WRITTEN FOR MY DEAR LITTLE FRIEND, J. M.

A LEAFLET fair,
In the summer air,
Had echoed the zephyr's laugh,
And smiled full bright,
In the moon's clear light,
To see the fairies quaff,
From their cowslip cup,
The sweet dews up,
Till they sang in tipsy glee,
And, hand in hand,
A merry band,
Danced round the old oak tree.

But a spirit came forth
From the angry north,
And breathed its icy breath,
And every bough
Is trembling now
'Neath the trumpet-blast of death;
And the leaflet grew,
All pale of hue,
And a spot of hectic red
In its wither'd cheek,
Did plain bespeak
That its life was almost fled.

And the dying leaf,
With a voice of grief,
Deplored its coming doom,
As it earthward fell,
In that lonely dell,
To sleep in the dreamless tomb;
'I pass away,
And the music of May
No more shall gladden me,
And the fairies' feet,
O'er my winding-sheet,
Will pass in heedless glee.

'My days are night,
And time's swift flight
Shall glide in silence on;
And the stars, and the flowers,
And the skies, and the bowers,
Will miss me not when gone.
I die, I die,
Receive my sigh,
Thou ruthless northern wind.
Adieu! old shade,
My home is made,
In Winter's arms unkind.'

The nightingale
Has heard its wail,
Awhile she stayed her song--
'O silly leaf,
Why all this grief?
The winter lasts not long:
The spring will be
A friend to thee,
And thou again shalt rise
In lovelier hue,
A violet blue,
And bright as angel's eyes.'

Why, mortals, weep,
When death's soft sleep
Brings happy dreams of heaven?
For this vain strife,
Which men call life,
Eternity is given.