D

BEN BOLT

ON'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt-
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,

Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown?

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,
And Alice lies under the stone.

Under the hickory-tree, Ben Bolt,

Which stood at the foot of the hill,

Together we've lain in the noonday shade,
And listened to Appleton's mill.

The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,
The rafters have tumbled in,

And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you gaze
Has followed the olden din.

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,
Which nigh by the doorstep stood?

The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt;

The tree you would seek for in vain;
And where once the lords of the forest waved,
Are grass and the golden grain.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,

And the shaded nook in the running brook
Where the children went to swim?

Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,
The spring of the brook is dry,

And of all the boys who were schoolmates then
There are only you and I.

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,

They have changed from the old to the new;
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you.

Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends; yet I hail
Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth,
Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale!

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

H

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET

wow 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 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 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.

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,
And his fifty arms so strong.

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,
When the storms through his branches shout.

Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;

And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!

In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,

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,
But the tree it still remains.

Then here's to the oak, etc.

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes
Was a merry sound to hear,

When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.

Now gold hath the sway we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he;

But he never shall send our ancient friend
To be tossed on the stormy sea.

Then here's to the oak, etc.

.

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that agèd oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy,

I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;

My father pressed my hand,-
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,

And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot:

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 treasured it long as a sainted prize;

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;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

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 I almost worshiped her when she smiled,

And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped:
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;

I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'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,
Be sure of your curb and rein,

For I scorn the strength of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.

How I laughed, as I lay concealed from sight
For many a countless hour,

At the childish boast of human might,
And the pride of human power!

When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon the seas,

Creeping along, a snail-like band,

Or waiting the wayward breeze;

When I marked the peasant faintly reel,
With the toil that he daily bore,

As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,
Or tugged at the weary oar;

When I measured the panting courser's speed,
The flight of the carrier dove,

As they bore the law a king decreed,

Or the lines of impatient love;