R.H.  WILDE.

“O Fairest of the Rural Maids!”

  O Fairest of the rural maids! 
  Thy birth was in the forest shades;
  Green boughs, and glimpses of the sky,
  Were all that met thine infant eye.

  Thy sports, thy wanderings, when a child,
  Were ever in the sylvan wild;
  And all the beauty of the place
  Is in thy heart and on thy face.

  The twilight of the trees and rocks
  Is in the light shade of thy locks;
  Thy step is as the wind, that weaves
  Its playful way among the leaves.

  Thine eyes are springs, in whose serene
  And silent waters heaven is seen;
  Their lashes are the herbs that look
  On their young figures in the brook.

  The forest depths, by foot unpressed,
  Are not more sinless than thy breast;
  The holy peace that fills the air
  Of those calm solitudes is there.

W.C.  BRYANT.

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 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.

S. WOODWORTH.

Annabel Lee.

  It was many and many a year ago,
    In a kingdom by the sea,
  That a maiden there lived whom you may know
    By the name of Annabel Lee;
  And this maiden she lived with no other thought
    Than to love and be loved by me.

  I was a child and she was a child,
    In this kingdom by the sea,
  But we loved with a love that was more than love,
    I and my Annabel Lee;
  With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
    Coveted her and me.