Again down life's dim labyrinth

I grope my way alone,

While wildly through the midnight sky

Black hurrying clouds are blown, And thickly, in my tangled path,

The sharp, bare thorns are sown.

Yet firm my foot, for well I know
The goal cannot be far;

And ever through the rifted clouds
Shines out one steady star;

For when my guide went up he left
The pearly gates ajar.

EMILY C JUDSON

A

Old Folks.

H! don't be sorrowful, darling, And don't be sorrowful, pray; Taking the year together, my dear, There isn't more night than day.

'Tis rainy weather, my darling,
Time's waves, they heavily run;
But taking the year together, my dear
There isn't more cloud than sun.

We are old folks now, my darling,
Our hearts, they are growing gray;
But taking the year all round, my dear,
You will always find the May.

We have had our May, my darling,
And our roses long ago;

And the time of the year is coming, my dear,
For the silent night and the snow.

THE LAST LEAF.

And God is God, my darling,

Of night as well as of day;
And we feel and know that we can go
Wherever He leads the way.

Ay! God of the night, my darling,
Of the night of death so grim;
The gate that leads out of life, good wife,
Is the gate that leads to Him.

209

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 grandmama 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.

OLIVER W. HOLMES.

BILL AND JOE.

211

Bill and Joe.

YOME, dear old comrade, you and I

COME

Will steal an hour from days gone by;

The shining days when life was new,

And all was bright with morning dew,-
The lusty days of long ago,

When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow-tail;
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare:
To-day, O friend, remember still
That I am Joe, and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H.O.N. and L.L.D.,

In big, brave letters, fair to see,—
Your fist, old fellow off they go !--
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've won the judge's ermined robe,
You've taught your name to half the globe;

You've sung mankind a deathless strain;

You've made the dead past live again :

The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare, and say,
See those old buffers, bent and gray,-
They talk like fellows in their teens!
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,”-
And shake their heads: they little know

The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,-
Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame:
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;

A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand,

Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go,-
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill :-
'Tis poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill !"

And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears,
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?

No matter while our home is here,
No sounding name is half so dear:
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?

Read on the hearts that love us still,

Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.

OLIVER W. HOLMES.