 | Specimens of American poetry |  |
SAMUEL WOODWORTH
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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 wild wood,
And every loved spot which 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, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket which hung in the well.
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 wide spreading pond, and the mill which 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 which hung in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket which 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,
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-cover'd bucket arose from the well.
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,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell,
Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
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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 curb it inclined to my lips:
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd 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 which hangs in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in his well.
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips:
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd 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 which hangs in the well.
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket which hangs in his well.
THE LANDSEND.
The gale was propitious, all canvas was spread,
As swift through the water we glided,
And the tear drop yet glisten'd which friendship had shed,
Though the pang whence it sprang had subsided.
Fast faded in distance each object we knew,
As the shores which we loved were retiring,
And the last grateful object which linger'd in view,
Was the beacon on landsend aspiring.
As swift through the water we glided,
And the tear drop yet glisten'd which friendship had shed,
Though the pang whence it sprang had subsided.
Fast faded in distance each object we knew,
As the shores which we loved were retiring,
And the last grateful object which linger'd in view,
Was the beacon on landsend aspiring.
Ah! here, I exclaim'd, is an emblem of life,
For 't is but a turbulent ocean,
Where passion with reason is ever at strife,
While our frail little barks are in motion.
The haven of infancy, calm and serene,
We leave in the distance retiring,
While memory lingers to gaze on some scene,
Like the beacon on landsend aspiring.
For 't is but a turbulent ocean,
Where passion with reason is ever at strife,
While our frail little barks are in motion.
The haven of infancy, calm and serene,
We leave in the distance retiring,
While memory lingers to gaze on some scene,
Like the beacon on landsend aspiring.
O may I be careful to steer by that chart,
Which wisdom in mercy has given,
And true like the needle, this tremulous heart,
Be constantly pointing to heaven.
Thus safely with tempests and billows I'll cope,
And find, when at last they're subsiding,
On the landsend of life there's a beacon of hope,
To the harbor of happiness guiding.
Which wisdom in mercy has given,
And true like the needle, this tremulous heart,
Be constantly pointing to heaven.
Thus safely with tempests and billows I'll cope,
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On the landsend of life there's a beacon of hope,
To the harbor of happiness guiding.
LOVE'S EYES.
Love's eyes are so enchanting,
Bright, smiling, soft and granting,
Pulses play at every ray,
And hearts at every glance are panting.
Before the beamy eye of morn
We view the clouds of night receding;
So tender glances banish scorn,
For who can frown while Love is pleading?
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c.
Bright, smiling, soft and granting,
Pulses play at every ray,
And hearts at every glance are panting.
Before the beamy eye of morn
We view the clouds of night receding;
So tender glances banish scorn,
For who can frown while Love is pleading?
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c.
No bandage can those eyes conceal,
Though bards in fabled tales rehearse it;
For if we wore a mask of steel,
Affection's ardent gaze would pierce it.
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c.
Though bards in fabled tales rehearse it;
For if we wore a mask of steel,
Affection's ardent gaze would pierce it.
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c.
Beware, then, lest some artful elf
The infant's smiles and armor borrow,
To win a throb of joy for self,
And give his victims years of sorrow.
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c.
The infant's smiles and armor borrow,
To win a throb of joy for self,
And give his victims years of sorrow.
Love's eyes are so enchanting, &c.
THE PRIDE OF THE VALLEY.
The pride of the valley is lovely young Ellen,Who dwells in a cottage enshrined by a thicket,
Sweet peace and content are the wealth of her dwelling,
And Truth is the porter that waits at the wicket.
The zephyr that lingers on violet-down pinion,
With Spring's blushing honors delighted to dally,
Ne'er breathed on a blossom in Flora's dominion,
So lovely as Ellen, the pride of the valley.
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Nor riches nor honors can tempt her from duty;
Content with her station, she sighs for no other,
Though fortunes and titles have knelt to her beauty.
To me her affections and promise are plighted,
Our ages are equal, our tempers will tally;
O moment of rapture, that sees me united
To lovely young Ellen, the pride of the valley.
WREATH OF LOVE.
Let Fame her wreath for others twine,
The fragrant Wreath of Love be mine,
With balm-distilling blossoms wove;
Let the shrill trumpet's hoarse alarms
Bid laurels grace the victor's arms,
Where havoc's blood-stain'd banners move.
Be mine to wake the softer notes
Where Acidalia's banner floats,
And wear the gentler Wreath of Love.
The fragrant Wreath of Love be mine,
With balm-distilling blossoms wove;
Let the shrill trumpet's hoarse alarms
Bid laurels grace the victor's arms,
Where havoc's blood-stain'd banners move.
Be mine to wake the softer notes
Where Acidalia's banner floats,
And wear the gentler Wreath of Love.
The balmy rose let stoics scorn,
Let squeamish mortals dread the thorn,
And fear the pleasing pain to prove;
I'll fearless bind it to my heart,
While every pang its thorns impart,
The floweret's balsam shall remove;
For, sweeten'd by the nectar'd kiss,
'T is pain that gives a zest to bliss,
And freshens still the Wreath of Love.
Let squeamish mortals dread the thorn,
And fear the pleasing pain to prove;
I'll fearless bind it to my heart,
While every pang its thorns impart,
The floweret's balsam shall remove;
For, sweeten'd by the nectar'd kiss,
'T is pain that gives a zest to bliss,
And freshens still the Wreath of Love.
Give me contentment, peace, and health,
A moderate share of worldly wealth,
And friends such blessings to improve;
A heart to give when misery pleads,
To heal each rankling wound that bleeds,
And every mental pain remove;
But with these give—else all deny—
The fair for whom I breathe the sigh,
And wedlock be a Wreath of Love.
A moderate share of worldly wealth,
And friends such blessings to improve;
A heart to give when misery pleads,
To heal each rankling wound that bleeds,
And every mental pain remove;
But with these give—else all deny—
The fair for whom I breathe the sigh,
And wedlock be a Wreath of Love.
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Connubial bliss, unknown to strife,
A faithful friend—a virtuous wife,
Be mine for many years to prove:
Our wishes one, within each breast
The dove of peace shall make her nest,
Nor ever from the ark remove;
Till call'd to heaven, through ages there
Be ours the blissful lot to wear
A never fading Wreath of Love.
A faithful friend—a virtuous wife,
Be mine for many years to prove:
Our wishes one, within each breast
The dove of peace shall make her nest,
Nor ever from the ark remove;
Till call'd to heaven, through ages there
Be ours the blissful lot to wear
A never fading Wreath of Love.
| Specimens of American poetry | |