WOODWORTH.

THE OLD OAKEN 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-covered bucket which hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;

For often, at noon, when returned 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, 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, pois'd on the curb, it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd 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 his well.

THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;

The westland wind is husht and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those sweet hues that once it bore;

Though Evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick shore.

With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide,

And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the treeAre they still sweet as once they were, Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas! the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye?
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply?
To aching eyes each landscape lours,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby, or Eden's bowers,

Were barren as this moorland hill.

THEY parted, and alone he lay;

Clare drew her from the sight away,

Till pain wrung forth a lowly moan,
And half he murmur'd,-"Is there none,

Of all my halls have nurst,

Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring Of blessed water from the spring,

To slake my dying thirst?"

O Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade

By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!-

Scarce were the piteous accents said,

When, with the Baron's casque, the maid

To the nigh streamlet ran:

Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears-
The plaintive voice alone she hears,
Sees but the dying man.

She stoop'd her by the runnel's side,

But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountains wide, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue. Where shall she turn? behold her mark A little fountain cell,

Where water, clear as diamond-spark,

In a stone basin fell.

Above, some half-worn letters say,

Drink. weary. pilgrim. drink. and. praq.
For. the. kind. soul. of. qbil. Grey.
Who. built. this. cross . and . well .

She fill'd the helm, and back she hied,
And with surprise and joy espied

A Monk supporting Marmion's head-
A pious man, whom duty brought
To dubious verge of battle fought,
To shrive the dying, bless the dead.