Another hand thy sword shall wield,
Another hand the standard wave,
Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed
The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

But a fair maiden. in her Father's mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace;

And beautiful with all the soul's expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times, impetuous with emo-
tion

And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves inoauing like the

ocean

That cannot be at rest;

We will be patient! and assuage the feeling
We cannot wholly stay;

By silence sanctifying, not concealing

The grief that must have way.

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.

THE LAST LEAF.

0. W. HOLMES.

Born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, in 1807-
Professor in the Medical Department of
Harvard University.

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.

OLD GRIMES.

ALBERT G. GREENE.

Born in Providence, R. I., in 1802-Educated
for the Bar. "Old Grimes" was written
in about his sixteenth year.

Old Grimes is dead; that good old man
We ne'er shall see him more:
He used to wear a long black coat
All buttoned down before.

His heart was open as the day,
His feelings all were true;
His hair was some inclined to gray,
He wore it in a queue.

Whene'r be heard the voice of pain,
His breast with pity burned;
The large round head upon his cane
From ivory was turned.

Kind words he ever had for all;
He knew no base design;

His eyes were dark and rather small,
His nose was aquiline.

He lived at peace with all mankind,
In friendship he was true;
His coat bad pocket-holes behind,
His pantaloons were blue.

Unharmed, the sin which earth pollutes
He passed securely o'er,

And never wore a pair of boots

For thirty years or more.

But good old Grimes is now at rest,
Nor fears misfortune's frown;
He wore a double-breasted vest;
The stripes ran up and down.

He modest merit sought to find,
And pay it its desert:

He had no malice in his mind,
No ruffles on his shirt.

His neighbors he did not abuse-
Was sociable and gay;
He wore large buckles on his shot,
And changed them every day.

His knowledge hid from public gaze,

He did not bring to view,
Nor make a noise, town-meeting days,
As many people do.

His worldly goods he never threw
In trust to fortune's chances,
But lived (as all his brothers do)
In easy circumstances.

Thus undisturb'd by anxious cares,
His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was.
A fine old gentleman.

PICTURES OF MEMORY.

MISS ALICE CAREY.

Born, in 1822, at Mt. Pleasant, near Cincin-
nati, O.

Among the beautiful pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,

Is one of a dim old forest,

That seemeth best of all;

Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with the mistletoe;

Not for the violets golden

That sprinkle the vale below;
Not for the milk-white lilies

That lean from the fragrant hedge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge;
Not for the vines on the upland

Where the bright red-berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale, sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.

I once had a little brother,

With eyes that were dark and deep-
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep:
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,

We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago;

But his feet on the hills grew weary,

And, one of the autumn eves,

I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.

Sweetly his pale arms folded

My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face:
And when the arrows of sunset

Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures

That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.

WHEN OTHER FRIENDS ARE ROUND
THEE.

G. P. MORRIS.

When other friends are round thee,
And other hearts are thine,
When other bays have crown'd thee,
More fresh and green than mine,
Then think how sad and lonely
This doating heart will be,
Which, while it throbs, throbs only
Beloved one, for thee!

Yet do not think I doubt thee,
I know thy truth remains;
I would not live without thee,
For all the world contaius.
Thou art the star that guides me
Along life's changing sea;
And whate'er fate betides me,
This heart still turns to thee.

THE LAPSE OF TIME.

W. C. BRYANT.

Lament who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly;

I sigh not over vanished years,

But watch the years that hasten by.

Look, how they come-a mingled crowd
Of bright and dark, but rapid days;
Beneath them, like a summer cloud,

The wide world changes as I gaze.

What! grieve that time has brought so soon
The sober age of manhood on !
As idly might I weep, at noon,

To see the blush of morning gone.
Could I give up the hopes that glow
In prospect like Elysian isles;
And let the cheerful future go,

With all her promises and smiles 9
The future-cruel were the power

Whose doom would tear thee from my
heart,

Thou sweetener of the present hour!
We cannot-no-we will not part.

O, leave me still the rapid flight

That makes the changing seasons gay,
The grateful speed that brings the night,
The swift and glad return of day;
The months that touch with added grace,

This little prattler at my knee,
In whose arch eye and speaking face

New meaning every hour I sce;

The years, that o'er each sister land

Shall lift the country of my birth,
And nurse her strength, till she shall stand
The pride and pattern of the earth.

THE LITTLE ORATOR.

REV. THADDEUS HARRIS.

Yet all great learned men, like me,
Once learned to read their A, B, C.
But why may not Columbia's soil
Bear men as great as Britain's isle 9-
Exceed what Greece and Rome have dones-

Graduated at Harvard; for a time a teacher,
and in 1793 was settled over the church in
Dorchester, Massachusetts. These verses
were written for and recited by Hon. Ed-Or any land beneath the sun i
ward Everett, then a boy four years old.
The "little roan" refers to the color of the
little orator's" hair.

Pray, how should I, a little lad,
In speaking, make a figure
You're only joking, I'm afraid-
Do wait till I am bigger.

But since you wish to hear my part,
And urge me to begin it,
I'll strive for praise, with all my heart,
Though small the hope to win it.

I'll tell you a tale how farmer John
A little roan colt bred, sir.
And every night and every morn
He water'd and he fed, sir.

Said neighbor Joe to farmer John,
"Arn't you a silly dolt, sir,
To spend such time and care upon
A little useless colt, sir?

Said farmer John to neighbor Joe,
"I'll bring my little roan up,
Not for the good he now can do,
But will do, when he's grown up."

The moral you can well espy,

To keep the tale from spoiling;
The little colt, you think, is I-
I know it by your smiling.

And now, my friends, please to excuse
My lisping and my stammers;

I, for this once, have done my best,
And so I'll make my manners.

LINES

SPOKEN AT A SCHOOL EXHIBITION BY A
LITTLE BOY SEVEN YEARS OLD.

BY DAVID EVERETT.

Born at Princeton, N. Jersey - Teacher-
Graduate of Dartmouth-then editor, and
died at Marietta, Ohio, in 1813. These
verses were written for one of his pupils at
New Ipswich, Mass.

You'd scarce expect one of my age
Tc speak in public on the stage;
And if I chance to fall below
Demosthenes or Cicero,

Don't view me with a critic's eye,
But pass my imperfections by.
Large streams from little fountains flow;
Tall oaks from little acorns grow;

And though I now am small and young,
Of judgment weak and feeble tongue,

Mayn't Massachusetts boast as great
As any other sister State?

Or where's the town, go far and near,
That does not find a rival here ?

Or where's the boy but three feet high
Who's made improvement more than I
These thoughts inspire my youthful mind
To be the greatest of mankind:
Great, not like Cæsar, stained with blood,
But only great as I am good.