I laugh not at another’s loss,
      I grudge not at another’s gain;
    No worldly wave my mind can toss;
      I brook that is another’s bane. 
    I fear no foe, nor fawn on friend;
    I loathe not life, nor dread mine end.

    My wealth is health and perfect ease;
      My conscience clear my chief defense;
    I never seek by bribes to please
      Nor by desert to give offense. 
    Thus do I live, thus will I die;
    Would all did so as well as I!

EDWARD DYER.

 THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS.

    The harp that once through Tara’s halls
      The soul of music shed,
    Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
      As if that soul were fled. 
    So sleeps the pride of former days,
      So glory’s thrill is o’er,
    And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
      Now feel that pulse no more.

    No more to chiefs and ladies bright
      The harp of Tara swells;
    The chord alone, that breaks at night,
      Its tale of ruin tells. 
    Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
      The only throb she gives
    Is when some heart indignant breaks,
      To show that still she lives.

THOMAS MOORE.

 THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET

“The Old Oaken Bucket,” by Samuel Woodworth (1785-1848), is a poem we love because it is an elegant expression of something very dear and homely.

    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!