And have dark clouds of strife shut out the rainbow-hued? Ah, no; the mellow sunshine and the music again illume the road!

The bride, in meditation sweet, with rapture scarcely understood,

Glances backward 'cross her years of fresh young life,
Through childhood, girlhood, up to budded womanhood.
Memory weaves again the fairy tales with folk-lore rife,

Of Scandia's loving muses, songs of the sea, and vikings gone, Fills her blue eyes with tears. Her way unknown, an instant seemeth long;

But that strong man, whom she hath chosen for her lord,
Has pressed her trembling hand against his rugged breast
And calmed her fears: now 'mong the company her voice is
heard,

Her sweet voice, higher and more gladsome than the rest.

Again, emerging 'gainst the lurid sunset sky,

The happy crowd comes on! Out blares the band!

The song swells forth! and now they pass my windows by,
Swinging hats in air, and dancing hand in hand.

The little church appears in view, and every happy voice
And every happy instrument joins the merry din.
Passing from me up the road, a thousand joys

I wish them, as their boisterous songs to die away begin.

Fainter and fainter grows the bride-song evermore,

Louder and louder throb the heart-beats of that groom and bride.

With bowed heads they reach the threshold of the sacred door

And enter, and the bride-song's hushed anon - inside.

CHARLES W. JOHNSON.

18. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

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 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;
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-covered vessel which hung in the well.

That moss-covered bucket 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 that hangs in the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in the well.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

19. WOODMAN SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas 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:

Oh, 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 hand;
Forgive 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 harm it not.

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

20. THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW.

IMPROMTU lines, written after fifty years' residence in America, upon the arrival of the Scotch cutter "Thistle " in the harbor of New York.

"THE Thistle," the thistle, the bonnie brown thistle, Has come to our shores from the "Land of the cake, With a trim little hull and the wings of a gull,

For a race o'er the bay, to fraternally make.

From the home of my childhood "The Thistle" has come,
Her name bearing emblem, to Scot ever dear,

And memories tender of the years that have gone
Since I wended my journey to home over here.

Thus the land of my birth with fresh zeal I recall,
And the mother who taught that land to adore,
Who bade me to honor, whate'er might befall,
The home I adopted on Columbia's shore.

So the Thistle" that bristles with challenge so bold,
And reminds me of heather and bonnie blue bell,
Of Scotland's great names, and her glories of old,
Only strengthens new ties I'm loving so well.

For the crags of old Scotland, endeared in the past,
Are shorn of the glories the minstrel once sung;
But their echoes shall linger, forever to last,

In words bold and sweet, of the same mother tongue.
ROBERT BLEAKIE

21. OUR GARDENER'S BURIAL.

THIS is the grave prepared: set down the bier.
Mother, a faithful son we bring thee here,
In loving ease to lie beneath thy breast,
Which many a year with loving toil he drest;

1 The Oat meal, loaf or cake, in common use.

His was the eldest craft, the simple skill
That Adam plied, ere good was known by ill.
The throstle's song at dawn his spirit tuned;
He set his seeds in hope, he grafted, pruned,
Weeded, and mowed, and, with a true son's care,
Wrought thee a mantle of embroidery rare.
The snowdrop and the winter aconite

Came to his call ere frosts had ceased to bite.
He bade the crocus flame as with a charm;
The nestling violets bloomed, and feared no harm,
Knowing that for their sakes a champion meek
Did bloodless battle with the winter bleak;
But when the wealthier months with largess came,
His blazoned beds put heraldry to shame,
And on the summer air such perfume cast
As Saba or the Spice Isles ne'er surpassed.
The birds all loved him, for he would not shoot
Even the winged thieves that stole his fruit:
And he loved them, the little fearless wren,
The red-breasts, curious in the ways of men,
The pilgrim swallow, and the dearer guest
That sets beneath our eaves her plastered nest;
The merry white-throat, bursting with his song,
Fluttered within his reach, and feared no wrong;
And the mute fly-catcher forgot her dread,
And took her prey beside his stooping head.
Receive him, Mother Earth: his work is done.
Blameless he lived, and did offence to none;
Blameless he died, forbidding us to throw
Flowers in his grave, because he loved them so:
But bloom among the grasses on his mound,
He would not have them stifle underground.
We that have loved must leave him: Mother, keep
A faithful watch about him in his sleep.

London Spectator