Toiling,—­rejoicing,—­sorrowing,
    Onward through life he goes;
  Each morning sees some task begin,
    Each evening sees it close;
  Something attempted, something done. 
    Has earned a night’s repose.

  Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
    For the lesson thou hast taught! 
  Thus at the flaming forge of life
    Our fortunes must be wrought;
  Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
    Each burning deed and thought.

H.W.  LONGFELLOW.

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.

  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 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.

O.W.  HOLMES.

The Old Kentucky Home.

A NEGRO MELODY.

  The sun shines bright in the old Kentucky Home;
    ’Tis summer, the darkies are gay;
  The corn-top’s ripe, and the meadow’s in the bloom,
    While the birds make music all the day. 
  The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
    All merry, all happy and bright;
  By-’n’-by hard times comes a-knocking at the door,—­
    Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!

          Weep no more, my lady,
          Oh, weep no more to-day! 
  We will sing one song for the old Kentucky Home,
          For the old Kentucky Home, far away.

  They hunt no more for the possum and the coon,
    On the meadow, the hill, and the shore;
  They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
    On the bench by the old cabin door. 
  The day goes by like a shadow o’er the heart,
    With sorrow, where all was delight;
  The time has come when the darkies have to part,—­
    Then my old Kentucky Home, good-night!