THE DESERTED HOUSE. A PRE-RAPHAELITE PICTURE FROM NATURE. It was left long ago, And the rank weeds grow Where the lily once bent her head; Thick and tall they grow, And some lying low, Beaten down by a human tread. And the laughing sun, When the day's nearly done, Looks in on the cheerless floor; And falleth the rain Through the broken pane-- Shrill whistles the wind at the door. And the thistles stand At the gate where no hand Ever lifts the latch, now nailed fast: One gate low doth lie Which the passer by Treads o'er as he hurries past. On the fence close by Where the sunbeams lie Doth the kingly Nightshade blow; But the Asters tall That grew by the wall Have vanished long ago. Not now, as of old, Blooms the gay Marigold, Looking in at the kitchen door; And the Cypress red Is long since dead, And the Monkhood blossoms no more. But the Hopvine still By the window sill Is as full as in days of yore; And the Currants grow As thickly now And as ripe as e'er before. But the hearth is bare-- Not a log blazes there To light up the empty room: Not a soft shadow falls On the whitewashed walls: All is silent--all wrapt in gloom! Not a chair on the floor, Not a rug at the door, Where the cat once lay in the sun; And no grandame sits At the door and knits, Telling tales of days bygone! All is silent now, And the long weeds bow Their heads in the wind and rain;-- But the dwellers of yore Will ne'er enter the door Of that dreary old House again! E. W. C.