How Dear To My Heart Are The Scenes Of
How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollections presents to my view,
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood,
And ev’ry loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide spreading pond and the mill which stood near 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 that hung in the well.
That moss covered bucket 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 could yield,
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell,
And 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 pois’d on the curb, it inclined to my lips,
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Tho’ fill’d with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now far remov’d from the lov’d situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy revisits my father’s plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hung in the well;
The old oaken bucket-the iron-bouud [sic] bucket-
The moss-cover’d bucket, which hangs in his well.