And though I am weakly and can't live long, And though we never can married be,— What then?-since we hold each other so dear, For the sake of the pleasure one cannot hear, And the pleasure that only one can see? ROBERT BUCHANAN. DE MASSA OB DE SHEEPFOL'. DE Massa ob de sheepfol', Dat guard de sheepfol' bin, 66 Is my sheep, is dey all come in ?" Oh, den says de hirelin' shep'a'd, Dey is los'," says de hirelin' shep'a'd,— 66 'But de res' dey's all brung in, Dey is los'," says de hirelin' shep'a'd,— 66 'But de res' dey's all brung in." Den de Massa ob de sheepfol', Dat guard' de sheepfol' bin, Goes down in de gloomerin' meadows, Den up tro' de gloomerin' meadows, SARAH P. MCLEAN GREENE. TIS THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER. 'TIS the last rose of summer, Left blooming alone; All her lovely companions Are faded and gone; To reflect back her blushes, I'll not leave thee, thou lone one! Since the lovely are sleeping, Thy leaves o'er the bed So soon may I follow, When friendships decay, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone? THOMAS Moore. THE LAST LEAF. I SAW him once before, As he pass'd by the door; And again The pavement-stones resound As he totters o'er the ground They say that in his prime, 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 And he shakes his feeble head, The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has press'd 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, In his laugh. SCENE.-A small neat room. In a high Voltaire chair sits a white-haired old gentleman. MONSIEUR VIEUXBOIS. Babette. M. VIEUXBOIS (turning querulously). Day of my life! Where can she get? BABETTE (entering hurriedly). Coming, M'sieu'! If M'sieu' speaks M. VIEUXBOIS. Where have you been? |