THE DESERTED HOUSE.

It was left long ago, And the rank weeds grow Where the lily once bent her head; Thick and tall they grow, And some lying low, Beaten down by a human tread. And the laughing sun, When the day's nearly done, Looks in on the cheerless floor; And falleth the rain Through the broken pane— Shrill whistles the wind at the door. And the thistles stand At the gate where no hand Ever lifts the latch, now nailed fast: One gate low doth lie Which the passer by Treads o'er as he hurries past. On the fence close by Where the sunbeams lie Doth the kingly Nightshade blow; But the Asters tall That grew by the wall Have vanished long ago. Not now, as of old, Blooms the gay Marigold, Looking in at the kitchen door; And the Cypress red Is long since dead, And the Monkhood blossoms no more. But the Hopvine still By the window sill Is as full as in days of yore; And the Currants grow As thickly now And as ripe as e'er before. But the hearth is bare— Not a log blazes there To light up the empty room: Not a soft shadow falls On the whitewashed walls: All is silent—all wrapt in gloom! Not a chair on the floor, Not a rug at the door, Where the cat once lay in the sun; And no grandame sits At the door and knits, Telling tales of days bygone! All is silent now, And the long weeds bow Their heads in the wind and rain;— But the dwellers of yore Will ne'er enter the door Of that dreary old House again! E. W. C.