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,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy revisits my father’s plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in his well—
The old oaken bucket—the iron-bound bucket—
The moss-cover’d bucket which hangs in his well.