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 prest

In their bloom,

("AS HE TOTTERS O'ER THE GROUND WITH HIS CANE.")

("IN HIS PRIME.")

And the names he loved to hear

Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

("THE PRUNING-KNIFE OF TIME")

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.

("MY GRANDMAMMA HAS SAID.")

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;

("BY THE CRIER ON HIS ROUND.")

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

("THE MOSSY MARBLES REST")

("THE LIPS THAT HE HAS PREST.")

THE STAR AND THE WATER-LILY.

The sun stepped down from his golden throne,

And lay in the silent