When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken,

Experience Enables Me To Depose To The Comfort And Blessing That Literature Can Prove In Seasons Of Sickness And Sorrow.

Our Very Hopes Belied Our Fears, Our Fears Our Hopes Belied; We Thought Her Dying When She Slept, And Sleeping When She Died.

Well, Something Must Be Done For May, The Time Is Drawing Nigh-- To Figure In The Catalogue, And Woo The Public Eye. Something I Must Invent And Paint; But Oh My Wit Is Not Like One Of Those Kind Substantives That Answer Who And What?

Peace And Rest At Length Have Come, All The Day's Long Toil Is Past; And Each Heart Is Whispering, "home, Home At Last!"

I Remember, I Remember The Roses, Red And White, The Violets, And The Lily-cups, Those Flowers Made Of Light! The Lilacs, Where The Robin Built, And Where My Brother Set The Laburmum On His Birthday,- The Tree Is Living Yet.