When at the day's calm close,
Before we seek repose,

I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer,
Whate'er I may be saying,

I am, in spirit, praying

For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there!

Not there! Where, then, is he?

The form I used to see

Was but the raiment that he used to wear;
The grave, that now doth press
Upon that cast-off dress,

Is but his wardrobe lock'd ;-he is not there!

He lives! In all the past
He lives; nor, to the last,
Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now;

And, on his angel brow,

I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"

Yes, we all live to God!

FATHER, thy chastening rod

So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land,

Meeting at thy right hand,

"Twill be our heaven to find that-he is there!

SAMUEL WOODWORTH,

MR. WOODWORTH was born in Scituate, Massachusetts, in 1785, and died in New York in 1842. He was the author of several volumes of songs, comedies, &c.

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. 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,

How 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.

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.

ANDREWS NORTON.

PROFESSOR NORTON is better known as a theological writer than as a poet, though the few poems he has published possess great merit. He was born in Hingham, Massachusetts, in 1786, and now resides at Cambridge.

A SUMMER SHOWER.

THE rain is o'er-How dense and bright
Yon pearly clouds reposing lie!
Cloud above cloud, a glorious sight,
Contrasting with the deep-blue sky!

In grateful silence earth receives
The general blessing; fresh and fair,
Each flower expands its little leaves,
As glad the common joy to share.
The soften'd sunbeams pour around
A fairy light, uncertain, pale;
The wind blows cool, the scented ground
Is breathing odours on the gale.
Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,
Methinks some spirit of the air
Might rest to gaze below a while,
Then turn to bathe and revel there.
The sun breaks forth-from off the scene,
Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green

With trembling drops of light is hung.

Now gaze on nature-yet the same-
Glowing with life, by breezes fann'd,
Luxuriant, lovely, as she came,

Fresh in her youth, from GOD's own hand.

Hear the rich music of that voice,

Which sounds from all below, above;

She calls her children to rejoice,

And round them throws her arms of love.

Drink in her influence-low-born care,

And all the train of mean desire,

Refuse to breathe this holy air,

And mid this living light expire.

RICHARD H. DANA.

BORN in Cambridge in 1787, and now resides in Boston. His "Poems and prose writings" were published in 1833.

THE OCEAN.

Now stretch your eye off shore, o'er waters made To cleanse the air and bear the world's great trade To rise, and wet the mountains near the sun, Then back into themselves in rivers run, Fulfilling mighty uses far and wide,

Through earth, in air, or here, as ocean-tide.

Ho! how the giant heaves himself, and strains And flings to break his strong and viewless chains; Foams in his wrath; and at his prison doors, Hark! hear him! how he beats and tugs and roars, As if he would break forth again and sweep Each living thing within his lowest deep.

Type of the Infinite! I look away

Over thy billows, and I cannot stay
My thoughts upon a resting-place, or make
A shore beyond my vision, where they break;
But on my spirit stretches, till it's pain

To think; then rests, and then puts forth again.
Thou hold'st me by a spell; and on thy beach
I feel all soul; and thoughts unmeasured reach
Far back beyond all date. And, O! how old
Thou art to me. For countless years thou hast
roll'd.