O, what a glory doth this world put on Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. To his long resting-place without a tear. The Bucket.-SAMUEL WOODWORTH. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, And e'en the rude 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 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 his well. The Snow Flake.-HANNAH F. GOULD. "Now, if I fall, will it be my lot To be cast in some low and lonely spot, As down through the measureless space it strayed, It seemed in mid air suspended. "O, no," said the Earth," thou shalt not lie, But, then, I must give thee a lovelier form; But revive when the sunbeams are yellow and warm, "And then thou shalt have thy choice to be To melt, and be cast in a glittering bead, With the pearls that the night scatters over the mead, In the cup where the bee and the fire-fly feed, Regaining thy dazzling brightness;— "To wake, and be raised from thy transient sleep, When Viola's mild blue eye shall weep, In a tremulous tear, or a diamond leap In a drop from the unlocked fountain; Or, leaving the valley, the meadow and heath, "Or, wouldst thou return to a home in the skies, And appear in the many and glorious dyes But true, fair thing, as my name is Earth, When thou shalt recover thy primal worth, "Then I will drop," said the trusting flake; Nor the mist that shall pass with the morning: For, things of thyself, they expire with thee; But those that are lent from on high, like me, They rise, and will live, from thy dust set free, To the regions above returning. "And if true to thy word, and just thou art, For I would be placed in the beautiful bow, "I am the Way, and the Truth, and the Life.”— ANONYMOUS. THOU art the Way-and he who sighs, To find a pathway to the skies, A light from heaven's eternal glow, By thee must come, thou gate of love, Through which the saints undoubting trod; Till faith discovers, like the dove, An ark, a resting place in God. Thou art the Truth-whose steady day Shines on through earthly blight and bloom, The pure, the everlasting ray, The lamp that shines e'en in the tomb; The word, whose precious radiance flings Thou art the Life-the blessed well, Which those who drink shall ever dwell Where sin and thirst are known no more; Thou art the mystic pillar given, Our lamp by night, our light by day; Thou art the sacred bread from heaven;Thou art the Life-the Truth-the Way. The Iceberg.-J. O. ROCKWELL. 'Twas night-our anchored vessel slept Out on the glassy sea; And still as heaven the waters kept, The setting sun, went sinking slow And the ocean seemed a pall to throw There was no motion of the air And no wave-building winds were there, But ocean mingled with the sky With such an equal hue, That vainly strove the 'wildered eye To part their gold and blue. And ne'er a ripple of the sea Came on our steady gaze, Save when some timorous fish stole out When, flouting in the light that played All over the resting main, He would sink beneath the wave, and dart To his deep, blue home again. Yet, while we gazed, that sunny eve, A form came ploughing the golden wave, It blushed bright red, while growing on But it wandered down, with its glow of light, It seemed like molten silver, thrown And as we looked, we named it, then, The fount whence all colors came: There were rainbows furled with a careless grace, And the vivid green, as the sun-lit grass And the ideal hues, that, thought-like, pass They beamed full clear-and that form moved on, And we dared not think it a real thing, But for the rustling wave. The sun just lingered in our view, From the burning edge of ocean, Yet, as it passed our bending stern, It crushed on a hidden rock, and turned The uptorn waves rolled hoar,—and, huge, Swelled out in the sun's last, lingering smile, Hymn.-J. PIERPONT. BORNE by the tempest, on we sail O'er ocean's billowy way; |