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 the well.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

ELIZA COOK.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.
WOODMAN, spare that tree!

Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,

And I'll protect it now.
'T was my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,

And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke !
Cut not its earth-bound ties
O, spare that aged oak,

Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played. My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my handForgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot ;
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall hurt it not.

GEORGE PERKINS MORRIS.

SEVEN TIMES TWO.

ROMANCE.

ranges

"Turn again, turn again," once they rang cheerily While a boy listened alone :

Made his heart yearn again, musing so wearily All by himself on a stone.

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good days are

over,

And mine, they are yet to be;

No listening, no longing, shall aught, aught discover:

You leave the story to me.

The foxglove shoots out of the green matted heather,

Preparing her hoods of snow;

She was idle, and slept till the sunshiny weather: O, children take long to grow.

I wish, and I wish that the spring would go faster,

Nor long summer bide so late;

And I could grow on like the foxglove and aster, For some things are ill to wait.

I wait for the day when dear hearts shall discover,
While dear hands are laid on my head;
"The child is a woman, the book may close over,
For all the lessons are said."

I wait for my story — the birds cannot sing it, Not one, as he sits on the tree;

The bells cannot ring it, but long years, O, bring it!

Such as I wish it to be.

JEAN INGELOW.

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST.

LITTLE Ellie sits alone Mid the beeches of a meadow, By a stream-side on the grass, And the trees are showering down Doubles of their leaves in shadow, On her shining hair and face.

She has thrown her bonnet by, And her feet she has been dipping In the shallow water's flow. Now she holds them nakedly In her hands all sleek and dripping, While she rocketh to and fro.

Little Ellie sits alone,
And the smile she softly uses

Fills the silence like a speech,

While she thinks what shall be done, And the sweetest pleasure chooses For her future within reach.

"Then he'll ride among the hills To the wide world past the river,

There to put away all wrong;
To make straight distorted wills,
And to empty the broad quiver

Which the wicked bear along.

"Three times shall a young foot-page Swim the stream and climb the mountain And kneel down beside my feet; 'Lo, my master sends this gage, Lady, for thy pity's counting! What wilt thou exchange for it?'

"And the first time, I will send A white rosebud for a guerdon, And the second time, a glove;

She did not say to the sun, "Good night!"
Though she saw him there like a ball of light;
For she knew he had God's time to keep
All over the world and never could sleep.

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head;
The violets courtesied, and went to bed;
And good little Lucy tied up her hair,
And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.

And, while on her pillow she softly lay,
She knew nothing more till again it was day ;
And all things said to the beautiful sun,
"Good morning, good morning! our work is
begun."

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. (LORD HOUGHTON.)

THREE YEARS SHE GREW.

THREE years she grew in sun and shower;
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower

On earth was never sown :
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.

'Myself will to my darling be
Both law and impulse; and with me
The girl, in rock and plain,

In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power

To kindle or restrain.

"She shall be sportive as the fawn
That wild with glee across the lawn
Or up the mountain springs ;
And hers shall be the breathing balm,
And hers the silence and the calm,
Of mute insensate things.

"The floating clouds their state shall lend To her; for her the willow bend;

Nor shall she fail to see

E'en in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form

By silent sympathy.

"The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear

In many a secret place

Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.

“And vital feelings of delight
Shall rear her form to stately height,

Her virgin bosom swell;
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give
While she and I together live

Here in this happy dell."

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and 0,

The difference to me!

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

THE PRETTY GIRL OF LOCH DAN.

THE shades of eve had crossed the glen

That frowns o'er infant Avonmore, When, nigh Loch Dan, two weary men, We stopped before a cottage door. "God save all here," my comrade cries, And rattles on the raised latch-pin; "God save you kindly," quick replies A clear sweet voice, and asks us in.

We enter; from the wheel she starts,

A rosy girl with soft black eyes;
Her fluttering courtesy takes our hearts,
Her blushing grace and pleased surprise.

Poor Mary, she was quite alone,

For, all the way to Glenmalure,
Her mother had that morning gone,
And left the house in charge with her.
But neither household cares, nor yet

The shame that startled virgins feel,
Could make the generous girl forget
Her wonted hospitable zeal.

She brought us in a beechen bowl

Sweet milk that smacked of mountain thyme, Oat cake, and such a yellow roll

Of butter,

- it gilds all my rhyme !

And, while we ate the grateful food
(With weary limbs on bench reclined),
Considerate and discreet, she stood
Apart, and listened to the wind.

Kind wishes both our souls engaged,

From breast to breast spontaneous ran

The mutual thought, we stood and pledged THE MODEST ROSE ABOVE LOCH DAN.

"The milk we drink is not more pure,

Sweet Mary, bless those budding charms!— Than your own generous heart, I'm sure, Nor whiter than the breast it warms!"

She turned and gazed, unused to hear Such language in that homely glen ;

But, Mary, you have naught to fear, Though smiled on by two stranger-men.

Not for a crown would I alarm

Your virgin pride by word or sign, Nor need a painful blush disarm

My friend of thoughts as pure as mine.

Her simple heart could not but feel

The words we spoke were free from guile ;
She stooped, she blushed, she fixed her wheel,
'T is all in vain, — she can't but smile!
Just like sweet April's dawn appears
Her modest face, I see it yet,
And though I lived a hundred years
Methinks I never could forget

The pleasure that, despite her heart,
Fills all her downcast eyes with light;
The lips reluctantly apart,

The white teeth struggling into sight,
The dimples eddying o'er her cheek,
The rosy cheek that won't be still :—
O, who could blame what flatterers speak,
Did smiles like this reward their skill?
For such another smile, I vow,

Though loudly beats the midnight rain,
I'd take the mountain-side e'en now,
And walk to Luggelaw again!

SAMUEL FERGUSON.

TO A HIGHLAND GIRL.

AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND.

SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower
Of beauty is thy earthly dower !
Twice seven consenting years have shed
Their utmost bounty on thy head;
And these gray rocks, this household lawn,
These trees, a veil just half withdrawn,'-
This fall of water that doth make
A murmur near the silent lake,
This little bay, a quiet road
That holds in shelter thy abode ;
In truth together ye do seem
Like something fashioned in a dream,
Such forms as from their covert peep
When earthly cares are laid asleep!
But O fair Creature! in the light
Of common day so heavenly bright,
I bless thee, Vision as thou art,
I bless thee with a human heart:
God shield thee to thy latest years!
I neither know thee nor thy peers;
And yet my eyes are filled with tears.

With earnest feeling I shall pray
For thee when I am far away;