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SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

ANDREWS NORTON.

147

my lips!

Every hope thy offspring is,

I found it the source of an exquisite Beaming from futurity.

pleasure,

The purest and sweetest that nature Every sun of splendid ray,

can yield. Every moon that shines serene,

How ardent I seized it, with hands that Every morn that welcomes day,

were glowing, Every evening's twilight scene,

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom Every hour that wisdom brings,

it fell; Every incense at thy shrine,

Then soon, with the emblem of truth overThese, and all life's holiest things,

tlowing, And its fairest, all are thine.

And dripping with coolness, it rose

from the well,

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound And for all, my hymns shall rise

bucket, Daily to thy gracious throne;

The moss-covered bucket, arose from the Thither let my asking eyes

well. Turn unwearied, righteous One! Through life's strange vicissitude, How sweet from the green, mossy brim There reposing all my care;

to receive it, Trusting still, through ill and good, As, poised on the curb, it inclined to Fixed, and cheered, and counselled there.

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 SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

habitation,

The tears of regret will intrusively [U. S. A., 1785' 1842.)

swell,

As fancy reverts to my father's plantaTHE BUCKET.

tion,

And sighs for the bucket that hangs How dear to this heart are the scenes of

in the well, my childhood,

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound When fond recollection presents them

bucket, to view !

The moss-covered bucket, that hangs in The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled the well.

wildwood, And every loved spot which myinfancy

knew!The wide-spreading pond, and the mill ANDREWS NORTON.

that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the

(U. S. A., 1786 - 1853.] cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER.

nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung The rain is o'er. How dense and bright in the well,

Yon pearly clouds reposing lie! The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight, bucket,

Contrasting with the dark blue sky! The moss-covered bucket, which hung in In grateful silence earth receives the well.

The general blessing; fresh and fair,

Each lower expands its little leaves, That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a

As glad the common joy to share. treasure; For often at noon, when returned from The softened suubeams pour around the field,

A fairy light, uncertain, pale;

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I said to Sorrow's awful storin

That beat against my breast, Rage on,

thou mayst destroy this form, And lav it low at rest; But still the spirit that now brooks

Thy tempest, raging high, Undaunted on its fury looks,

With steadfast eye.

LAUNCH thy bark, mariner!

Christian, God speed thee! Let loose the rudder-bands,

Good angels lead thee! Set thy sails warily,

Tempests will come; Steer thy course steadily :

Christian, steer home! Look to the weather-how,

Breakers are round thee; Let fall the plummet now,

Shallows may ground thee. Reef in the foresail, there!

Hold the helm fast! So- let the vessel wear

There swept the blast. “What of the night, watchman?

What the night?” “Cloudy-all quiet

No land yet--all's right."

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And the memory of those who have loved

her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living

erased.

I said to Friendship's menaced blow,

Strike deep, - my heart shall bear;
Thou canst but add one bitter woe

To those already there;
Yet still the spirit that sustains

This last severe distress
Shall smile upon its keenest pains,

And scorn redress.
I said to Death's uplifted dårt,

Aim sure, –0, why delay?
Thou wilt not find a fearful heart,

A weak, reluctant prey ;
For still the spirit, firm and free,

Unruffled by this last dismay,
Wrapt in its own eternity,

Shall pass away.

The hand of the king that the sceptre

hath borne, The brow of the priest that the mitre

hath worn, The eye of the sage, and the heart of the

brave, Are hidden and lost in the depths of the

grave. The peasant whose lot was to sow and to

reap, The herdsman who climbed with his

goats to the steep, The beggar who wandered in search of

his bread, Have faded away like the grass that we

tread.

WILLIAM KNOX.

(1789-1825.)

The saint who enjoyed the communion

of heaven, O, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF

The sinner who dared to remain unfor. MORTAL BE PROUD?

given, O, why should the spirit of mortal be The wise and the foolish, the guilty and proud ?

just, Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying Have quietly mingled their bones in the cloud,

dust. A flash of the lightning, a break of the

So the multitude goes, like the flower wave,

and the weed, He passeth from life to his rest in the

That wither away to let others succeed ; grave.

So the multitude comes, even those we The leaves of the oak and the willow

behold, shall fade,

To repeat every tale that hath often been Bescattered around and together be laid;

told. And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

For we are the same things our fathers

have been; Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

We see the same sights that our fathers

have seen, The child that a mother attended and We drink the same stream, and we feel loved,

the same sun, The mother that infant's affection who And run the same course that our fathers

have run. proved, The husband that mother and infant who blessed,

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers

would think; Each, all, are away to their dwellings of

From the death we are shrinking from, rest.

they too would shrink; The maid on whose cheek, on whose To the life we are clinging to, they too brow, in whose eye,

would cling; Shone beauty and pleasure, — her tri. But it speeds from the earth like a bird umphs are by;

on the wing.

day!”

