The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that 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 that hung in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed 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,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
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.
RAIN ON THE ROOF
WHEN the humid shadows hover
Over all the starry spheres,
And the melancholy darkness
Gently weeps in rainy tears,
What a bliss to press the pillow
Of a cottage-chamber bed
And to listen to the patter
Of the soft rain overhead!
Every tinkle on the shingles
Has an echo in the heart;
And a thousand dreamy fancies
Into busy being start,
And a thousand recollections
Weave their air-threads into woof,
As I listen to the patter
Of the rain upon the roof.
Now in memory comes my mother,
As she used long years agone,
To regard the darling dreamers
Ere she left them till the dawn;
Oh, I see her leaning o'er me,
As I list to this refrain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.
Then my little seraph sister,
With her wings and waving hair
And her star-eyed cherub brother
A serene angelic pair!
Glide around my wakeful pillow,
With their praise or mild reproof,
As I listen to the murmur
Of the soft rain on the roof.
And another comes to thrill me
With her eyes' delicious blue ;
And I mind not, musing on her,
That her heart was all untrue:
I remember but to love her
With a passion kin to pain,
And my heart's quick pulses vibrate
To the patter of the rain.
Art hath naught of tone or cadence
That can work with such a spell
In the soul's mysterious fountains,
Whence the tears of rapture well,
As that melody of nature,
That subdued, subduing strain
Which is played upon the shingles
By the patter of the rain.
I REMEMBER, I REMEMBER
I REMEMBER, I remember
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn ;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day,
But now I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away!
I remember, I remember
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups,
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs, where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birthday,-
The tree is living yet!
I remember, I remember
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow.
I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky :
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 't is little joy
To know I 'm farther off from heaven
GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD
THEY grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee;
Their graves are severed far and wide
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight
Where are those dreamers now?
One 'mid the forests of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are dressed
Above the noble slain;
He wrapped his colors round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one - o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fanned;
She faded 'mid Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And, parted thus, they rest who played
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent-knee !
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth;
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O Earth!
WE are all here,
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
All who hold each other dear.
Each chair is filled, we are all at home
To-night let no cold stranger come;
It is not often thus around
Our old familiar hearth we 're found.
Bless, then, the meeting and the spot,
For once be every care forgot;
Let gentle peace assert her
Who thronged with us this ancient hearth,
And gave the hour to guileless mirth.
Fate, with a stern, relentless hand,
Looked in and thinned our little band;
Some like a night-flash passed away,
And some sank lingering day by day;
The quiet grave-yard
And cruel ocean has his share.
We 're not all here!
the dead though dead, so dear, Fond memory, to her duty true, Brings back their faded forms to view. How life-like, through the mist of years, Each well-remembered face appears! We see them, as in times long past; From each to each kind looks are cast; We hear their words, their smiles behold, They're 'round us as they were of old. We are all here!
We are all here:
Father, mother,
Sister, brother,
You that I love with love so dear.
This may not long of us be said;
Soon may we join the gathered dead,
And by the hearth we now sit 'round
Some other circle will be found.
Oh, then, that wisdom may we know
Which yields a life of peace below;
So in the world to follow this
May each repeat, in words of bliss,
We 're all - all here.
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