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THE LAST LEAF.

135

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

So forlorn;
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 pressed

In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

My grandmama 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 -
Let them smile as I do now
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

THE BIRTH OF A POET.

BY J. NEAL.

On a blue summer night,

While the stars were asleep,

Like gems of the deep,
In their own drowsy light;
While the newly mown hay

On the green earth lay,
And all that came near it went scented away;

From a lone woody place,
There looked out a face,
With large blue eyes,
Like the wet warm skies,

Brim full of water and light;
A profusion of hair
Flashing out on the air,

And a forehead alarmingly bright:

'Twas the head of a poet! He grew As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness grow,

In the dropping of natural dew,

Unheeded — alone

Till his heart had blownAs the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness blow;

Till every thought wore a changeable strain
Like flower-leaves wet with the sunset rain:

A proud and passionate boy was he,

Like all the children of Poesy;
With a haughty look and a haughty tread,
And something awful about his head;

With wonderful eyes

Full of wo and surprise,
Like the eyes of them that can see the dead.

Looking about,
For a moment or two he stood
On the shore of the mighty wood;

Then ventured out,
With a bounding step and a joyful shout,

The brave sky bending o'er him!
The broad sea all before him!

MARCO BOZZARIS.

BY F. G. HALL ECK.

(He fell in an attack upon the Turkish camp at Laspi, the site of the ancient

Plata, August 20, 1823, and expired in the moment of victory. His last words were: “To die for liberty, is a pleasure, not a pain.")

At midnight, in his guarded tent,

The Turk was dreaming of the hour
When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent,

Should tremble at his power:
In dreams, through camp and court, he bore
The trophies of a conqueror;

In dreams his song of triumph heard;
Then wore his monarch's signet ring :
Then pressed that monarch's throne -- a king ;
As wild his thoughts, and gay of wing,

As Eden's garden bird.

At midnight, in the forest shades,

Bozzaris ranged his Suliote band,
True as the steel of their tried blades,

Heroes in heart and hand.
There had the Persian's thousands stood,
There had the glad earth drunk their blood

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