The citizen. (Frederick City, Md.) 1895-1923, 1899-08-11

her lips. Only a short time after
they laid Ben Bolt by the side of
her he had loved so well. and
both were left to rest i'll 1.-THE old
churchyard in the Valley
The late George Z. Morris, poet,
journalist, and writer of sketches,
gained a national and world wide
reputation, and touched the
hearts of thousands, when he
wrote "Woodman, Spare that
Tree 1t was while he was en-
gagged in journalistic work in
New York that lie penned these
lines, since so dearly loved by
all who have read them:
woODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.
Wnodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single b ugh;
In youth it SHELTERED me,
And I'll protect it now,
'rwAs my forefather'S hand
That PLACID it near his cot,
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not?
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread DER lard and sea,
And would'st thou rack il down?
WoOdman, foi bear thy stroke
Cut not its earth bound ties;
Oh! spare that aged oak,
Now tow'ling in the skies.
When but an idle boy,
sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy,
Here, too, my sisters play'd;
My motler kissed me here;
My father press'd my hand,
Fo'givr this foolish tear,
But let that old oak sand
My heart strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing.
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree the storm still brave,
And, woodman, leave the spot
While Ive " hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not.
Following closely on this the
strains Of 1.-THE Old Oaken
Bucket" succeed each other in
sweet cadence of rotation, and
we are carried back to the
"scenes of our childhood" and
and cherish Wordsworth with
thousands of others who have
been stirred by the beautiful
verses, commemorating the
scenes of their youth.
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.
How dear to this heart ale the scenes
ofmy childhood,
When fond recollection recalls then
to view,
The orchard, the meadow, the deer
tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my in
fancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and The mil
which stood by it,
The idge, and the rock where The
cataract fell,
The cot of my father, the dairy nigl
it,
Al d cen the rude bucket that huns
in the we'll
The old oaken bucket-the iron boun,
| blcket,
The moss covered bucket which swun!
i'll the well.
That moss covered vessel l hail AS
treasure,
For, often. at noon, when rsturne,
| from the field,
| found it the source Of an exquisi
pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that natur
can yield;
How ardeat seized it, with hand
that were Clowns
And quick to the whlte-pebbled bot
tom it fell,
Then soon with the emblem of trutl
overtiowing,
And dripping with GOODNESS, it ros
from the we'll
The old oaken bucket-the iron-boun
bucket,
The nloss-covered bucket arose iron
the well.
How sweet from the green messy brin
to receive it,
AS poised on the csrd, ii inclined t
my lips;
Not full-blushing goblet could tenn
me to leave 1t,
Though filled with the nectar tina
Jupiter sips.
Aud now far remove from the love-
situation,
The tear Of regret will intrusivel
swell,
AS fancy revsits my fathers plants
ton,
And signs for the bucket whic
hangs in his we'll
The old oaken bucket-the iron-boun
bucket,
The moss-covered bucket which hang
in his well.
! ITO be Continual