Seemed it pitiful he should sit there,
No one sympathizing, no one heeding,
E'en to love him for his thin gray hair,
And the furrows all so mutely pleading
Age and care!

Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.

It was summer, and we went to schoolDapper 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 seemed 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 seemed 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 sit I here thou shalt be told." Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow Down it rolled!

"Angel," said he, sadly, "I am old!

"I have tottered 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 tottered 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 so oft I 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 gateway sycamores you see,
They 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 gateway 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 nought but work and rainy weather; Past its prime!

There's the orchard where we used to climb!

"There the rude, three-cornered chestnut rails,
Round the pastures where the cows 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-cornered chestnut rails.

"There's the mill that ground our yellow grainPond and river still serenely flowing;

Cot, there nestling in the shady 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 happy group around my father's table!
Taken wing!

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

"I am fleeting! 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 fleeting! 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

e-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 my Mary blessed me with her hand, When our souls drank in the nuptial blessing, Ere we wandered to that distant land,

Now, alas! her gentle bosom pressing,
There I stand!

There my Mary blessed me with her hand.

"Angel," said he, sadly, "I am old!

Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow: Now why sit I here thou hast been told." In his eye another pearl of sorrow — Down it rolled!

"Angel," said he, sadly, "I am old!"

By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat the hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Still I marked him sitting there alone,
All the landscape like a page perusing-
Poor, unknown,

By the wayside, on a mossy stone!

Ralph Hoyt.