D BEN BOLT ON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt- Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile, In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt, In a corner obscure and alone, They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray, Under the hickory-tree, Ben Bolt, Which stood at the foot of the hill, Together we've lain in the noonday shade, The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt, And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you gaze Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt, At the edge of the pathless wood, And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs, The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt; The tree you would seek for in vain; And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt, And the shaded nook in the running brook Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt, And of all the boys who were schoolmates then There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt, They have changed from the old to the new; Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt, THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH. H THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET wow dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well! For often, at noon, when returned from the field, How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, 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. SAMUEL WOODWORTH. A THE BRAVE OLD OAK SONG to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out; And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, And still flourish he, a hale green tree, In the days of old, when the spring with cold Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, To gather the dew of May. And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains: They are gone, they are dead, in the church-yard laid, Then here's to the oak, etc. He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small Now gold hath the sway we all obey, And a ruthless king is he; But he never shall send our ancient friend Then here's to the oak, etc. . Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; When but an idle boy, I sought its grateful shade; Here too my sisters played. My father pressed my hand,- But let that old oak stand! My heart-strings round thee cling, And still thy branches bend. While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not! GEORGE P. MORRIS. THE OLD ARM-CHAIR LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair? I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart: Not a tie will break, not a link will start. Would ye learn the spell?-a mother sat there; In childhood's hour I lingered near The hallowed seat with listening ear; And gentle words that mother would give To fit me to die, and teach me to live. She told me shame would never betide, With truth for my creed and God for my guide; She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer, As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watched her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks grew gray; And turned from her Bible to bless her child. I learnt how much the heart can bear, 'Tis past, 'tis past; but I gaze on it now With quivering breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died: And Memory flows with lava tide. Say it is folly, and deem me weak, While the scalding drops start down my cheek: But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear My soul from a mother's old arm-chair. ELIZA COOK. XXVIII-1027 H SONG OF STEAM ARNESS me down with your iron bands, For I scorn the strength of your puny hands How I laughed, as I lay concealed from sight At the childish boast of human might, When I saw an army upon the land, Creeping along, a snail-like band, Or waiting the wayward breeze; When I marked the peasant faintly reel, As he feebly turned the tardy wheel, When I measured the panting courser's speed, As they bore the law a king decreed, Or the lines of impatient love; |