SAMUEL WOODWORTH. Every hope thy offspring is, Every sun of splendid ray, Every moon that shines serene, Every morn that welcomes day, Every evening's twilight scene, Every hour that wisdom brings, Every incense at thy shrine,These, and all life's holiest things, And its fairest, all are thine. And for all, my hymns shall rise Turn unwearied, righteous One! SAMUEL WOODWORTH. [U. s. A., 1785-1842.] 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 wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! 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; 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 Though filled with the nectar that And now, far removed from the loved The tears 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. ANDREWS NORTON. [U. s. A., 1786-1853.] AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. For often at noon, when returned from The softened sunbeams pour around the field, A fairy light, uncertain, pale; The wind flows cool; the scented ground Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth; from off the scene With trembling drops of light is hung. Hear the rich music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her armsoflove. 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. CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. [1787-1854.] MARINER'S HYMN. LAUNCH thy bark, mariner! Breakers are round thee; "What of the night, watchman? No land yet all's right." Be wakeful, be vigilant, - At an hour when all seemeth How! gains the leak so fast? LAVINIA STODDARD. [U. s. A., 1787-1820.] THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE. I SAID to Sorrow's awful storm That beat against my breast, Rage on, thou mayst destroy this form, But still the spirit that now brooks I said to Penury's meagre train, Yet still the spirit that endures Shall mock your force the while, And meet each cold, cold grasp of yours With bitter smile. I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, WILLIAM KNOX. I said to Friendship's menaced blow, To those already there; Shall smile upon its keenest pains, I said to Death's uplifted dart, 149 And the memory of those who have loved her and praised, Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 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. The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven, The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven, The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just, Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust. So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed, That wither away to let others succeed; So the multitude comes, even those we behold, To repeat every tale that hath often been told. For we are the same things our fathers have been; We see the same sights that our fathers have seen, the same sun, The child that a mother attended and We drink the same stream, and we feel loved, The mother that infant's affection who And run the same course that our fathers have run. The Each, all, are away to their dwellings of thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think; rest. From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink; The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye, Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by; To the But it life we are clinging to, they too would cling; speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing. The feast was over, the board was cleared, The flawns and the custards had all disappeared, And six little singing-boys, dear little souls! In nice clean faces and nice white stoles, Marching that grand refectory through! Which a nice little boy stood ready to catch In a fine golden hand-basin made to match. And a nice little boy had a nice cake of soap Of the best white diaper fringed with pink, And a cardinal's hat marked in permanent ink. The great Lord Cardinal turns at the sight Of these nice little boys dressed all in white; From his finger he draws |