THE HUSBAND'S AND WIFE'S GRAVE. By an unseen, living Hand, and conscious chords - Quiver with joy in this great jubilee. The dying hear it; and as sounds of earth Why is it that I linger round this tomb? What holds it? Dust that cumber'd those I mourn. They shook it off, and laid aside earth's robes, They're gone to dwell Mutual love, And put on those of light. By union all mysterious, thrill and live In both immortal frames: Sensation all, And thought, pervading, mingling sense and thought! Ye pair'd, yet one! wrapped in a consciousness Twofold, yet single-this is love, this life! Why call we, then, the square-built monument, I thank thee, Father, That at this simple grave, on which the dawn A CLUMP OF DAISIES. YE daisies gay, This fresh spring day To sleep all the night, To abide through the sullen weather; Ye creatures bland, A simple band, Ye free ones, linked in pleasure, And linked when your forms Stoop low in the storms, And the rain comes down without measure; When wild clouds fly Athwart the sky, And ghostly shadows, glancing, Are darkening the gleam Of the hurrying stream, And your close, bright heads gayly dancing; A CLUMP OF DAISIES. Though dull awhile, Again ye smile; For, see, the warm sun breaking; The stream's going glad, There's nothing now sad, And the small bird his song is waking. The dew-drop sip The sun is low descended. And, Moon! softly fall On troop true and small! Sky and earth in one kindly blended. And, Morning! spread Their jewelled bed With lights in the east sky springing! And, Brook! breathe around Thy low murmured sound! May they move, ye Birds, to your singing! For in their play I hear them say, Here, man, thy wisdom borrow: In heart be a child, In word, true and mild: Hold thy faith, come joy, or come sorrow. WOODWORTH. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, And e'en the rude 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 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 his well. |