the responsibility of his situation. But when the land was becoming dim in distance as well as darkness, and the agitated sea was only to be discovered as it swept by them in foam, he broke in upon the monotonous roaring of the tempest, with the sounds of his voice, seeming to shake off his apathy, and rouse himself to the occasion.

"Now is the time to watch her closely, Mr. Griffith,” he cried; "here we get the true tide and the real danger. Place