We shall love and praise the things

That are down in Hades. Glad am I, and glad will be;

For my heart rejoices

When sweet looks and lips I see,
When I hear sweet voices.

I will hope, and work, and love,
Singing to the hours,
While the stars are bright above,
And below, the flowers;
Apple-blossoms on the trees,
Gold-cups in the meadows,
Branches waving in the breeze,

On the grass their shadows;
Blackbirds whistling in the wood,

Cuckoos shouting o'er us; Clouds, with white or crimson hood, Pacing right before us.

Who, in such a world as this,

Could not heal his sorrow? Welcome this sweet sunset bliss

Sunrise comes to-morrow!

ANONYMOUS.

Wespondency Rebuked.

SAY not, the struggle nought availeth,

The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth,

And as things have been they remain.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,

When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.

ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

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; 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 glow-
ing,

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 me to leave it,

The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear 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!
SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

I learned at last submission to my lot;

OUT OF NORFOLK, THE GIFT OF MY COUSIN, ANN

BODHAM.

On that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine-thy own sweet smile I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails-else how distinct they say,
"Grieve not, my child-chase all thy fears away!"
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes
(Blest be the art that can immortalize,
The art that baffles time's tyrannic claim

To quench it!) here shines on me still the same.
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear!

O welcome guest, though unexpected here!
Who bidst me honor with an artless song,
Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey — not willingly alone,

But gladly, as the precept were her own;
And, while that face renews my filial grief,
Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief –
Shall steep me in Elysian reverie,
A momentary dream that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son
Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gavest me, though unfelt, a kiss;
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss —
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers - Yes.
I heard the bell toll on thy burial day;

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away;
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such - It was.- Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown;
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more.
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return;
What ardently I wished I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived
By expectation every day beguiled,
Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrows spent,

653

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no

more

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way —
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap-
'Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair,
That memory keeps of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm that has effaced
A thousand other themes, less deeply traced:
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home-
The biscuit, or confectionery plum;

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed

By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed:
All this, and, more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall-
Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks
That humor interposed too often makes;
All this, still legible in memory's page,
And still to be so to my latest age,
Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay
Such honors to thee as my numbers may-
Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere-

Not scorned in heaven, though little noticed here.
Could time, his flight reversed, restore the hours
When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers-
The violet, the pink, the jessamine-

I pricked them into paper with a pin, (And thou wast happier than myself the whileWouldst softly speak, and stroke my head and smile)

Could those few pleasant days again appear,

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them

here?

I would not trust my heart-the dear delight
Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might.
But no what here we call our life is such,
So little to be loved, and thou so much,
That I should ill requite thee to constrain
Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou- as a gallant bark, from Albion's coast, (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed,)

Shoots into port at some well-havened isle,
Where spices breathe and brighter seasons smile,
There sits quiescent on the floods, that show
Her beauteous form reflected clear below,
While airs impregnated with incense play
Around her, fanning light her streamers gay-
So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the shore
"Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;"
And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide
Of life long since has anchored by thy side.
But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest,
Always from port withheld, always distressed-
Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed,
Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compass lost;
And day by day some current's thwarting force
Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.
Yet oh, the thought that thou art safe, and he !
That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.
My boast is not that I deduce my birth
From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth;
But higher far my proud pretensions rise
The son of parents passed into the skies.
And now, farewell!- Time, unrevoked, has run
His wonted course; yet what I wished is done.
By contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again -
To have renewed the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;

And, while the wings of fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft —
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

WILLIAM COWPER.

The Traveller;

OR, A PROSPECT OF SOCIETY.

REMOTE, unfriended, melancholy, slow,
Or by the lazy Scheldt, or wandering Po,
Or onward, where the rude Carinthian boor
Against the houseless stranger shuts the door,
Or where Campania's plain forsaken lies,
A weary waste expanding to the skies:
Where'er I roam, whatever realms to see,
My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee;
Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain,
And drags at each remove a lengthening chain.

