Old Oaken Bucket
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my
When fond recollection presents them to view!
orchard, the meadow, the deep tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot
which my infancy knew,
The wide-spreading pond and the mill that stood
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.
That moss-covered bucket I hailed as a treasure,
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
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell.
with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it
rose 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,
Tho' filled with the nectar that Jupiter
And now, far removed from the loved habitation,- Samuel
tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's
And sighs for the bucket that hung in the well.