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.

The Cambridge Churchyard.

OUR ancient church! its lowly tower,
Beneath the loftier spire,

Is shadowed when the sunset hour

Clothes the tall shaft in fire;
It sinks beyond the distant eye,

Long ere the glittering vane,
High wheeling in the western sky,
Has faded o'er the plain.

Like Sentinel and Nun, they keep
Their vigil on the green;

One seems to guard, and one to weep,

The dead that lie between ;

And both roll out, so full and near,

Their music's mingling waves,

They shake the grass, whose pennoned spear
Leans on the narrow graves.

The stranger parts the flaunting weeds,
Whose seeds the winds have strown

So thick beneath the line he reads,

They shade the sculptured stone;
The child unveils his clustered brow,
And ponders for a while

The graven willow's pendent bough,
Or rudest cherub's smile.

But what to them the dirge, the knell?
These were the mourner's share;
The sullen clang, whose heavy swell

Throbbed through the beating air;
The rattling cord, -the rolling stone,-
The shelving sand that slid,

And, far beneath, with hollow tone,
Rung on the coffin's lid.

The slumberer's mound grows fresh and green,
Then slowly disappears;

The mosses creep, the gray stones lean,
Earth hides his date and years;
But, long before the once-loved name
Is sunk or worn away,

No lip the silent dust may claim,
That pressed the breathing clay.

Go where the ancient pathway guides,
See where our sires laid down
Their smiling babes, their cherished brides,
The patriarchs of the town;

Hast thou a tear for buried love?
A sigh for transient power?

All that a century left above,
Go, read it in an hour!

The Indian's shaft, the Briton's ball,
The sabre's thirsting edge,

The hot shell, shattering in its fall,
The bayonet's rending wedge,-
Here scattered death; yet, seek the spot,
No trace thine eye can see,

No altar, and they need it not

Who leave their children free!

Look where the turbid rain-drops stand
In many a chiselled square;
The knightly crest, the shield, the brand
Of honoured names were there ;-

Alas! for every tear is dried

Those blazoned tablets knew,

Save when the icy marble's side
Drips with the evening dew.

Or gaze upon yon pillared stone,
The empty urn of pride;

There stand the Goblet and the Sun,-
What need of more beside?

Where lives the memory of the dead, Who made their tomb a toy? Whose ashes press that nameless bed? Go, ask the village boy!

Lean o'er the slender western wall,
Ye ever-roaming girls;

The breath that bids the blossom fall
May lift your floating curls,
To sweep the simple lines that tell

An exile's date and doom;

And sigh, for where his daughters dwell, They wreathe the stranger's tomb.

And one amid these shades was born,
Beneath this turf who lies,
Once beaming as the summer's morn,
That closed her gentle eyes;

If sinless angels love as we,

Who stood thy grave beside,
Three seraph welcomes waited thee,
The daughter, sister, bride!

I wandered to thy buried mound
When earth was hid below
The level of the glaring ground,

Choked to its gates with snow
And when with summer's flowery waves
The lake of verdure rolled,

As if a Sultan's white-robed slaves
Had scattered pearls and gold.

Nay, the soft pinions of the air,
That lift this trembling tone,

Its breath of love may almost bear,
To kiss thy funeral stone;

And now thy smiles have passed away,
For all the joy they gave,

May sweetest dews and warmest ray
Lie on thine early grave!

When damps beneath, and storms above,
Have bowed these fragile towers,
Still o'er the graves yon locust-grove
Shall swing its Orient flowers;
And I would ask no mouldering bust,
If e'er this humble line,

Which breathed a sigh o'er others' dust,
Might call a tear on mine.

To an Insect.

I LOVE to hear thine earnest | And Ann, with whom I used to

O tell me where did Katy live, Peace to the ever-murmuring

And what did Katy do?
And was she very fair and
young,

And yet so wicked, too?
Did Katy love a naughty man,
Or kiss more cheeks than
one?

I warrant Katy did no more
Than many a Kate has done.
Dear me ! I'll tell you all about
My fuss with little Jane,

race!

And when the latest one Shall fold in death her feeble wings

Beneath the autumn sun, Then shall she raise her fainting voice,

And lift her drooping lid, And then the child of future years

Shall hear what Katy did.

The Dilemma.

Now by the blessed Paphian queen,
Who heaves the breast of sweet sixteen ;
By every name I cut on bark

Before my morning star grew dark
By Hymen's torch, by Cupid's dart,
By all that thrills the beating heart;

The bright black eye, the melting blue,—
I cannot choose between the two.

I had a vision in my dreams ;-
I saw a row of twenty beams;

From every beam a rope was hung,
In every rope a lover swung;
I asked the hue of every eye,
That bade each luckless lover die ;
Ten shadowy lips said, heavenly blue,
And ten accused the darker hue.

I asked a matron which she deemed
With fairest light of beauty beamed;
She answered, some thought both were fair,-
Give her blue eyes and golden hair.
I might have liked her judgment well,
But, as she spoke, she rung the bell,
And all her girls, nor small nor few,
Came marching in,-their eyes were blue.
I asked a maiden; back she flung
The locks that round her forehead hung,
And turned her eye, a glorious one,
Bright as a diamond in the sun,
On me, until beneath its rays

I felt as if my hair would blaze;
She liked all eyes but eyes of green;

She looked at me; what could she mean?
Ah! many lids Love lurks between,
Nor heeds the colouring of his screen;
And when his random arrows fly,
The victim falls, but knows not why.
Gaze not upon his shield of jet,
The shaft upon the string is set;
Look not beneath his azure veil,

Though every limb were cased in mail.
Well, both might make a martyr break
The chain that bound him to the stake;
And both, with but a single ray,
Can melt our very hearts away;
And both, when balanced, hardly seem
To stir the scales, or rock the beam;
But that is dearest, all the while,
That wears for us the sweetest smile.

My Aunt.

My aunt my dear unmarried aunt!
Long years have o'er her flown;
Yet still she strains the aching clasp
That binds her virgin zone;
I know it hurts her,-though she looks
As cheerful as she can ;

Her waist is ampler than her life,
For life is but a span.