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OUR FAMILIAR SONGS.
How dear to my 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, 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. J
Cho.—The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well.
The moss-covered bucket 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 dropping with coolness it rose from the well.
How sweet from the green, mossy rim 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 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 hung in the well.
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.
It was in Eliza Cook's girlhood that "The Old Arm-Chair" was made vacant by her mother*! death; and the daughter's life was not very happy until, with the profits of her writings, she had bought a house and made herself a charming home We think of her almost as the occupant of the old arm-chair herself; but it is not so many years since our country-woman, Frances S. Osgood, wrote from London: "Eliza Cook is just what her songs poetry would have you to imagine her-a frank, brave, and warm-hearted girl, about twenty years of rather stout and sturdy looking with a face not handsome but very intelligent. Her hair is black, and very luxuriant, her eyes gray and full of expression and her mouth indescribably sweet* As she is a little out of Lhion now-SaT^' ' always surprised to find how pleasant her writings are, and, especially how spirited are some of her lyrics. She was born in London in 1817. *piniea are