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Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door,

Stretch'd in his last-found home, and knew the old

no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,
As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

I

THE LAST LEAF

SAW him once before,
As he pass'd 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 press'd

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

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But the old three-corner'd 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.

OLD IRONSIDES

AY, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the connon's roar;-
The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more.

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;—
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,

The lightning and the gale!

THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN

T was a tall young oysterman lived by the river

IT

side,

His shop was just upon the bank, his boat was on

the tide;

The daughter of a fisherman, that was so straight

and slim,

Lived over on the other bank, right opposite to him.

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It was the pensive oysterman that saw a lovely maid, Upon a moonlight evening, a-sitting in the shade; He saw her wave her handkerchief, as much as if

to say,

"I'm wide awake, young oysterman, and all the folks away."

Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he, "I guess I'll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see;

I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear, Leander swam the Hellespont, and I will swim this

here."

And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,

And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;

Oh, there are kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain

But they have heard her father's step, and in he leaps again!

Out spoke the ancient fisherman: "Oh, what was that, my daughter?'

""Twas nothing but a pebble, sir, I threw into the water."

"And what is that, pray tell me, love, that paddles off so fast?"

"It's nothing but a porpoise, sir, that's been a-swimming past."

Out spoke the ancient fisherman:

my harpoon!

"Now bring me

I'll get into my fishin-boat, and fix the fellow soon." Down fell that pretty innocent, as falls a snow-white

lamb;

Her hair drooped round her pallid cheeks, like seaweed on a clam.

Alas! for those two loving ones! she waked not from her swound,

And he was taken with the cramp, and in the waves was drowned;

But Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their

woe,

And now they keep an oyster shop for mermaids down below.

THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST

TABLE

(From "The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table," Houghton, Mifflin & Co., Publishers)

SIN

IN has many tools, but a lie is the handle which fits them all.

-I think, Sir, said the divinity-student,-you must intend that for one of the sayings of the Seven Wise Men of Boston you were speaking of the other day.

I thank you, my young friend, was my reply,— but I must say something better than that, before I could pretend to fill out the number.

-The schoolmistress wanted to know how many of these sayings there were on record, and what, and by whom said.

-Why, let us see, there is that one of Benjamin Franklin, "the great Bostonian," after whom this lad was named. To be sure, he said a great many wise things, and I don't feel sure he didn't borrow this, he speaks as if it were old. But then he applied it so neatly!—

"He that has once done you a kindness will be more ready to do you another than he whom you yourself have obliged."

Then there is that glorious Epicurean paradox,

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