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Oh but for one short hour!

A respite however brief !
No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,

But only time for Grief !
A little weeping would ease my heart ;

But in their briny bed
My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!”

With fingers weary


With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread -

Stitch -- stitch stitch!
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Oh ! that its tone could reach the Rich!

sang this “ Song of the Shirt !”



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 wild wood,

And every loved spot that 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, and 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-cover'd bucket that hung in the well.

That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure,

For often at noon, when return’d 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,

How 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-cover'd bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,

As, poised on the kerb, 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 that hangs in the well.

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket that hangs in the well.



This book is all that's left me now!

Tears will unbidden start;
With faltering lip and throbbing brow,

I press it to my heart.
For many generations past,

Here is our family tree :
My mother's hands this bible clasp'd ;

She, dying, gave it me.

Ah! well do I remember those

Whose names these records bear :
Who round the hearth-stone used to close,

After the evening prayer.
And speak of what these pages said,

In tones my heart would thrill !
Though they are with the silent dead,

Here are they living still.

My father read this holy book

To brothers, sisters, dear;
How calm was my dear mother's look,

Who lean'd God's word to hear.
Her aged face — I see it yet,

What thronging memories come! Again that little


is met Within the halls of home!

Thou truest friend man ever knew,

Thy constancy I've tried;
When all were false I found thee true,

My counsellor and guide.
The mines of earth no treasure give

That could this volume buy:
In teaching me the way to live,

It taught me how to die.



WOODMAN, spare that tree !

Touch not a single bough! In youth it shelter'd me,

And I'll protect it now.

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They grew in beauty, side by side,

They filld one house with glee – Their graves are severed far and wide,

By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night,

O’er each fair sleeping brow,
She had each folded flower in sight-

Where are those dreamers now?

One 'midst the forests of the west

By a dark stream is laid ;
The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar's shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea hath one,

He lies where pearls lie deep! He was the loved of all, yet none

O’er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are dress’d

Above the noble slain ;
He wrapt his colors round his breast,

On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one-o'er her the myrtle showers

Its leaves, by soft winds fann’d, She faded ’midst Italian flowers,

The last of that bright band.

And parted thus, they rest who play'd

Beneath the same green tree, Whose voices mingled as they pray'd

Around one parent knee !

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