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| 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 which stood by it, | 5 |
| 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 well. | |
| The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, | |
| The moss-cover’d bucket which hung in the well. | 10 |
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| 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 glowing, | 15 |
| 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. | 20 |
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| 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, | 25 |
| 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 his well. | 30 |
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