When at the day's calm close, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer, I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Not there! Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear; Is but his wardrobe lock'd ;-he is not there! He lives! In all the past And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! FATHER, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, Meeting at thy right hand, "Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there! SAMUEL WOODWORTH, MR. WOODWORTH was born in Scituate, Massachusetts, in 1785, and died in New York in 1842. He was the author of several volumes of songs, comedies, &c. THE BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood! When fond recollection presents them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wild wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which 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 which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well. That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure, For often, at noon, when return'd 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, How 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, How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well. ANDREWS NORTON. PROFESSOR NORTON is better known as a theological writer than as a poet, though the few poems he has published possess great merit. He was born in Hingham, Massachusetts, in 1786, and now resides at Cambridge. A SUMMER SHOWER. THE rain is o'er-How dense and bright In grateful silence earth receives With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on nature-yet the same- Fresh in her youth, from GOD's own hand. Hear the rich music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms of love. Drink in her influence-low-born care, And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air, And mid this living light expire. RICHARD H. DANA. BORN in Cambridge in 1787, and now resides in Boston. His "Poems and prose writings" were published in 1833. THE OCEAN. Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made To cleanse the air and bear the world's great trade To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun, Then back into themselves in rivers run, Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide, Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide. Ho! how the giant heaves himself, and strains And flings to break his strong and viewless chains; Foams in his wrath; and at his prison doors, Hark! hear him! how he beats and tugs and roars, As if he would break forth again and sweep Each living thing within his lowest deep. Type of the Infinite! I look away Over thy billows, and I cannot stay To think; then rests, and then puts forth again. |