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THE BUCKET. 57

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 1

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,

The moss-covered 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 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 his well.

TO A WATERFOWL.

BY W. C. BRYANT.

Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue

Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As, darkly painted on the crimson sky,

Thy figure floats along.

Seekst thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink

On the chafed ocean side?

There is a Power, whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast—
The desert and illimitable air—

Lone wandering, but not lost.

TOA WATERFOWL. 59

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere;
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,

Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend

Soon o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone; the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given,

And shall not soon depart.

He, who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,

Will lead my steps aright.

THE SILKWORM.

BY S. J. HALE.

There is no form upon our earth,
That bears the mighty Maker's seal,

But has some charm—to draw this forth,
We need but hearts to feel.

I saw a fair young girl—her face

Was sweet as dream of cherished friend

Just at the age when childhood's grace
And maiden softness blend.

A silkworm in her hand she laid;

Nor fear, nor yet disgust, was stirred; But gayly with her charge she played,

As 'twere a nestling bird.

She raised it to her dimpled cheek,

And let it rest and revel there: O, why for outward beauty seek!

Love makes its favourites fair.

That worm—I should have shrunk, in truth, To feel the reptile o'er me move—

THE AUTUMN EVENING. 61

But, loved by innocence and youth,
I deemed it worthy love.

Would we, I thought, the soul imbue,

In early life, with sympathies
For every harmless thing, and view

Such creatures formed to please —

And, when with usefulness combined,
Give them our love and gentle care—

O, we might have a world as kind
As God has made it fair!

There is no form upon our earth,

That bears the mighty Maker's seal, But has some charm—to call this forth,

We need but hearts to feel.

THE AUTUMN EVENING.

BY W. o. B. PEABODY.

Behold the western evening light!

It melts in deepening gloom; So calmly Christians sink away,

Descending to the tomb.

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