Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood,
    Where knelt the vanquished foe,
  When winds were hurrying o’er the flood,
    And waves were white below,
  No more shall feel the victor’s tread,
    Or know the conquered knee,—­
  The harpies of the shore shall pluck
    The eagle of the sea.

  O, better that her shattered hulk
    Should sink beneath the wave;
  Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
    And there should be her grave;
  Nail to the mast her holy flag,
    Set every threadbare sail,
  And give her to the god of storms,
    The lightning and the gale!

  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.

  MY AUNT.

  My aunt! my dear, unmarried aunt! 
    Long years have o’er her flown;
  Yet still she strains the aching clasp
    That binds her virgin zone;
  I know it hurts her, though she looks
    As cheerful as she can;
  Her waist is ampler than her life,
    For life is but a span.

  My aunt! my poor deluded aunt! 
    Her hair is almost gray;
  Why will she train that winter curl
    In such a spring-like way? 
  How can she lay her glasses down,
    And say she reads as well,
  When, through a double convex lens,
    She just makes out to spell?

  Her father—­grandpapa! forgive
    This erring lip its smiles—­
  Vowed she should make the finest girl
    Within a hundred miles;
  He sent her to a stylish school;
    ’Twas in her thirteenth June;
  And with her, as the rules required,
    “Two towels and a spoon.”