Why, who is this, the bright coquette? 
      Her eyes with Love’s bright arrows laden—­
    “Poor Nell, she’s living single yet,
      An ancient maiden.”

    And this, the fragile poetess? 
      Whose high soul-yearnings nought can smother—­
    “She’s stouter far than I am now,
      A kind grandmother.”

    Who is this girl with flowing curls,
      Who on the golden future muses? 
    “What splendid hair she had!—­and now
      A ‘front’ she uses.”

    And this?  “Why, if it’s not my own;
      And did I really e’er resemble
    That bright young creature?  Take the book—­
      My old hands tremble.

    “It seems that only yesterday
      We all were young; ah, how time passes!”
    Old lady, put the album down,
      And wipe your glasses.

    “LE DERNIER JOUR D’UN CONDAMNE.”

    Old coat, for some three or four seasons
      We’ve been jolly comrades, but now
    We part, old companion, forever;
      To fate, and the fashion, I bow. 
    You’d look well enough at a dinner,
      I’d wear you with pride at a ball;
    But I’m dressing to-night for a wedding—­
      My own—­and you’d not do at all.

    You’ve too many wine-stains about you,
      You’re scented too much with cigars,
    When the gas-light shines full on your collar,
      It glitters with myriad stars,
    That wouldn’t look well at my wedding;
      They’d seem inappropriate there—­
    Nell doesn’t use diamond powder,
      She tells me it ruins the hair.

    You’ve been out on Cozzens’ piazza
      Too late, when the evenings were damp,
    When the moon-beams were silvering Cro’nest,
      And the lights were all out in the camp. 
    You’ve rested on highly-oiled stairways
      Too often, when sweet eyes were bright,
    And somebody’s ball dress—­not Nellie’s—­
      Flowed ’round you in rivers of white.

    There’s a reprobate looseness about you;
      Should I wear you to-night, I believe,
    As I come with my bride from the altar,
      You’d laugh in your wicked old sleeve,
    When you felt there the tremulous pressure
      Of her hand, in its delicate glove,
    That is telling me shyly, but proudly,
      Her trust is as deep as her love.

    So, go to your grave in the wardrobe,
      And furnish a feast for the moth,
    Nell’s glove shall betray its sweet secrets
      To younger, more innocent cloth. 
    ’Tis time to put on your successor—­
      It’s made in a fashion that’s new;
    Old coat, I’m afraid it will never
      Sit as easily on me as you.

    CHRISTMAS GREENS.

    Oh, Lowbury pastor is fair and young,
      By far too good for a single life,
    And many a maiden, saith gossip’s tongue,
      Would fain be Lowbury pastor’s wife: 
    So his book-marks are ’broidered in crimson and gold,
    And his slippers are, really, a “sight to behold.”