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I will obey, not willingly alone,
My mother! when I learn'd that thou wast dead,
But was it such ? It was. Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, The parting word shall pass my lips no more ! Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return. What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived ; By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learn'd at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children, not thine, have trod my nursery floor; And where the garden'er, Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapp'd In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet capp'd, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own. Short-lived possession ! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours,
Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered, and the ocean crossed) Shoots into port at some well havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay ; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore, 'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;' And thy loved consort, on the gerous tide
Of life, long since has anchored by thy side.
THE BUCKET.-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 bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell,
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
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 !
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.
TO THE CUCKO0.-Wordsworth.
I hear thee and rejoice :
Or but a wandering Voice ?
Thy loud note smites my ear ;
At once far off and near.
Of sunshine and of flowers ;
Of visionary hours.
E’en yet thou art to me
A voice, a mystery ;
I listened to ; that Cry
In bush, and tree, and sky.
To seek thee did I often rove
Through woods and on the green ; And thou wert still a hope, a love ;
Still long'd for, never seen! And I can listen to thee yet;
Can lie upon the plain,
That golden time again.
Again appears to be
That is fit home for Thee !
SOMEBODY'S DARLING. INTO a ward of the whitewash'd halls,
Where the dead and dying lay, Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody's Darling was borne one daySomebody's Darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale sweet face, Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave
The lingering light of his boyhood's grace. Matted and damp are the curls of gold
Kissing the snow of that fair young brow; Pale are the lips of delicate mould
Somebody's Darling is dying now. Back from his beautiful blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold; Cross his hands on his bosom now ;
Somebody's Darling is still and cold.
Murmur a prayer, soft and low;
They were somebody's pride you know : Somebody's hand had rested there.
Was it a mother's soft and white ? And have the lips of a sister fair
Been baptized in those waves of light ?