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
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.

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.

And I almost worshipped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on, but the last one sped,
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled !
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 't is past! but I gaze on it now,
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me, 't was there she died,
And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

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 PERKINS MORRIS.

SEVEN TIMES TWO.

ROMANCE.

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes,

How many soever they be,

And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he

ranges

Come over, come over to me.

Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling No magical sense conveys,

And bells have forgotten their old art of telling The fortune of future days.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn

Or up the mountain springs;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm,

Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see

E'en in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form
By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

"And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."