THE BUCKET.

BY S. WOODWORTH.

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-cover'd bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure,

For often at noon, when return'd 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,
How 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-cover'd 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 fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,

The tear of regret will intrusively swell,

MORN AT SEA.

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-cover'd bucket which hangs in his well.

MORN AT SEA.

BY JAMES ALDRICH.

CLEARLY, with mental eye,

Where the first slanted ray of sunlight springs,
I see the morn with golden-fringed wings
Up-pointed to the sky.

In youth's divinest glow,

She stands upon a wandering cloud of dew,
Whose skirts are sun-illumed with every hue
Worn by God's covenant bow!

The child of light and air!

O'er land or wave, where'er her pinions move,
The shapes of earth are clothed in hues of love
And truth, divinely fair.

Athwart this wide abyss,

On homeward way impatiently I drift;

O, might she bear me now where sweet flowers lift
Their eyelids to her kiss!

Her smile hath overspread

The heaven-reflecting sea, that evermore
Is tolling solemn knells from shore to shore
For its uncoffin'd dead.

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MORN AT SEA.

Most like an angel-friend,

With noiseless footsteps, which no impress leave,
She comes in gentleness to those who grieve,
Bidding the long night end.

How joyfully will hail,

With re-enliven'd hearts, her presence fair,
The hapless shipwreck'd, patient in despair,
Watching a far-off sail.

Vain all affection's arts

To cheer the sick man through the night have been:
She to his casement goes, and, looking in,

Death's shadow thence departs.

Wearied, like me, beneath unfriendly skies,
And mourning o'er affection's broken ties,
Have pray'd for her to come!

Lone

voyager on time's sea!

When my dull night of being shall be past,

0,

may I waken to a morn, at last,

Welcome as this to me!

TO A SEA-SHELL.

BY AMELIA B. WELBY.

SHELL of the bright sea-waves! What is it that we hear in thy sad moan? Is this unceasing music all thine own,

Lute of the ocean-caves!

Or, does some spirit dwell

In the deep windings of thy chamber dim,
Breathing for ever, in its mournful hymn,
Of ocean's anthem swell?

Wert thou a murmurer long

In crystal palaces beneath the seas,

Ere, on the bright air, thou hadst heard the breeze Pour its full tide of song?

Another thing with thee

Are there not gorgeous cities in the deep,
Buried with flashing gems that darkly sleep,
Hid by the mighty sea?

And say, O lone sea-shell,

Are there not costly things, and sweet perfumes, Scatter'd in waste o'er that sea-gulf of tombs? Hush thy low moan, and tell.

But yet, and more than all—

Has not each foaming wave in fury toss'd
O'er earth's most beautiful, the brave, the lost,
Like a dark funeral pall?

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TO A SEA SHELL.

'Tis vain-thou answerest not!

Thou hast no voice to whisper of the dead-
'Tis ours alone, with sighs, like odours shed,
To hold them unforgot!

Thine is as sad a strain

As if the spirit in thy hidden cell

Pined to be with the many things that dwell
In the wild, restless main.

And yet, there is no sound

Upon the waters, whisper'd by the waves,
But seemeth like a wail from many graves,
Thrilling the air around.

The earth, O moaning shell!

The earth hath melodies more sweet than these,
The music-gush of rills, the hum of bees,
Heard in each blossom's bell.

Are not these tones of earth,

The rustling foliage with its shivering leaves,
Sweeter than sounds that e'en in moonlight eves
Upon the seas have birth?

Alas! thou still wilt moan

Thou'rt like the heart that wastes itself in sighs,
E'en when amid bewildering melodies,

If parted from its own.