THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before,

As he passed 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,

(“AS HE TOTTERS O'ER THE GROUND WITH HIS CANE.”)

(“IN HIS PRIME.”)

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

(“THE PRUNING-KNIFE OF TIME”)

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.

(“MY GRANDMAMMA HAS SAID.”)

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;

(“BY THE CRIER ON HIS ROUND.”)

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

(“THE MOSSY MARBLES REST”)

(“THE LIPS THAT HE HAS PREST.”)

THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY.

The sun stepped down from his golden throne,

And lay in the silent sea,

And the Lily had folded her satin leaves,

For a sleepy thing was she;

What is the Lily dreaming of?

Why crisp the waters blue?

See, see, she is lifting her varnished lid!

Her white leaves are glistening through!

The Rose is cooling his burning cheek

In the lap of the breathless tide;—

The Lily hath sisters fresh and fair,

That would lie by the Rose's side;

He would love her better than all the rest,

And he would be fond and true;—

But the Lily unfolded her weary lids,

And looked at the sky so blue.

Remember, remember, thou silly one,

How fast will thy Summer glide,

And wilt thou wither a virgin pale,

Or flourish a blooming bride?

“O the Rose is old, and thorny, and cold,

And he lives on earth,” said she;

“But the Star is fair and he lives in the air.

And he shall my bridegroom be.”

But what if the stormy cloud should come,

And ruffle the silver sea?

Would he turn his eye from the distant sky,

To smile on a thing like thee?

O no, fair Lily, he will not send

One ray from his far-off throne;

The winds shall blow and the waves shall flow,

And thou wilt be left alone.

There is not a leaf on the mountain top,

Nor a drop of evening dew,

Nor a golden sand on the sparkling shore,

Nor a pearl in the waters blue,

That he has not cheered with his fickle smile,

And warmed with his faithless beam,—

And will he be true to a pallid flower,

That floats on the quiet stream?

Alas for the Lily! she would not heed,

But turned to the skies afar.

And bared her breast to the trembling ray

That shot from the rising star;

The cloud came over the darkened sky,

And over the waters wide:

She looked in vain through the beating rain,

And sank in the stormy tide.