Welcome the wine whate'er the seal is; THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm'd 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 linger'd near The hallow'd 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; As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. I sat and watch'd her many a day, When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray: And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled, And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her child. Years roll'd on: but the last one sped My idol was shatter'd; my earth-star fled; '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. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child hood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew; The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell; The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure; How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it, it, Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips. As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well; SAMUEL WOODWORTH, SHIPS AT SEA. I HAVE ships that went to sea I have seen them in my sleep, Plunging through the shoreless deep, I have wondered why they stayed From me, sailing round the world, And I said :-" I'm half afraid That their sails will ne'er be furled." Great the treasures that they hold, Silks and plumes and bars of gold; While the spices that they bear Fill with fragrance all the air As they sail, as they sail. Ah, each sailor in the port Knows that I have ships at sea, Oft they come and with me walk, I have waited on the piers, So I never quite despair, Nor let hope or courage fail; |