OLD.

And the notches that I cut and counted

For the game :

Old stone school-house!—it is still the same.

In the cottage, yonder, I was born;

Long my happy home, that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling: Ah, forlorn!

In the cottage, yonder, I was born.

Those two gateway sycamores you see
Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under:
Ninety-three!

Those two gateway sycamores you see.

There's the orchard where we used to climb
When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather-
Past its prime!

There's the orchard where we used to climb.

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails,
Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,

Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails

In the crops of buckwheat we were raising:
Traps and trails!

There the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails.

OLD.

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain:
Pond, and river, still serenely flowing;
Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing:
Mary Jane!

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.

There's the gate on which I used to swing,

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;

But alas! no more the morn shall bring

OLD.

That dear group around my father's table:
Taken wing!

There's the gate on which I used to swing.

Yon green meadow was our place for playing; That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying; She is dead!

I am fleeing all I loved have fled.

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,

Tracing silently life's changeful story,

So familiar to my dim old eye,

Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high:

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother;

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;
Sire and sisters, and my little brother,
Gone to God!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways:
Bless the holy lesson!-but ah, never
Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices silent now forever!

Peaceful days!

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.

OLD.

There my Mary blest me with her hand
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing:
Broken band!

There my Mary blest me with her hand.

I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipped, in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core;

I have come to see that grave once more.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old ;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Now, why I sit here thou hast been told. In his eye another pearl of sorrow; Down it rolled!

Angel, said he sadly, I am old.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;

Still I marked him sitting there alone,

All the landscape, like a page, perusing ·
Poor, unknown!

By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

RALPH HOYT.

NO MORE.

No more! a harp-string's deep and breaking tone,

A last low summer breeze, a far-off swell,

A dying echo of rich music gone,

Breathe through those words, those murmurs of farewell:

No More!

To dwell in peace, with home-affections bound,

To know the sweetness of a mother's voice,

To feel the spirit of her love around,
And in the blessing of her eye rejoice,

No more!

A dirge-like sound!-to greet the early friend
Unto the hearth, his place of many days;

In the glad song with kindred lips to blend,
Or join the household laughter by the blaze,

No more!

Through woods that shadowed our first years to rove,

With all our native music in the air;

To watch the sunset with the eyes we love,

And turn and read our own heart's answer there,

No more!