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Nor he nor I did e'er incline
Lead lives as glad as mine?
My childhood from my life is parted, My footstep from the moss which drew Its fairy circle round : anew
The garden is deserted.
THERE are gains for all our losses,
There are balms for all our pain,
And it never comes again.
Under manhood's sterner reign ;
And will never come again.
And we sigh for it in vain ;
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
Another thrush may there rehearse The madrigals which sweetest are ; No more for me ! — myself afar
Do sing a sadder verse.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE DESERTED GARDEN.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
I mind me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun With childish bounds I used to run
To a garden long deserted.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child.
hood, 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
The beds and walks were vanished quite; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; And I almost worshipped her when she smiled, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Ande'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. Years rolled on, but the last one sped, — The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.
For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 'Tis past, 't is past ! but I gaze on it now,
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. | 'T was there she nursed me, 't was there she died, How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glow- And memory flows with lava tide. ing!
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well; My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.
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.
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.
WOODMAN, spare that tree !
Touch not a single bough!
And I'll protect it now.
That placed it near his cot;
Thy axe shall harm it not !
Whose glory and renown
And wouldst thou hew it down !
Cut not its earth-bound ties ;
Now towering to the skies !
I sought its grateful shade ;
Here too my sisters played.
My father pressed my hand
But let that old oak stand !
I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
In childhood's hour I lingered near
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend !
And still thy branches bend,
And, woodman, leave the spot;
GEORGE P. MORRIS.
I sat, and watched her many a day,
no place like home! A charm from the sky
to hallow as there which, seek through the world, is neler met with elsewhere!
sweet, seweet home! There's no place like home! there's no place the home!
Home Sweet Home!
Mid peasures and palaces shough may
Fair Nature's book together read,
The hills we climbed, the river seen
Where'er I look, where'er I stray,
O'er lapse of time and change of scene,
COME then, my friend! my genius! come along;
Thou lack'st not Friendship's spellword, nor
With these good gifts of God is cast
If, then, a fervent wish for thee
The sighing of a shaken reed,
A GENEROUS friendship no cold medium knows,