This imitation of "The Old Oaken Bucket" was written in 1826, when Whittier was in his nineteenth year, and except a single stanza, no part of it was ever before in print. The willow the young poet had in mind was on the bank of Country Brook, near Country Bridge, and also near the site of Thomas Whittier's log house. Mr. Whittier once pointed out this spot to me as one in which he delighted in his youth. On a grassy bank, almost encircled by a bend in the stream, stood, and perhaps still stands, just such a "storm-battered, water-washed willow" as is here described:--
Oh, dear to my heart are the scenes which delighted My fancy in moments I ne'er can recall, When each happy hour new pleasures invited, And hope pictured visions more lovely than all. When I gazed with a light heart transported and glowing On the forest-crowned hill, and the rivulet's tide, O'ershaded with tall grass, and rapidly flowing Around the lone willow that stood by its side-- The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that grew by its side.
Dear scenes of past years, when the objects around me Seemed forms to awaken the transports of joy; Ere yet the dull cares of experience had found me, The dearly-loved visions of youth to destroy,-- Ye seem to awaken, whene'er I discover The grass-shadowed rivulet rapidly glide, The green verdant meads of the vale wandering over And laving the willows that stand by its side-- The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stands by its side;--
How oft 'neath the shade of that wide-spreading willow I have laid myself down from anxiety free, Reclining my head on the green grassy pillow, That waved round the roots of that dearly-loved tree; Where swift from the far distant uplands descending, In the bright sunbeam sparkling, the rivulet's tide With murmuring echoes came gracefully wending Its course round the willow that stood by its side-- The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow that stood by its side.
Haunts of my childhood, that used to awaken Emotions of joy in my infantile breast, Ere yet the fond pleasures of youth had forsaken My bosom, and all the bright dreams you impressed On my memory had faded, ye give not the feeling Of joy that ye did, when I gazed on the tide, As gracefully winding, its currents came stealing Around the lone willow that stood by its side-- The storm-battered willow, the ivy-bound willow, the water-washed willow, that stood by its side.