OLD.

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,

Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Oft I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing ;

Poor, unknown,
By the wayside, on a mossy stone.
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat ;

Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding;
Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat ;
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding;

There he sat !
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat.

(Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year.]

'T is time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move ;
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,

Still let me love.

My days are in the yellow leaf,

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, The tiowers and fruits of love are gone,

No one sympathizing, no one heeding, The worm, the canker, and the grief, None to love him for his thin gray hair, Are mine alone.

And the furrows all so mutely pleading

Age and care :
The fire that in my bosom preys

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.
Is like to some volcanic isle,
No torch is kindled at its blaze,

It was summer, and we went to school,
A funeral pile.

Dapper country lads and little maidens;

Taught the motto of the “ Dunce's Stool," The hope, the fear, the jealous care,

Its grave import still my fancy ladens, The exalted portion of the pain

“ Here's a fool!” And power of love, I cannot share,

It was summer, and we went to school.
But wear the chain.

When the stranger seemed to mark our play, But 't is not here, - it is not here,

Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now I remember well, too well, that day!
Where glory seals the hero's bier,

Oftentimes the tears unbidden started
Or binds his brow.

Would not stay

When the stranger seemed to mark our play. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece about us see ;

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, The Spartan borne upon his shield

0, to me her name was always Heaven ! Was not more free.

She besought him all his grief to tell,

(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Awake! not Greece, she is awake!

Isabel !
Awake, my spirit! think through whom

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.
My life-blood tastes its parent lake,
And then strike home!

“Angel," said, he sadly, “I am old ; Tread those reviving passions down,

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;

Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told." Unworthy manhood ! unto thee,

Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow, Indifferent should the smile or frown

Down it rolled !
Of beauty be.

“Angel," said he sadly, “I am old. If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live ?

“I have tottered here to look once more The land of honorable death

On the pleasant scene where I delighted Is here, - up to the field, and give

In the careless, happy days of yore,
Away thy breath!

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted Seek out — less often sought than found

To the core :
A soldier's grave, for thee the best ;

I have tottered here to look once more.
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest !

"All the picture now to me how dear !

E’en this gray old rock where I am seated,

BYRON.

Is a jewel worth my journey here ;

“Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky, Ah that such a scene must be completed Tracing silently life's changeful story, With a tear !

So familiar to my dim old eye, All the picture now to me how dear !

Points me to seven that are now in glory

There on high! "Old stone school-house! it is still the same ; Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.

There's the very step I so oft mounted ; There's the window creaking in its frame,

“Oft the aisle of that old church we trod, And the notches that I cut and counted Guided thither by an angel mother; For the game.

Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod ; Old stone school-house, it is still the same. Sire and sisters, and my little brother,

Gone to God ! “In the cottage yonder I was born ;

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.
Long my happy home, that humble dwelling ;
There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn ;

“ There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways; There the spring with limpid nectar swelling ;

Bless the holy lesson ! -- but, ah, never
Ah, forlorn !

Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
In the cottage yonder I was born.

Those sweet voices silent now forever!

Peaceful days! “Those two gateway sycamores you see

There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.
Then were planted just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,

“There my Mary blest me with her hand And the wagon to pass safely under ;

When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ninety-three !

Ere she hastened to the spirit-land, Those two gateway sycamores you see.

Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing ;

Broken band ! “There's the orchard where we used to climb There my Mary blest me with her hand.

When my mates and I were boys together, Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

“I have come to see that grave once more, Fearing naught but work and rainy weather ; And the sacred place where we delighted, Past its prime !

Where we worshipped, in the days of yore, There's the orchard where we used to climb. Ere the garden of my heart was blighted

To the core !
“There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails, I have come to see that grave once more.

Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,
Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails “Angel," said he sadly, “I am old ;
In the crops of buckwheat we were raising ; Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,
Traps and trails !

Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."
There the rude, three-cornered chestnut-rails. In his eye another pearl of sorrow,

Down it rolled ! “There is the mill that ground our yellow grain ; “ Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old.”

Pond and river still serenely flowing; Cot there nestling in the shared lane,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing.

Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing ;
Mary Jane !

Still I marked him sitting there alone,
There's the mill that ground our yellow grain.

All the landscape, like a page, perusing ;

Poor, unknown!
“There's the gate on which I used to swing, By the wayside, on a mossy stone.

Brook, and bridge, and barn, and old red stable;
But alas ! no more the mom shall bring
That dear group around my father's table;
Taken wing!

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.
There's the gate on which I used to swing.

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, “I am fleeing, — all I loved have fled.

In my days of childhood, in myjoyfulschool-days; Yon green meadow was our place for playing ; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. That old tree can tell of sweet things said When around it Jane and I were straying ; I have been laughing, I have been carousing, She is dead !

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; I am fleeing, -- all I loved have fled.

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

RALPH HOYT.