Between the future and the past
    In wild unrest we stand,
  And ever as our feet advance,
    Retreats the promised land.

  And though Love, Fame, and Wealth, and Power
    Bind in their gilded bond,
  We pine to grasp the unattained—­
    The something still beyond.

  And, beating on their prison bars,
    Our spirits ask more room,
  And with unanswered questionings,
    They pierce beyond the tomb.

  Then say thou not, oh, doubtful heart! 
    There is no life to come: 
  That in some tearless, cloudless land;
    Thou shalt not find thy home.

* * * * *

=_Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-._= (Manual, pp. 478, 520.)

From his Poems.

=_378._= THE LAST LEAF.

  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.

  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.

* * * * *

From “The Professor at the Breakfast Table.”

=_379._= A MOTHER’S SECRET.

* * * * *

      They reach the holy place, fulfill the days
  To solemn feasting given, and grateful praise. 
  At last they turn, and far Moriah’s height
  Melts into southern sky and fades from sight. 
  All day the dusky caravan has flowed
  In devious trails along the winding road,—­
  (For many a step their homeward path attends,
  And all the sons of Abraham are as friends.)
  Evening has come,—­the hour of rest and joy;—­
  Hush! hush! that whisper,—­“Where is Mary’s boy?”
      O weary hour!  O aching days that passed,
  Filled with strange fears, each wilder than the last: 
  The soldier’s lance,—­the fierce centurion’s sword,—­
  The crushing wheels that whirl some Roman lord,—­
  The midnight crypt that sucks the captive’s breath,—­
  The blistering sun on Hinnom’s vale of death! 
      Thrice on his cheek had rained the morning light,
  Thrice on his lips the mildewed kiss of night,
  Crouched by some porphyry column’s shining plinth,
  Or stretched beneath the odorous terebinth.