Eternal blessings crown my earliest friend, And round his dwelling guardian saints attend! Blest be that spot, where cheerful guests retire To pause from toil, and time their evening fire! Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair! Blest be those feasts with simple plenty crowned, Where all the ruddy family around Laugh at the jests or pranks that never fail, Or sigh with pity at some mournful tale; Or press the bashful stranger to his food, And learn the luxury of doing good!

But me, not destined such delights to share,
My prime of life in wandering spent, and care;
Impelled, with steps unceasing, to pursue
Some fleeting good that mocks me with the view,
That like the circle bounding earth and skies,
Allures from far, yet, as I follow, flies;

My future leads to traverse realms alone,
And find no spot of all the world my own.
E'en now,
where Alpine solitudes ascend,

I sit me down a pensive hour to spend;
And, placed on high above the storm's career,
Look downward where a hundred realms appear:
Lakes, forests, cities, plains extending wide,
The pomp of kings, the shepherd's humbler pride.

When thus creation's charms around combine, Amidst the store should thankless pride repine Say, should the philosophic mind disdain

That good which makes each humbler bosom vain ?

Let school-taught pride dissemble all it can,
These little things are great to little man;

And wiser he whose sympathetic mind

Exults in all the good of all mankind.

Ye glittering towns, with wealth and splendor crowned;

Ye fields, where summer spreads profusion round;
Ye lakes, whose vessels catch the busy gale;
Ye bending swains, that dress the flowery vale;
For me your tributary stores combine,
Creation's heir, the world - the world is mine!

As some lone miser visiting his store, Bends at his treasure, counts, recounts it o'er, Hoards after hoards his rising raptures fill, Yet still he sighs, for hoards are wanting still,

655

Thus to my breast alternate passions rise,

But let us try these truths with closer eyes,

plies;

Yet oft a sigh prevails, and sorrows fall,
To see the sum of human bliss so small:
And oft I wish, amidst the scene to find
Some spot to real happiness consigned,

Where my worn soul, each wandering hope at rest,

May gather bliss to see my fellows blest.

But where to find that happiest spot below
Who can direct, when all pretend to know?
The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone
Boldly proclaims that happiest spot his own,
Extols the treasures of his stormy seas,
And his long nights of revelry and ease;
The naked negro, planting at the line,
Boasts of his golden sands and palmy wine,
Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave,

Here, for a while, my proper cares resigned,
Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind;
Like yon neglected shrub at random cast,
That shades the steep, and sighs at every blast.

Far to the right, where Apennine ascends, Bright as the summer, Italy extends; Its uplands sloping deck the mountain's side, Woods over woods, in gay theatric pride, While oft some temple's mouldering tops between With venerable grandeur mark the scene.

Could nature's bounty satisfy the breast, The sons of Italy were surely blest: Whatever fruits in different climes are found, That proudly rise, or humbly court the ground; Whatever blooms in torrid tracts appear,

Such is the patriot's boast where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.
And yet, perhaps, if countries we compare,
And estimate the blessings which they share,
Though patriots flatter, still shall wisdom find
An equal portion dealt to all mankind;
As different good, by art or nature given,

To different nations, makes their blessings even.

Nature, a mother kind alike to all,
Still grants her bliss at labor's earnest call:
With food as well the peasant is supplied
On Idra's cliffs as Arno's shelvy side;
And though the rocky-crested summits frown,
These rocks by custom turn to beds of down.
From art more various are the blessings sent,-
Wealth, commerce, honor, liberty, content.
Yet these each other's power so strong contest,
That either seems destructive of the rest.
Where wealth and freedom reign, contentment
fails,

And honor sinks where commerce long prevails.
Hence every state, to our loved blessing prone,
Conforms and models life to that alone.
Each to the favorite happiness attends,
And spurns the plan that aims at other ends,
Till, carried to excess in each domain,
This favorite good begets peculiar pain.

