To Perilla.

Aн, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see

Me, day by day, to steal away from thee?

Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid

come,

And haste away to mine eternal home;

"Twill not be long, Perilla, after this
That I must give thee the supremest kiss.
Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring
Part of the cream from that religious spring,
With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;
That done, then wind me in that very sheet
Which wrapped thy smooth limbs when thou didst
implore

The gods' protection, but the night before;
Follow me weeping to my turf, and there
Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear.
Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be
Devoted to the memory of me;

Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep
Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep.

ROBERT HERRICK.

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

So forlorn;

And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, "They are gone."

Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn. WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

Memory.

THE mother of the muses, we are taught,
Is memory; she has left me; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
"Alas! alas!" is all I can reply.

Memory has left with me that name alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards may sing,
But her bright image in my darkest hour
Comes back, in vain comes back, called or uncalled.
Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad countenance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye;
To these, when I have written, and besought
Remembrance of me, the word "Dear" alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain.
A blessing wert thou, O Oblivion,
If thy stream carried only weeds away,
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike
It hurries down to wither on the strand.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Written at an Inn at Henley.

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot or humble inn.

On Solitude.

HAIL, old patrician trees, so great and good!
Hail, ye plebeian underwood!
Where the poetic birds rejoice,
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food,
Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor muse's richest manor-seat!
Ye country houses and retreat,
Which all the happy gods so love,
That for you oft they quit their bright and great
Metropolis above.

Here Nature does a house for me erect,
Nature the wisest architect,

Who those fond artists does despise That can the fair and living trees neglect, Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying With all their wanton boughs dispute, And the more tuneful birds to both replying, Nor be myself too mute.

Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air

Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies, we know not where!

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn;

But still the sun shines round me; the evening bird sings on,

And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate,

In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out,

The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.

Oh frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward

strows

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So come from every region, so enter, side by side,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride,

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray,

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious

eye

Of Him, the sinless teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart,

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;

And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

The End of the Play.

THE play is done-the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell;
A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell.
It is an irksome word and task;

And, when he's laughed and said his say, He shows, as he removes the mask, A face that's any thing but gay.

One word, ere yet the evening ends

Let's close it with a parting rhyme; And pledge a hand to all young friends, As fits the merry Christmas-time; On life's wide scene you, too, have parts, That fate ere long shall bid you play; Good-night!- with honest gentle hearts A kindly greeting go alway!

Good-night! I'd say the griefs, the joys, Just hinted in this mimic page,

The triumphs and defeats of boys,

Are but repeated in our age;

I'd say your woes were not less keen,

735

Your hopes more vain, than those of menYour pangs or pleasures of fifteen

At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say we suffer and we strive

Not less nor more as men than boys— With grizzled beards at forty-five,

As erst at twelve in corduroys; And if, in time of sacred youth,

We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early love and truth May never wholly pass away.

And in the world, as in the school,

I'd say how fate may change and shiftThe prize be sometimes with the fool,

The race not always to the swift; The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all,

The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design?

Blessed be He who took and gave!