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THE LAST LEAF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

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.

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,

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Let them smile, as I do now,

At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

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OLD IRONSIDES

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Y, tear her tattered ensign down!

Long has it waved on high,

And many an eye has danced to see
That banner in the sky;

Beneath it rung the battle shout,

And burst the cannon's roar;

The meteor of the ocean air

Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
And waves were white below,

No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee;-
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea!

O better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave;
Nail to the mast her holy flag,

Set every threadbare sail,

And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!

TO THE HUMMING-BIRD

JONES VERY

CANNOT heal thy green gold breast,
Where deep those cruel teeth have prest,
Nor bid thee raise thy ruffled crest,
And seek thy mate,

Who sits alone within thy nest,
Nor sees thy fate.

No more with him in summer hours
Thou'lt hum amid the leafy bowers,
Nor hover round the dewy flowers,
To feed thy young;

Nor seek, when evening darkly lowers,
Thy nest high hung.

No more thou'lt know a mother's care
Thy honeyed spoils at eve to share,
Nor teach thy tender brood to dare
With upward spring,

Their path through fields of sunny air,
On new-fledged wing.

For thy return in vain shall wait

Thy tender young, thy fond, fond mate,
Till night's last stars beam forth full late
On their sad eyes;

Unknown, alas! thy cruel fate,

Unheard thy cries!

THE BALLAD OF THE TEMPEST

JAMES T. FIELDS

WE were crowded in the cabin,

Not a soul would dare to sleep

It was midnight on the waters,
And a storm was on the deep.

'Tis a fearful thing in winter
To be shattered by the blast,
And to hear the rattling trumpet
Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"

So we shuddered there in silence,

For the stoutest held his breath,
While the hungry sea was roaring,
And the breakers talked with Death.

As thus we sat in darkness,

Each one busy with his prayers,
"We are lost!" the captain shouted,
As he staggered down the stairs.

But his little daughter whispered,
As she took his icy hand,
"Isn't God upon the ocean,
Just the same as on the land?"

Then we kissed the little maiden,
And we spoke in better cheer,
And we anchored safe in harbour
When the morn was shining clear.

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