"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!

SAMUEL WOODWORTH.

THE RAVEN.

"The Raven," by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-49), is placed here because so many college men speak of it at once as the great poem of their boyhood. The poem caught me when a child by its refrain and weird picturesqueness. It has never outgrown its mechanical charm.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore-- While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door"

'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-- Only this, and nothing more."

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor; Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore-- For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore-- Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, "'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door: This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Sir," said I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you." Here I opened wide the door: Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore!"

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"

Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into my chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a rapping, something louder than before: "Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-- Let my heart be still a moment, and this mystery explore.

'Tis the wind, and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately Raven, of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he, not a minute stopped or stayed he; But with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door-- Perched above a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door-- Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore; "Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure, no craven; Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, wandering from the nightly sh.o.r.e, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian sh.o.r.e?"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer, little meaning, little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door With such a name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour; Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered, Till I scarcely more than muttered--"Other friends have flown before, On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."

Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled by the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, "Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master, whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster, till his songs one burden bore-- Till the dirges of his hope this melancholy burden bore-- Of 'Never, nevermore,'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust, and door; Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy into fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore-- What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining, that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls twinkled on the tufted floor.

"Wretch," I cried, "thy G.o.d hath lent thee--by these angels He hath sent thee Respite--respite and nepenthe from my memories of Lenore!

Quaff, oh, quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil--prophet still, if bird or devil!

Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ash.o.r.e Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted, On this home by horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore, Is there--_is_ there balm in Gilead?--tell me, tell me, I implore!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet," said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still if bird or devil!

By that heaven that bends above us--by that G.o.d we both adore-- Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, within the distant Aiden It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom the angels name Lenore!

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting-- "Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian sh.o.r.e; Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken, Leave my loneliness unbroken--quit the bust above my door, Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door!"

Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming, throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow, that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted--nevermore!

EDGAR ALLAN POE.

ARNOLD VON WINKLERIED.

"Make way for liberty!" he cried, Make way for liberty, and died.

In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood,-- A wall, where every conscious stone Seemed to its kindred thousands grown.

A rampart all a.s.saults to bear, Till time to dust their frames should wear; So still, so dense the Austrians stood, A living wall, a human wood.

Impregnable their front appears, All horrent with projected spears.

Whose polished points before them shine, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, Bright as the breakers' splendours run Along the billows to the sun.

Opposed to these a hovering band Contended for their fatherland; Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke From manly necks the ign.o.ble yoke, And beat their fetters into swords, On equal terms to fight their lords; And what insurgent rage had gained, In many a mortal fray maintained; Marshalled, once more, at Freedom's call, They came to conquer or to fall, Where he who conquered, he who fell, Was deemed a dead or living Tell, Such virtue had that patriot breathed, So to the soil his soul bequeathed, That wheresoe'er his arrows flew, Heroes in his own likeness grew, And warriors sprang from every sod, Which his awakening footstep trod.

And now the work of life and death Hung on the pa.s.sing of a breath; The fire of conflict burned within, The battle trembled to begin; Yet, while the Austrians held their ground, Point for attack was nowhere found; Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed, The unbroken line of lances blazed; That line 'twere suicide to meet, And perish at their tyrant's feet; How could they rest within their graves, And leave their homes, the homes of slaves!

Would not they feel their children tread, With clanging chains, above their head?

It must not be; this day, this hour, Annihilates the invader's power; All Switzerland is in the field; She will not fly,--she cannot yield,-- She must not fall; her better fate Here gives her an immortal date.

Few were the numbers she could boast, But every freeman was a host, And felt as 'twere a secret known That one should turn the scale alone, While each unto himself was he On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one indeed; Behold him,--Arnold Winkelried; There sounds not to the trump of fame The echo of a n.o.bler name.

Unmarked he stood amid the throng, In rumination deep and long, Till you might see, with sudden grace, The very thought come o'er his face; And, by the motion of his form, Antic.i.p.ate the bursting storm, And, by the uplifting of his brow, Tell where the bolt would strike, and how.

But 'twas no sooner thought than done!

The field was in a moment won; "Make way for liberty!" he cried, Then ran, with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp; Ten spears he swept within his grasp.

"Make way for liberty!" he cried.

Their keen points crossed from side to side; He bowed amidst them like a tree, And thus made way for liberty.