THE WITHERED ROSEBUD.

BY J K. MITCHELL.

Ан, why does this rose-bud more beautiful seem,
Than when gracing the stem where it grew;
All withered and pale, of a flower but the dream?
'Tis because it was given by you—

'Tis because the sweet floweret had lingered awhile

On the bosom of beauty and youth,

Had borrowed her lustre, had stolen her smile,

And came to me breathing her truth.

And now, though its leaflets are gone to decay,
And mournfully drooping its stem,

And tints from the rainbow are fading away,

"Twill still be of roses the gem.

Like its fragrance, still lingering, fond memory the while,

Will couple this blossom with thee,

And soothe by recalling the look and the smile

That came with the rose-bud to me.

THE LAST LEAF.

BY O. W. HOLMES.

I 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.

THE BIRTH OF A РОЕТ.

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 blown

As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness blow;