Volume 107 — "THE AUTOCRAT."

"The Last Leaf!" Can it be true, We have turned it, and on you Friend of all? That the years at last have power? That life's foliage and its flower Fade and fall? Was there one who ever took From its shelf, by chance, a book Penned by you, But was fast your friend, for life, With one refuge from its strife Safe and true? Even gentle Elia's self Might be proud to share that shelf, Leaf to leaf, With a soul of kindred sort, Who could bind strong sense and sport In one sheaf. From that Boston breakfast table Wit and wisdom, fun and fable, Radiated Through all English-speaking places. When were Science and the Graces So well mated? Of sweet singers the most sane, Of keen wits the most humane, Wide yet clear, Like the blue, above us bent; Giving sense and sentiment Each its sphere; With a manly breadth of soul, And a fancy quaint and droll; Ripe and mellow: With a virile power of "hit," Finished scholar, poet, wit, And good fellow! Sturdy patriot, and yet; True world's citizen! Regret Dims our eyes As we turn each well-thumbed leaf; Yet a glory 'midst our grief Will arise. Years your spirit could not tame, And they will not dim your fame; England joys In your songs all strength and ease, And the "dreams" you "wrote to please Grey-haired boys." And of such were you not one? Age chilled not your fire or fun. Heart alive Makes a boy of a grey bard, Though his years be—"by the card"— Eighty-five!