Thou art to me but as a wave Now thanks to Heaven! that of its grace Nor am I loath, though pleased at heart, And if any painter drew her, He would paint her unaware And if reader read the poem, I hear in the chamber above me From my study I see in the lamplight, A whisper and then a silence; Yet I know by their merry eyes They are plotting and planning together To take me by surprise. A sudden rush from the stairway, A sudden raid from the hall, By three doors left unguarded, They enter my castle wall. They climb up into my turret, O'er the arms and back of my chair If I try to escape, they surround me : They seem to be everywhere. They almost devour me with kisses, Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, I have you fast in my fortress, In the round-tower of my heart. And there will I keep you forever, Yes, forever and a day, Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, And moulder in dust away. H. W. LONGFELLOW, JENNY KISSED ME. JENNY kissed me when we met, Say that health and wealth have missed me; LEIGH HUNT. Before the whole set school to boot I could n't stand it, sir, at all, OLD-SCHOOL PUNISHMENT. OLD Master Brown brought his ferule down, Then Anthony Blair, with a mortified air, Took his penitent seat by the maiden sweet For he peeped at the girls with the beautiful curls, Let the million-dollared ride! O for boyhood's painless play, For, eschewing books and tasks, O for boyhood's time of June, Still as my horizon grew, O for festal dainties spread, Like my bowl of milk and bread, Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, On the door-stone, gray and rude! O'er me, like a regal tent, Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, Looped in many a wind-swung fold; While for music came the play Of the pied frogs' orchestra; And, to light the noisy choir, Lit the fly his lamp of fire. I was monarch: pomp and joy Waited on the barefoot boy! Cheerily, then, my little man, Live and laugh, as boyhood can! Though the flinty slopes be hard, Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, Every morn shall lead thee through Fresh baptisms of the dew; Every evening from thy feet Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: All too soon these feet must hide In the prison cells of pride, Lose the freedom of the sod, Like a colt's for work be shod, Made to tread the mills of toil, 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; RICHARD HENRY STODDARD. THE DESERTED GARDEN. I MIND me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted. The beds and walks were vanished quite ; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child hood, 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 which stood by it, 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, Ande'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. 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. 'T was 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 |