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 shines 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.

What ardently I wished, I long believed, And, disappointed still, was still deceived.

By expectation every day beguiled, Dupe of _to-morrow_ even from a child.

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent, I learned at last submission to my lot, But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot.

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; And where the gardener Robin, day by day, Drew me to school along the public way, Delighted with my bauble coach and wrapped In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet cap, 'Tis now become a history little known, That once we called the pastoral house our own.

Short-lived possession! but the record fair, That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced A thousand other themes less deeply traced.

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid; Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, The biscuit; or confectionery plum; The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestowed By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed: All this, and more endearing still than all, Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall.

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks, That humor interposed too often makes; All this still legible in memory's page, And still to be so to my latest age, Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay Such honors to thee as my numbers may; Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere, Not scorned in Heaven, though little noticed here.

Could Time, his flight reversed, restore the hours, When, playing with thy vesture's tissued flowers, The violet, the pink, and jessamine, I p.r.i.c.ked them into paper with a pin (And thou wast happier than myself the while, Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), Could those few pleasant days again appear, Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here?

I would not trust my heart--the dear delight Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might,-- But no--what here we call our life is such, So little to be loved, and thou so much, That I should ill requite thee to constrain Thy unbound spirit into bonds again.

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast (The storms all weathered and the ocean crossed), Shoots into port at some well-havened isle, Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, There sits quiescent on the floods, that show Her beauteous form reflected clear below, While airs impregnated with incense play Around her, fanning light her streamers gay; So thou, with sails how swift! hast reached the sh.o.r.e, "Where tempests never beat, nor billows roar,"

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide Of life long since has anch.o.r.ed by thy side.

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, Always from port withheld, always distressed-- Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest-tossed, Sails ripped, seams opening wide, and compa.s.s lost, And day by day some current's thwarting force Sets me more distant from a prosperous course.

Yet O the thought, that thou art safe, and he!

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me.

My boast is not, that I deduce my birth From loins enthroned, and rulers of the earth; But higher far my proud pretensions rise-- The son of parents pa.s.sed into the skies.

And now, farewell--Time unrevoked has run His wonted course, yet what I wished is done.

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, I seemed to have lived my childhood o'er again; To have renewed the joys that once were mine, Without the sin of violating thine; And, while the wings of Fancy still are free, And I can view this mimic show of thee, Time has but half succeeded in his theft-- Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.

WILLIAM COWPER.

IN HEAVENLY LOVE ABIDING.

In heavenly love abiding, No change my heart shall fear, And safe is such confiding, For nothing changes here.

The storm may roar without me, My heart may low be laid; But G.o.d is round about me, And can I be dismayed?

Wherever He may guide me, No want shall turn me back; My Shepherd is beside me, And nothing can I lack.

His wisdom ever waketh, His sight is never dim, He knows the way He taketh, And I will walk with Him.

Green pastures are before me, Which yet I have not seen; Bright skies will soon be o'er me, Where darkest clouds have been.

My hope I cannot measure, My path to life is free; My Father has my treasure, And He will walk with me.

ANNA H. WARING.

ST. AGNES' EVE.

Deep on the convent roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapor goes: May my soul follow soon!

The shadows of the convent towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my bosom lies.