THE BUCKET. 57 The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it, 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, And now, 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, Thy figure floats along. Seekst thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, There is a Power, whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast The desert and illimitable air Lone wandering, but not lost. то A WATERFOWL. All day thy wings have fanned, At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere; And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest 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. 59 THE SILKWORM. BY S. 3. HALE. THERE is no form upon our earth, 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; She raised it to her dimpled cheek, That worm -I should have shrunk, in truth, To feel the reptile o'er me move— THE AUTUMN EVENING. But, loved by innocence and youth, I deemed it worthy love. Would we, I thought, the soul imbue, And, when with usefulness combined, 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. 0. B. PEABODY. BEHOLD the western evening light! 61 |