Whatever sweets salute the northern sky
With vernal lives, that blossom but to die;
These here disporting own the kindred soil,
Nor ask luxuriance from the planter's toil;
While sea-born gales their gelid wings expand,
To winnow fragrance round the smiling land.

But small the bliss that sense alone bestows, And sensual bliss is all this nation knows. In florid beauty groves and fields appear, Man seems the only growth that dwindles here. Contrasted faults through all his manners reign: Though poor, luxurious; though submissive, vain; Though grave, yet trifling; zealous, yet untrue! And e'en in penance planning sins anew. All evils here contaminate the mind, That opulence departed leaves behind; For wealth was theirs; not far removed the date

When commerce proudly flourished through the

state.

At her command the palace learned to rise, Again the long-fallen column sought the skies, The canvas glowed, beyond e'en nature warm, The pregnant quarry teemed with human form; Till, more unsteady than the southern gale, Commerce on other shores displayed her sail; While naught remained, of all that riches gave, But towns unmanned, and lords without a slave;

And late the nation found, with fruitless skill, Its former strength was but plethoric ill.

Yet still the loss of wealth is here supplied
By arts, the splendid wrecks of former pride;
From these the feeble heart and long-fallen mind
An easy compensation seem to find.
Here may be seen, in bloodless pomp arrayed,
The pasteboard triumph and the cavalcade;
Processions formed for piety and love,
A mistress or a saint in every grove.

By sports like these are all their cares beguiled;
The sports of children satisfy the child:
Each nobler aim, repressed by long control,
Now sinks at last, or feebly mans the soul;
While low delights succeeding fast behind,
In happier meanness occupy the mind.
As in those domes where Cæsars once
sway,

With patient angle trolls the finny deep,
Or drives his venturous ploughshare to the steep;
Or seeks the den where snow-tracks mark the way,
And drags the struggling savage into day.
At night returning, every labor sped,
He sits him down the monarch of a shed;
Smiles by a cheerful fire, and round surveys
His children's looks that brighten to the blaze,
While his loved partner, boastful of her hoard,
Displays her cleanly platter on the board;
And haply too some pilgrim, thither led,
With many a tale repays the nightly bed.

Defaced by time, and tottering in decay,
There in the ruin, heedless of the dead,
The shelter-seeking peasant builds his shed;
And, wondering man could want the larger pile,
Exults, and owns his cottage with a smile.

My soul, turn from them! turn me to survey Where rougher climes a nobler race display, Where the bleak Swiss their stormy mansion tread, And force a churlish soil for scanty bread: No product here the barren hills afford But man and steel, the soldier and his sword; No vernal blooms their torpid rocks array, But winter lingering chills the lap of May; No zephyr fondly sues the mountain's breast, But meteors glare, and stormy glooms invest.

Yet still, even here, content can spread a charm,
Redress the clime, and all its rage disarm.
Though poor the peasant's hut, his feast though
small,

He sees his little lot the lot of all;
Sees no contiguous palace rear its head,
To shame the meanness of his humble shed;
No costly lord the sumptuous banquet deal
To make him loathe his vegetable meal;
But calm, and bred in ignorance and toil,
Each wish contracting, fits him to the soil.
Cheerful at morn he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes;

Such are the charms to barren states assigned: Their wants but few, their wishes all confined; Yet let them only share the praises due,― If few their wants, their pleasures are but few: For every want that stimulates the breast Becomes a source of pleasure when redressed. Hence from such lands each pleasing science flies, That first excites desire and then supplies; Unknown to them, when sensual pleasures cloy, To fill the languid pause with finer joy! Unknown those powers that raise the soul to flame,

Catch every nerve, and vibrate through the frame. Their level life is but a smouldering fire,

Nor quenched by want, nor fanned by strong desire;

Unfit for raptures, or if raptures cheer
On some high festival of once a year,
In wild excess the vulgar breast takes fire,
Till, buried in debauch, the bliss expire.

But not their joys alone thus coarsely flow,Their morals, like their pleasures, are but low; For, as refinement stops, from sire to son Unaltered, unimproved the manners run;