TO THE LAST LEAF.

BY WILLIAM G. CROSBY.

LONE trembling one!

Last of a summer race, withered and sear,
And shivering-wherefore art thou lingering here?
Thy work is done.

Thou hast seen all

The summer flowers reposing in their tomb,
And the green leaves that knew thee in their bloom,
Wither and fall!

The voice of Spring,

Which called thee into being, ne'er again
Will greet thee-nor the gentle Summer rain
New verdure bring.

The Zephyr's breath

No more will wake for thee its melody-
But the lone sighing of the blast shall be
Thy hymn of death.

Yet a few days,

A few faint struggles with the autumn storm,
And the strained eye to catch thy quivering form,
In vain may gaze.

Pale autumn leaf!

Thou art an emblem of mortality.

The broken heart, once young and fresh like thee, Withered by grief,—

Whose hopes are fled,

Whose loved ones all have drooped and died away, Still clings to life-and lingering loves to stay, Above the dead!

But list-even now,

I hear the gathering of the wintry blast;
It comes-thy frail form trembles-it is past!
And so art thou!

LINES

WRITTEN ON THE OCEAN.

BY CLAUDE L. HEMANS.

THOU dreary sea whose wide expanse
Lies stretched beneath the farthest glance,
Not all in vain thy waters roll

Their deadening influence o'er the weary soul.

They still the pulse of care and strife,
That wasteful spend the lamp of life,
The haunts of men forgotten seem,
The far off shores are as some faded dream.

Not always thus, thou treacherous deep,
In stern repose thy strength shall sleep;
Soon from thy slumber thou wilt burst,

And soon with greedy rage for hapless victims thirst.

How glorious is the sense sublime,
Awakened in that awful time,

When howling o'er thy gloomy waste
The midnight gale careers with furious haste.

Then, then, thou wakest in thy wrath,
Along the wild wind's foaming path-
That lifts the trembling vessel o'er

The surge of booming waves that lash her sides and

roar.

Thou haughty sea, thy fearful might Cannot my steadfast heart affright, My swelling bosom knows no fear Amid the thrilling scenes proclaiming-God is here!

There liveth One beneath whose eye,
Where faith shone blent with majesty,

Thine angry billows straitway sank afraid, And of that look serene a faithful mirror made.

His power thy raging shall control,

Thy restless waves shall cease to roll,

And the fierce wind shall moaning flee away, Like some fell, baffled beast that scents the 'scaped

prey.

THE LAST REQUEST.

BY BENJAMIN B. THATCHER.

BURY me by the ocean's side

Oh! give me a grave on the verge of the deep, Where the noble tide

When the sea-gales blow, my marble may sweepAnd the glistering turf

Shall burst o'er the surf,

And bathe my cold bosom in death as I sleep!

Bury me by the sea

That the vesper at eve-fall may ring o'er my grave,
Like the hymn of the bee,

Or the hum of the shell, in the silent wave!
Or an anthem roar

Shall be rolled on the shore

By the storm, like a mighty march of the brave !