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Welcome the wine whate'er the seal is ;

And sit you down and say your grace
With thankful heart, whate'er the meal is.
-Here comes the smoking Bouillabaisse.

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY.

THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

I LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;
I've bedew'd it with tears, and embalm’d it with

sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart ;
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ?-a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near
The hallow'd seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray:
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smiled,
And turn'd from her Bible, to bless her child.

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“IN childhood's HOUR I LINGER'D NEAR THE HALLOW'd seat."

Years rollid on : but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd; my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.

'Tis past, 'tis past, but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow;
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died ;
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it, I love it ; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

ELIZA Cook.

THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my child

hood, When fond recollection presents them to view !

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"How DEAR TO THIS HEART ARE THE SCENES OF MY CHILDHOOD.'

loved spot

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild

wood, And every

which

my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which 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 which hung in the

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well ;

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the

well.

That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when return’d 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 glow

ing!
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-cover'd 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,
Though fill’d 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 hangs in the well ;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hangs in the well.

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SAMUEL WOODWORTH,

SHIPS AT SEA.

I HAVE ships that went to sea

More than fifty years ago ;
None have yet come home to me,

But are sailing to and fro.
I have seen them in my sleep,
Plunging through the shoreless deep,
With tattered sails and battered hulls,
While around them screamed the gulls

Flying low, flying low.

I have wondered why they stayed

From me, sailing round the world, And I said :-“ I'm half afraid

That their sails will ne'er be furled.” Great the treasures that they hold, Silks and plumes and bars of gold; While the spices that they bear Fill with fragrance all the air

As they sail, as they sail.

Ah, each sailor in the port

Knows that I have ships at sea,
Of the winds and waves the sport,

And the sailors pity me.
Oft they come and with me walk,
Cheering me with hopeful talk,
Till I put my fears aside,
And, contented, watch the tide

Rise and fall, rise and fall.

I have waited on the piers,

Gazing for them down the bay,
Days and nights for many years,

Till I turned heart-sick away.
But the pilots when they land
Stop and take me by the hand,
Saying :-“You will live to see
Your proud vessels come from sea,

One and all, one and all.”

So I never quite despair,

Nor let hope or courage fail ;

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