His nerveless arms thine iron sinews bind,

And lead in chains the desert's fallen king; Are these the beings that have dared to twine Their feeble threads around those limbs of thine?

So must it be; the weaker, wiser race,

That wields the tempest and that rides the sea, Even in the stillness of thy solitude

Must teach the lesson of its power to thee; And thou, the terror of the trembling wild, Must bow thy savage strength, the mockery of a child!

TO MY COMPANIONS.

INE ancient Chair! thy wide-embracing

arms

Have clasped around me even from
a boy;

Hadst thou a voice to speak of years gone by,
Thine were a tale of sorrow and of joy,
Of fevered hopes and ill-foreboding fears,
And smiles unseen, and unrecorded tears.

And thou, my Table! though unwearied Time
Hath set his signet on thine altered brow,
Still can I see thee in thy spotless prime,

And in my memory thou art living now;
Soon must thou slumber with forgotten things,
The peasant's ashes and the dust of kings.

Thou melancholy Mug! thy sober brown

Hath something pensive in its evening hue, Not like the things that please the tasteless clown, With gaudy streaks of orange and of blue; And I must love thee, for thou art mine own, Pressed by my lip, and pressed by mine alone.

My broken Mirror! faithless, yet beloved,

Thou who canst smile, and smile alike on all, Oft do I leave thee, oft again return,

I scorn the siren, but obey the call; I hate thy falsehood, while I fear thy truth, But most I love thee, flattering friend of youth.

Primeval Carpet! every well-worn thread
Has slowly parted with its virgin dye;
I saw thee fade beneath the ceaseless tread,

Fainter and fainter in mine anxious eye;
So flies the color from the brightest flower,
And heaven's own rainbow lives but for an hour.

I love you all! there radiates from our own

A soul that lives in every shape we see;
There is a voice, to other ears unknown,

Like echoed music answering to its key.
The dungeoned captive hath a tale to tell
Of every insect in his lonely cell;

And these poor frailties have a simple tone,
That breathes in accents sweet to me alone.

THE LAST LEAF.

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.

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.

TO A BLANK SHEET OF PAPER.

JAN-VISAGED thing! thy virgin leaf
To me looks more than deadly pale,
Unknowing what may stain thee yet,
A poem or a tale.

Who can thy unborn meaning scan?
Can Seer or Sibyl read thee now?
No, seek to trace the fate of man
Writ on his infant brow.

Love may light on thy snowy cheek,

And shake his Eden-breathing plumes; Then shalt thou tell how Lelia smiles, Or Angelina blooms.

Satire may lift his bearded lance,

Forestalling Time's slow-moving scythe, And, scattered on thy little field,

Disjointed bards may writhe.

Perchance a vision of the night,

Some grizzled spectre, gaunt and thin,
Or sheeted corpse, may stalk along,
Or skeleton may grin!

If it should be in pensive hour

Some sorrow-moving theme I try,

Ah, maiden, how thy tears will fall,
For all I doom to die!

But if in merry mood I touch

Thy leaves, then shall the sight of thee

Sow smiles as thick on rosy lips

As ripples on the sea.

The Weekly press shall gladly stoop

To bind thee up among its sheaves;

The Daily steal thy shining ore,

To gild its leaden leaves.