" width="100%" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}img"/>

("WITH THOSE THAT IN THE MAYFLOWER CAME.")

And then, of course, you know what's next,—it left the Dutchman's shore

With those that in the Mayflower came,—a hundred souls and more,—

Along with all the furniture, to fill their new abodes,—

To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing dim,

When old Miles Standish took the bowl, and filled it to the brim;

("STIRRED THE POSSET WITH HIS SWORD.")

The little Captain stood and stirred the posset with his sword,

And all his sturdy men-at-arms were ranged about the board.

He poured the fiery Hollands in,—the man that never feared.—

He took a long and solemn draught, and wiped his yellow beard;

And one by one the musketeers,—the men that fought and prayed,—

All drank as 'twere their mother's milk, and not a man afraid.

That night, affrighted from his nest, the screaming eagle flew,

He heard the Pequot's ringing whoop, the soldier's wild halloo;

And there the sachem learned the rule he taught to kith and kin,

"Run from the white man when you find he smells of Hollands gin!"

A hundred years, and fifty more, had spread their leaves and snows,

A thousand rubs had flattened down each little cherub's nose;

When once again the bowl was filled, but not in mirth or joy.

'Twas mingled by a mother's hand to cheer her parting boy.

Drink, John, she said, 'twill do you good—poor child, you'll never bear

This working in the dismal trench, out in the midnight air,

And if—God bless me—you were hurt, 'twould keep away the chill;

So John did drink—and well he wrought that night at Bunker's Hill!

("A MOTHER'S HAND TO CHEER HER PARTING BOY.")

I tell you, there was generous warmth in good old English cheer;

I tell you, 'twas a pleasant thought to bring its symbol here;

'Tis but the fool that loves excess—hast thou a drunken soul,

Thy bane is in thy shallow skull, not in my silver bowl!

I love the memory of the past—its pressed yet fragrant flowers—

The moss that clothes its broken walls—the ivy on its towers—

Nay, this poor bauble it bequeathed—my eyes grow moist and dim,

To think of all the vanished joys that danced around its brim.

("ITS BROKEN WALLS.")

Then fill a fair and honest cup, and bear it straight to me;

The goblet hallows all it holds, whate'er the liquid be;

And may the cherubs on its face protect me from the sin,

That dooms one to those dreadful words—"My dear, where have you been?

THE LAST LEAF.

I saw him once before,

As he