The Old Oaken Bucket

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 wild­wood

And ev­ery loved spot

Which my in­fancy knew.

The wide spread­ing pond

The mill that 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

That hung in the well.

The old oak­en buck­et

The ir­on-bound bucket

The moss co­vered bucket

That hung in the well.

The moss co­vered bucket

I hailed as a trea­sure

For oft­en

at noon

When re­turned 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

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.

How sweet from the green

Mossy rim to re­ceive it

As poised on the curb

It in­clined to my lip;

No full

blush­ing goblet

Could tempt me to leave it

Tho’ filled with the nec­tar

That se­ra­phim sip.

And now

far re­moved

From the loved si­tu­ation

The tear or re­gret

Will in­trus­ive­ly swell

As fan­cy rev­erts

To my fa­ther’s plan­ta­tion

And sighs for the buck­et

Which hung in the well.

But dear­er than fount­ain

Or well of our home­stead

The wa­ter of life which

Our Sav­ior shall bring;

And bright­er and cool­er

Than old oaken buck­et

Are draughts of sal­va­tion

From Heav­en’s clear spring;

The wide stretch­ing val­leys

In co­lors so fade­less

Where trees are all death­less

And flow­ers ever bloom;

The dear­ly be­lov­èd

Who stands at the por­tal

Expectantly wait­ing

To wel­come us home

’Tis bet­ter

far bet­ter

Than all earth can give us

To drink with our loved ones

At the fount­ain of God.