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, 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, ELIZA COOK. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. Touch not a single bough! And I'll protect it now. Whose glory and renown And wouldst thou hew it down? 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, And still thy branches bend. GEORGE PERKINS MORRIS. SEVEN TIMES TWO. ROMANCE. You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out your changes, How many soever they be, And let the brown meadow-lark's note as he ranges Come over, come over to me. Yet birds' clearest carol by fall or by swelling And bells have forgotten their old art of telling "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, 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, 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; 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!" The tall pink foxglove bowed his head; And, while on her pillow she softly lay, RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES. (LORD HOUGHTON.) THREE YEARS SHE GREW. THREE years she grew in sun and shower; On earth was never sown : 'Myself will to my darling be In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, Shall feel an overseeing power To kindle or restrain. "She shall be sportive as the fawn "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 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 vital feelings of delight Her virgin bosom swell; Here in this happy dell." A violet by a mossy stone She lived unknown, and few could know 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; Poor Mary, she was quite alone, For, all the way to Glenmalure, The shame that startled virgins feel, 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 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 ; The pleasure that, despite her heart, The white teeth struggling into sight, Though loudly beats the midnight rain, SAMUEL FERGUSON. TO A HIGHLAND GIRL. AT INVERSNEYDE, UPON LOCH LOMOND. SWEET Highland Girl, a very shower With earnest feeling I shall pray |