HUNTING SONG.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,

With horse, and hawk, and hunting-spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling;
Merrily, merrily mingle they,

"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain grey,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away,
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed.
You shall see him brought to bay;
"Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Louder, louder, chant the lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay!"
Tell them, youth, and minth, and glee
Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk?
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk;

Think of this, and rise with day,

Gentle lords and ladies gay.

SCOTT, 1771-1832.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,

And would'st thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;

Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy

I sought its graceful shade;
In all their gushing joy

Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand-
Forgive this foolish tear,

But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot;
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.

GEORGE P. MORRIS, DIED 1864.

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 wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew!
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that 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 that hung in the well-
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed 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 poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
The brightest that beauty or revelry sips.
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,
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-covered bucket that hangs in the well!
SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

A WISH.

MINE be a cot beside the hill;

A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;

A willowy brook, that turns a mill,

With many a fall, shall linger near,

THE BLIND BOY.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter near her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.
Around my ivied porch shall spring,
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing,
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church beneath the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

SAMUEL ROGERS, 1763 -1855.

THE BLIND BOY.

O SAY! what is that thing called light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy ?

What are the blessings of the sight?
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wond'rous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My peace of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.

COLLEY CIBBER, 1671-1757.

79

THE BETTER LAND.

“I HEAR thee speak of the better land;
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh where is that radiant shore ?-
Shall we not seek it and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fire-flies dance through the myrtle boughs ? "
"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it where the feathery palm trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,
And strange bright birds on their starry wings
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?

“Not there, not there, my child!

"Is it far away, in some region old,
Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?
Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?—
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
"Not there, not there, my child!

"Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy;
Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy!
Dreams cannot picture a world so fair,-
Sorrow and death may not enter there;
Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom,
For beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,
It is there, it is there, my child!”

FELICIA HEMANS, 1793-1835.

A THING of beauty is a joy for ever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness, but still will keep
A Power quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams and quiet breathing.
KEATS, 1796-1820.