O! remembered for aye be the blessed isle,
All the day of our life till night;

When the evening comes with its beautiful smile,
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile,
May that "Greenwood" of Soul be in sight!

BENJAMIN F. TAYLOR.

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-rimm'd hat. Coat as ancient as the form 'twas folding, Silver buttons, queue, and crimpt cravat, Oaken staff, his feeble hand upholding, There he sat !

Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-rimm'd hat.

Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there,

No one sympathizing, no one heeding, None to love him for his thin gray hair, And the furrows all so mutely pleading, Age, and care:

Seem'd it pitiful he should sit there.

It was summer, and we went to school,
Dapper country lads, and little maidens,
Taught the motto of the "Dunce's Stool,"
Its grave import still my fancy ladens,
"Here's a Fool!"

It was summer, and we went to school.

When the stranger seem'd to mark our play, Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted, I remember well,-too well, that day! Oftentimes the tears unbidden started, Would not stay!

When the stranger seem'd to mark our play.

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,
Ah! to me her name was always heaven!
She besought him all his grief to tell,
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,)
ISABEL!

One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.

Angel, said he sadly, I am old;

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow, Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told, Then his eye betray'd a pearl of sorrow, Down it roll'd!

Angel, said he sadly, I am old!

I have totter'd here to look once more

On the pleasant scene where I delighted

In the careless, happy days of yore,

Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core !

I have totter'd here to look once more!

All the picture now to me how dear!
E'en this gray old rock where I am seated,
Is a jewel worth my journey here;

Ah, that such a scene must be completed
With a tear!

All the picture now to me how dear!

Old stone school-house !-it is still the same!
There's the very step I so oft' mounted;
There's the window creaking in its frame,
And the notches that I cut and counted
For the game;

Old stone school-house !-it is still the same!

In the cottage, yonder, I was born;

Long my happy home-that humble dwelling; There the fields of clover, wheat, and corn, There the spring, with limpid nectar swelling; Ah, forlorn!

In the cottage, yonder, I was born.

Those two gate-way sycamores you see,
Then were planted, just so far asunder
That long well-pole from the path to free,
And the wagon to pass safely under;
Ninety-Three!

Those two gate-way sycamores you see!

There's the orchard where we used to climb
When my mates and I were boys together,
Thinking nothing of the flight of time,

Fearing naught but work and rainy weather;
Past its prime !

There's the orchard where we used to climb!

There, the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails, Round the pasture where the flocks were grazing,

Where, so sly, I used to watch for quails

In the crops of buckwheat we were raising, Traps and trails,—

There the rude, three-corner'd chestnut rails.

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain;
Pond, and river still serenely flowing;

Cot, there nestling in the shaded lane,
Where the lily of my heart was blowing,
MARY JANE !

There's the mill that ground our yellow grain!

There's the gate on which I used to swing, Brook and bridge, and barn, and old red

stable;

But alas! no more the morn shall bring

That dear group around my father's table;
Taken wing!

There's the gate on which I used to swing!

I am fleeing!—all I loved are fled!

Yon green meadow was our place for playing; That old tree can tell of sweet things said, When around it Jane and I were straying: She is dead!

I am fleeing!-all I loved are fled!

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,
Tracing silently life's changeful story,
So familiar to my dim old eye,

Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high!

Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided thither by an angel mother;
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod,
Sire and sisters, and my little brother;
Gone to God!

Oft the aisle of that old church we trod!

There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways,
Bless the holy lesson !-but, ah, never
Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices,-silent now for ever!
Peaceful days!

There I heard of wisdom's pleasant ways!

There my Mary blest me with her hand,

When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing,