great pleasure

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by be very grateful to me to have that poem of my youth Ambalmed by association with

the heet heloved

am generation, Laught

history

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day by Governor Anders ma

me that the President reactie

"The last leaf" to time, entire, pow This at a time when memery.

the great wen was in

and then two thang mun

habits of thought, I think it aught to be tolce It will ensur

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that frem, at least,

and of werything else I have twitter shall be prgotter I think

it will be long besse a pien

that such a man

loved to repeat

will be read with indifferen

With Many Mahi, Jam

You obvince Mend

OW Homer.

THE LAST LEAF.

BY OLIVER WENDELL 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.

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,
Sad and wan;

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 prest
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 laugh as I do now,
At the old forgotten bough,
Where I cling.

"THE INQUIRY."

Tell me, ye winged winds that round my pathway roar,
Do ye not know some spot where mortals weep no more?
Some lone and pleasant vale, some valley in the West,
Where free from toil and pain, the weary soul may rest?
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low
And sighed for pity as it answered: "No!"

Tell me, thou mighty deep, whose billows round me play,
Know'st thou some favored spot, some island far away,
Where weary man may find the bliss for which he sighs;
Where, sorrow never lives and friendship never dies?
The loud waves rolling in perpetual flow

Stopped for awhile, and sighed to answer: "No!"

And thou, serenest moon, that with such holy face
Dost look upon the Earth asleep in night's embrace-
Tell me; in all thy round hast thou not seen some spot
Where miserable man might find a happier lot?

Behind a cloud, the moon withdrew in woe
And a voice sweet, but sad, responded: "No!"

Tell me, my secret soul; Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place from sorrow, sin and death?
Is there no happy spot where mortals may be blessed,
Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest?

Faith, Hope and Love, best boon to mortals given,
Waved their bright wings and answered: Yes, in Heaven!

OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?

The following is the poem with which Lincoln's name is most intimately associated. And on the occasion of the death of Zachary Taylor, Mr. Lincoln, who happened to be at Chicago when memorial services were held in honor of the sad event, delivered an impromptu eulogy at North Market Hall, as a part of which he recited the poem entire, except two verses, which he did not know:

Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift, fleeting meteor— —a fast-flying cloud-
A flash of the lightning-a break of the wave-
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;

As the young, and the old, and the low, and the high,
Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie.

The infant, a mother attended and loved,
The mother, that infant's affection who proved;
The father, that mother and infant who blest-
Each, all are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure-her triumphs are by,

And alike from the minds of the living erased

Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.

The hand of the king, that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.