THE LAST LEAF

OLIVER W. HOLMES

The original of this poem was a Revolutionary soldier, Major Thomas Melville, who had a share in the Boston "tea-party." He was often seen on the streets in Holmes's day.

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,

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.

OUR COUNTRY

JULIA WARD HOWE

ON primal rocks she wrote her name;
Her towers were reared on holy graves;
The golden seed that bore her came
Swift-winged with prayer o'er ocean waves.

The forest bowed his solemn crest,
And open flung his sylvan doors;
Meek Rivers led the appointed guest
To clasp the wide-embracing shores;

Till, fold by fold, the broidered land

To swell her virgin vestments grew, While sages, strong in heart and hand, Her virtue's fiery girdle drew.

O Exile of the wrath of kings!
O Pilgrim Ark of Liberty!
The refuge of divinest things,

Their record must abide in thee!

First in the glories of thy front

Let the crown-jewel, Truth, be found; Thy right hand fling, with generous wont, Love's happiest chain to farthest bound!

Let Justice, with the faultless scales,
Hold fast the worship of thy sons;
Thy Commerce spread her shining sails
Where no dark tide of rapine runs!

So link thy ways to those of God,
So follow firm the heavenly laws,
That stars may greet thee, warrior-browed,
And storm-sped angels hail thy cause!

O Lord, the measure of our prayers
Hope of the world in grief and wrong,
Be thine the tribute of the years,

The gift of Faith, the crown of Song!

A VISION

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

This selection is taken from the Biglow Papers, from Mr. Hosea Biglow's reply to the editor of The Atlantic Monthly. It was written near the end of the Civil War, and is phrased in the native dialect of a Yankee of the time, who was capable, as Lowell said, "of district-school English" when not deeply stirred.

SNOW-FLAKES come whisperin' on the pane

The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant,
But I can't hark to wut they're say'n',
With Grant or Sherman ollers present;
The chimbleys shudder in the gale,

Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin'
Like a shot hawk, but all's ez stale

To me ez so much sperit-rappin'.

Under the yaller pines I house,

When sunshine makes 'em all sweet-scented,
An' hear among their furry boughs

The baskin' west-wind purr contented,
While 'way o'erhead, ez sweet an' low

Ez distant bells thet ring for meetin',
The wedged wil' geese their bugles blow,
Further an' further South retreatin'.

Or up the slippery knob I strain

An' see a hundred hills like islan's