Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains,

On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted, half, by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far-projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires)
The children of the forest played!

There oft a restless Indian queen

(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair) And many a barbarous form is seen

To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews;
In habit for the chase arrayed,

The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,

And Reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.

3.

Retirement

A HERMIT'S house beside a stream,

With forests planted round,

Whatever it to you may seem

More real happiness I deem

Than if I were a monarch crown'd.

A cottage I could call my own,
Remote from domes of care;
A little garden walled with stone,
The wall with ivy overgrown,
A limpid fountain near,

Would more substantial joys afford,

More real bliss impart

Than all the wealth that misers hoard,

Than vanquish'd worlds, or worlds restoredMere cankers of the heart!

Vain, foolish man! how vast thy pride,
How little can your wants supply! -
'Tis surely wrong to grasp so wide-
You act as if you only had

4.

SAMUEL WOODWORTH

The Bucket

1785-1842

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 over-flowing, 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!

EMMA HART WILLARD

1787-1870

5. Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep

ROCKED in the cradle of the deep
I lay me down in peace to sleep;

Secure I rest upon the wave,

For thou, O Lord! hast power to save.
I know thou wilt not slight my call,
For Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall;
And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

When in the dead of night I lie
And gaze upon the trackless sky,
The star-bespangled heavenly scroll,
The boundless waters as they roll,
I feel thy wondrous power to save
From perils of the stormy wave:
Rocked in the cradle of the deep,
I calmly rest and soundly sleep.

And such the trust that still were mine,
Though stormy winds swept o'er the brine,
Or though the tempest's fiery breath
Roused me from sleep to wreck and death.

6.

In ocean cave, still safe with Thee
The germ of immortality!

And calm and peaceful shall I sleep,
Rocked in the cradle of the deep.

JOHN PIERPONT

My Child

I CANNOT make him dead!

His fair sunshiny head.

Is ever bounding round my study-chair;
Yet, when my eyes, now dim

With tears, I turn to him,

The vision vanishes he is not there!

I walk my parlor floor,

And through the open

door

I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;

I'm stepping toward the hall

To give the boy a call;

1785-1866

And then bethink me that - he is not there!

I thread the crowded street;

A satchelled lad I meet,

With the same beaming eyes and colored hair:

And, as he's running by,

Follow him with my eye,

Scarcely believing that he is not there!