I wrote some lines once on a time
In wondrous merry mood,

And thought, as usual, men would say
They were exceeding good.

They were so queer, so very queer,
I laughed as I would die;

Albeit, in the general way,
A sober man am I.

I called my servant, and he came;
How kind it was of him,
To mind a slender man like me,
He of the mighty limb!

"These to the printer," I exclaimed,
And, in my humorous way,

I added (as a trifling jest),

"There'll be the devil to pay."

He took the paper, and I watched,
And saw him peep within;
At the first line he read, his face
Was all upon the grin.

He read the next; the grin grew broad,

And shot from ear to ear;

He read the third; a chuckling noise
I now began to hear.

The fourth; he broke into a roar;
The fifth; his waistband split;
The sixth; he burst five buttons off,
And tumbled in a fit.

Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye,
I watched that wretched man,
And since, I never dare to write
As funny as I can.

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

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.

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 VOICELESS

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

We count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,
But o'er their silent sister's breast

The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,

And noisy Fame is proud to win them:

Alas for those that never sing,

But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,

Till Death pours out his cordial wine

Slow-dropp'd from Misery's crushing presses,—

If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were pour'd,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!

THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS

BY THOMAS HOOD

'Drowned! Drowned!" - HAMLET.

One more unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care!
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements,
Whilst the wave constantly

Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing!

Touch her not scornfully!
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly,-
Not of the stains of her;
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.