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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 turned from her Bible to bless her child.

Ande'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. Years rolled on, but the last one sped, The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. I learnt how much the heart can bear,

When I saw her die in her old arm-chair. That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ;

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 'Tis past, 't is past ! but I gaze on it now, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, With quivering breath and throbbing brow :

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. | ’T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died, How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow- And memory flows with lava tide. ing!

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek ;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

ELIZA COOK The moss-covered bucket, arose from the well.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

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.

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 !

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

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 !

I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,
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.

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 hand -
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me that shame would never betide
With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide ;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

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

I sat, and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray; I

POEMS OF THE AFFECTIONS.

Home,

Sweet home!

we may

seems

Mid plasures and palaces shough . Be it ever so hamble,

there's

no place like home! a charm from the sky

to hallow as there which, seek through the world, is meer met with elsewhere!

Home, home,

- sweet, seweet home! There's no place like home! there's no place the home!

Sohn Stoward

Jayne.

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It freshens o'er thy thoughtful face, Imparting, in its glad embrace, Beauty to beauty, grace to grace !

Fair Nature's book together read,
The old wood-paths that knew our tread,
The maple shadows overhead, —

The hills we climbed, the river seen
By gleams along its deep ravine, —
All keep thy memory fresh and green.

Where'er I look, where'er I stray,
Thy thought goes with me on my way,
And hence the prayer I breathe to-day :
O'er lapse of time and change of scene,
The weary waste which lies between
Thyself and me, my heart I lean.

THE POET'S FRIEND.

LORD BOLINGBROKE, COME then, my friend! my genius! come along; O master of the poet, and the song ! And while the muse now stoops, or now ascends, To man's low passions, or their glorious ends, Teach me, like thee, in various nature wise, To fall with dignity, with temper rise ; Formed by thy converse happily to steer From grave to gay, from lively to severe ; Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, Intent to reason, or polite to please. 0, while along the stream of time thy name Expanded flies, and gathers all its fame; Say, shall my little bark attendant sail, Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale ? When statesmen, heroes, kings, in dust repose, Whose sons shall blush their fathers were thy foes, Shall then this verse to future age pretend | Thou wert my guide, philosopher, and friend ! That, urged by thee, I turned the tuneful art From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart : For wit's false mirror held up Nature's light; Showed erring pride, WHATEVER IS, IS RIGHT; That REASON, PASSION, answer one great aim; That true self-LOVE and SOCIAL are the same ; That VIRTUE only makes our bliss below; And all our knowledge is, OURSELVES TO KNOW.

ALEXANDER POPE.

Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor
The half-unconscious power to draw
All hearts to thine by Love's sweet law.

With these good gifts of God is cast Thy lot, and many a charm thou hast To hold the blesséd angels fast.

If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The gracious heavens will heed from me,
What should, dear heart, its burden be?

The sighing of a shaken reed, What can I more than meekly plead The greatness of our common need ?

A GENEROUS friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.

POPE'S ILIAD.

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