They loved, but their story we cannot

In and out, unfold;

Through the motley rout, They scorned, but the heart of the haughty The littie Jackdaw kept hopping about; is cold;

Here and there, They grieved, but no wail from their Like a dog in a fair, slumbers will come;

Over comtits and cates They joyed, but the voice of their glad And dishes and plates, ness is dumb.

Cowl and cope and rochet and pall,

Mitre and crosier, he hopped upon all. They died, - ay! they died; and we things With a saucy air that are now,

He perched on the chair Who walk on the turf that lies over their Where, in state, the great Lord Cardinal brow,

sat, Who make in their dwellings a transient In the great Lord Cardinal's great red abode,

hat; Meet the changes they met on their pil And he peered in the face grimage road.

Of his Lordship's Grace,

With a satisfied look, as if to say, Yea, hope and despondence, and pleasure | “We two are the greatest folks here to.

and pain, Are mingled together in sunshine and And the priests with awe, rain ;

As such freaks they saw, And the smile and the tear, the song and Said, "The Devil must be in that little the dirge,

Jackdaw !” Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

The feast was over, the board was cleared,

The flawns and the custards had all dis'T is the twink of an eye, 't is the draught appeared, of a breath,

And six little singing-boys, - dear little From the blossom of health to the pale souls!ness of death,

In nice clean faces and nice white stoles, From the gilded saloon to the bier and Came, in order due, the shroud,

Two by two, 0, why should the spirit of mortal be Marching that grand refectory through!

A nice little boy held a golden ewer,
Embossed, and filled with water, as pure
As any that flows between Rheims and

Namur,
RICHARD H. BARHAM. Which a nice little boy stood really to

catch
(1788 – 1845.)

Inafine golden hand-basin made tomatch.

Two nice little boys, rather more grown, THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. Poured lavender-water and eau-de-co

logne; The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal's chair; Anda nice little boy had a nice cake of soap Bishop and abbot and prior were there; Worthy of washing the hands of the Pope! Many a monk and many a friar,

One little boy more Many a knight and many a squire, A napkin bore With a great many more of lesserdegree, Of the best white diaperfringed with pink, In sooth, a goodly company;

And a cardinal's hat marked in permaAnd they served the Lord Primate on

nent ink. bendent knee. Never, I ween,

The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Was a proudler seen,

Of these nice little boys dressed all in Read of in books or dreamt of in dreams,

white; Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop of From his finger he draws Rheims :

His costly turquoise:

proud ?

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And, not thinking at all about little Jack He cursed him in sitting, in standing, daws,

in lying; Deposits it straight

He cursed him in walking, in riding, By the side of his plat

in Aving; While the nice little boys on his Emi He cursed him living, he cursed him nence wait;

dying!Till, when nobody's dreaming of any Never was heard such a terrible curse ! such thing,

But what gave rise That little Jackdaw hops off with the To no little surprise, ring!

Nobody seemed one penny the worse !
There's a cry and a shout,

The day was gone,
And a deuce of a rout,

The night came on, And nobody seems to know what they ’re The monks and the friars they searched about,

till dawn;
But the monks have their pockets all When the sacristan saw,
turned inside out;

On crumpled claw,
The friars are kneeling,

Come limping a poor little lame Jackdaw!
And hunting and feeling

No longer gay, The carpet, the floor, and the walls, and As on yesterday; the ceiling

His feathers all seemed to be turned the The Cardinal drew

wrong way; Off each plum-colored shoe, His pinions drooped, — he could hardly And left his red stockings exposed to the stand, view;

His head was as bald as the palm of your He peeps, and he feels

hand; In the toes and the heels.

His eye so dim, They turn up the dishes, -- they turn up So wasted each limb, the plates,

That, heedless of grammar, they all cried, They take up the poker and poke out the “ THAT 'S HIM! grates,

That's the scamp that has done this They turn up the rugs,

scandalous thing, They examine the mugs;

That's the thief that has got my Lord But, no! — no such thing, –

Cardinal's RING!" They can't find THE RING!

The poor little Jackdaw, And the Abbot declared that “when When the monks he saw, nobody twigged it,

Feebly gave vent to the ghost of a caw; Some rascal or other had popped in and And turned his bald head as much as to prigged it!”

say,

“Pray be so good as to walk this way!" The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, Slower and slower He called for his candle, his bell, and his He limped on before, book!

Till they came to the back of the belfry In holy anger and pious grief

Floor, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief!

Where the first thing they saw, He cursed him at board, he cursed him Midst the sticks and the straw, in bed ;

Was the Ring in the nest of that little From the sole of his foot to the crown Jackdaw !

of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every Then the great Lord Cardinal called for night

his book, He should dream of the Devil, and And off that terrible curse he took ; wake in a fright.

The mute expression He cursed him in eating, he cursed Served in lieu of confession, him in drinking,

And, being thus coupled with full restiHe cursed him in coughing, in sneez

tution, ing, in winking;

The Jackdaw got plenary absolution !

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