SAMUEL WOODWORTH. Every hope thy offspring is, Every sun of splendid ray, Every moon that shines serene, Every morn that welcomes day, Every evening's twilight scene, Every hour that wisdom brings, Every incense at thy shrine, These, and all life's holiest things, And its fairest, all are thine. And for all, my hymns shall rise Turn unwearied, righteous One'! SAMUEL WOODWORTH. [U. s. A., 1785 1842.] 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; 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 Though filled with the nectar that And now, far removed from the loved The tears of regret will intrusively AFTER A SUMMER SHOWER. THE rain is o'er. How dense and bright The general blessing; fresh and fair, For often at noon, when returned from The softened sunbeams pour around the field, A fairy light, uncertain, pale; |