The Rhode Island Republican

POETRY.

The following poetic effusion will be read with great pleasure. It is a beautiful specimen of the pastoral, and would have done credit to Gay or Parnell; the images are so natural, and verse so smooth and harmonious. We too frequently find, in some corner of a newspaper, a neglected gem like the following, which, if extracted and brought forward, would throw a lustre over the poetic genius of our country:

Naiad.

FROM THE REPUBLICAN CHRONICLE.

THE BUCKET.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection recalls them to view
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-wood,
And every lov'd spot 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 even the rude bucket which hung in the well—
The old oaken bucket—the iron bound bucket—
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of 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;
That 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 pois'd on the curb, it inclin'd to my lips!
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Tho' fir'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 reverts to my former plantation,
And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well.
The old oaken bucket—the iron-bound bucket—
The moss covered bucket, which hangs in the well.