A

NATURE

S a fond mother, when the

day is o'er,

Leads by the hand her little child to bed,

Half-willing, half-reluctant

to be led,

And leave his broken playthings on the

floor,

Still gazing at them through the open

door;

Nor wholly reassured and comforted By promises of others in their stead, Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;

So Nature deals with us, and takes

away

Our playthings one by one, and by the hand

Leads us to rest so gently that

we go

Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay, Being too full of sleep to understand How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

I

THE LAST LEAF

SAW him once before
As he passed by the door,
And again

The pavement stones re-
sound,

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

66

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.

Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,
Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars,
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye,

Trust him to the hand that made him.

Mortal love weeps idly by:

God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What cares he? he cannot know:
Lay him low!

-George Henry Boker.

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