To Perilla.

Ан, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see

Me, day by day, to steal away from thee?

Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid

come,

And haste away to mine eternal home;

"Twill not be long, Perilla, after this

That I must give thee the supremest kiss.
Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring
Part of the cream from that religious spring,
With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet;
That done, then wind me in that very sheet
Which wrapped thy smooth limbs when thou didst
implore

The gods' protection, but the night before;
Follow me weeping to my turf, and there
Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear.
Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be
Devoted to the memory of me;

Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep
Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep.

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 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,

Let them smile, as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Ode on Solitude.

HAPPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground:

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire;
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire :

Where'er his stages may have been, May sigh to think he still has found The warmest welcome at an inn. WILLIAM SHENSTONE.

Memory.

THE mother of the muses, we are taught,
Is memory; she has left me; they remain,
And shake my shoulder, urging me to sing
About the summer days, my loves of old.
"Alas! alas!" is all I can reply.

Memory has left with me that name alone,
Harmonious name, which other bards may sing,
But her bright image in my darkest hour
Comes back, in vain comes back, called or uncalled.
Forgotten are the names of visitors
Ready to press my hand but yesterday;
Forgotten are the names of earlier friends
Whose genial converse and glad countenance
Are fresh as ever to mine ear and eye;
To these, when I have written, and besought
Remembrance of me, the word "Dear" alone
Hangs on the upper verge, and waits in vain.
A blessing wert thou, O Oblivion,
If thy stream carried only weeds away,
But vernal and autumnal flowers alike
It hurries down to wither on the strand.

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.

Written at an Inn at Henley.

To thee, fair Freedom, I retire
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot or humble inn.

On Solitude.

HAIL, old patrician trees, so great and good!
Hail, ye plebeian underwood!
Where the poetic birds rejoice,
And for their quiet nests and plenteous food,
Pay with their grateful voice.

Hail, the poor muse's richest manor-seat!
Ye country houses and retreat,
Which all the happy gods so love,

That for you oft they quit their bright and great
Metropolis above.

Here Nature does a house for me erect,
Nature the wisest architect,

Who those fond artists does despise That can the fair and living trees neglect, Yet the dead timber prize.

Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying With all their wanton boughs dispute, And the more tuneful birds to both replying, Nor be myself too mute.

Oh breath of summer blossoms that on the restless air

Scatters a moment's sweetness and flies, we know not where!

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn ;

But still the sun shines round me; the evening bird sings on,

And I again am soothed, and, beside the ancient gate,

In this soft evening sunlight, I calmly stand and wait.

Once more the gates are opened; an infant group go out,

The sweet smile quenched forever, and stilled the sprightly shout.

Oh frail, frail tree of life, that upon the greensward

strows

Its fair young buds unopened, with every wind that blows!

So come from every region, so enter, side by side,

The strong and faint of spirit, the meek and men of pride,

Steps of earth's great and mighty, between those pillars gray,

And prints of little feet, mark the dust along the way.

And some approach the threshold whose looks are blank with fear,

And some whose temples brighten with joy in drawing near,

As if they saw dear faces, and caught the gracious

eye

Of Him, the sinless teacher, who came for us to die.

I mark the joy, the terror; yet these, within my heart,

Can neither wake the dread nor the longing to depart;

And, in the sunshine streaming on quiet wood and lea,

I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

735

Your hopes more vain, than those of menYour pangs or pleasures of fifteen

At forty-five played o'er again.

I'd say we suffer and we strive

Not less nor more as men than boysWith grizzled beards at forty-five,

As erst at twelve in corduroys; And if, in time of sacred youth,

We learned at home to love and pray, Pray Heaven that early love and truth May never wholly pass away.

And in the world, as in the school,

I'd say how fate may change and shiftThe prize be sometimes with the fool,

The race not always to the swift; The strong may yield, the good may fall, The great man be a vulgar clown, The knave be lifted over all,

The kind cast pitilessly down.

Who knows the inscrutable design?

Blessed be He who took and gave!