Poems you ought to know . agazines and wrote a number of vol-umes. His patriotic songs of the war of 1812 were widely popular. HisOld Oaken Bucket will always hold Its place among the choicest songsof America. Woodworth died in New York in 1842. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,When fond recollection pre* sents 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 which stood by itThe bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,And een t
Poems you ought to know . agazines and wrote a number of vol-umes. His patriotic songs of the war of 1812 were widely popular. HisOld Oaken Bucket will always hold Its place among the choicest songsof America. Woodworth died in New York in 1842. How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,When fond recollection pre* sents 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 which stood by itThe bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,And een the rude bucket which hung in the well—The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound moss-covered 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 ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing! And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; 86. Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing. And gripping with coolness, it rose from the well—The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound 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 me to leave it, Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter , now far removed from the loved situation, The tear of regret will intrusively fancy reverts to my fathers plantation. And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well—The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,— The venturesome bark that flingsOn the sweet summer wind its purpled wingsIn gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings. And coral reefs lie the cold sea-maids rise to sun
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