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 WENDELL HOLMES.

THE LAST LEAF.

YA PEREZHIL SVOÏ ZHELANYA.

I'VE Overlived aspirings,

My fancies I disdain;
The fruit of hollow-heartedness,
Sufferings alone remain.

'Neath cruel storms of Fate

With my crown of bay,
A sad and lonely life I lead,
Waiting my latest day.

Thus, struck by latter cold

While howls the wintry wind,
Trembles upon the naked bough

The last leaf left behind.

From the Russian of ALEKSANDER SERGYEVICH POUSHKIN.

Translation of JOHN POLLEN.

THE OLD VAGABOND.

HERE in the ditch my bones I'll lay;

Weak, wearied, old, the world I leave. "He's drunk," the passing crowd will say 'T is well, for none will need to grieve. Some turn their scornful heads away,

Some fling an alms in hurrying by ;—
Haste, 't is the village holyday!
The aged beggar needs no help to die.

Yes! here, alone, of sheer old age
I die; for hunger slays not all.
I hoped my misery's closing page
To fold within some hospital;
But crowded thick is each retreat,

Such numbers now in misery lie.
Alas! my cradle was the street!

As he was born the aged wretch must die.

In youth, of workmen, o'er and o'er,

66

I've asked, "Instruct me in your trade." Begone!-our business is not more

Than keeps ourselves,-go, beg!" they said. Ye rich, who bade me toil for bread,

Of bones your tables gave me store, Your straw has often made my bed;

In death I lay no curses at your door.

Thus poor, I might have turned to theft;No! better still for alms to pray!

PIERRE JEAN DE BERANGER.

From a lithograph after crayon-drawing by H. Alophe.