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 In grateful silence earth receives The general blessing; fresh and fair, Each flower expands its little leaves, As glad the common joy to share. For often at noon, when returned from The softened sunbeams pour around the field, A fairy light, uncertain, pale; The wind flows cool; the scented ground Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile, Then turn to bathe and revel there. The sun breaks forth; from off the scene With trembling drops of light is hung. Now gaze on Nature, yet the same, Hear the rich music of that voice, Which sounds from all below, above; She calls her children to rejoice, And round them throws her arms oflove. Drink in her influence; low-born care, And all the train of mean desire, Refuse to breathe this holy air, And mid this living light expire. CAROLINE BOWLES SOUTHEY. [1787-1854.] MARINER'S HYMN. LAUNCH thy bark, mariner! Look to the weather-bow, "What of the night, watchman? No land yet all 's right." I said to cold Neglect and Scorn, |