Volume Iii Part 34 (1/2)

Come away: no more of mirth Is here or merry-making sound.

The house was builded of the earth, And shall fall again to ground.

Come away: for life and thought Here no longer dwell; But in a city glorious-- A great and distant city--have bought A mansion incorruptible.

Would they could have stayed with us!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before, As he pa.s.sed by the door, And again The pavement stones resound, As he totters o'er the ground With his cane.

They say that in his prime, Ere the pruning knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found By the crier on his round Through the town.

But now he walks the streets, And he looks at all he meets Sad and wan, And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, ”They are gone.”

The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb.

My grandmamma has said-- Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago-- That he had a Roman nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow.

But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack In his laugh.

I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer!

And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE.

O that those lips had language! Life has pa.s.sed With me but roughly since I heard thee last.

Those lips are thine--thy own sweet smile I see, The same that oft in childhood solaced me; Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, ”Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!”

The meek intelligence of those dear eyes (Blest be the art that can immortalize, The art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim To quench it) here s.h.i.+nes on me still the same.

Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, O welcome guest, though unexpected here!

Who bidd'st me honor with an artless song, Affectionate, a mother lost so long.

I will obey, not willingly alone, But gladly, as the precept were her own; And, while that face renews my filial grief, Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, A momentary dream, that thou art she.

My mother! when I learned that thou wast dead, Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?

Hovered thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son, Wretch even then, life's journey just begun?

Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss-- Ah that maternal smile! it answers--Yes.

I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day, I saw the hea.r.s.e that bore thee slow away, And, turning from my nursery window, drew A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!

But was it such?--It was.--Where thou art gone, Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.

May I but meet thee on that peaceful sh.o.r.e, The parting word shall pa.s.s my lips no more!

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.