A roof beneath the mountain pines; The cloisters of a hill-girt plain; The front of life's embattled lines; A mound beside the heaving main.

These are the scenes: a boy appears; Set life's round dial in the sun, Count the swift arc of seventy years, His frame is dust; his task is done.

Yet pause upon the noontide hour, Ere the declining sun has laid His bleaching rays on manhood's power, And look upon the mighty shade.

No gloom that stately shape can hide, No change uncrown its brow; behold I Dark, calm, large-fronted, lightning-eyed, Earth has no double from its mould.

Ere from the fields by valor won The battle-smoke had rolled away, And bared the blood-red setting sun, His eyes were opened on the day.

His land was but a shelving strip Black with the strife that made it free He lived to see its banners dip Their fringes in the Western sea.

The boundless prairies learned his name, His words the mountain echoes knew, The Northern breezes swept his fame From icy lake to warm bayou.

In toil he lived; in peace he died; When life's full cycle was complete, Put off his robes of power and pride, And laid them at his Master's feet.

His rest is by the storm-swept waves Whom life's wild tempests roughly trie Whose heart was like the streaming eaves Of ocean, throbbing at his side.

Death's cold white hand is like the snow Laid softly on the furrowed hill, It hides the broken seams below, And leaves the summit brighter still.

In vain the envious tongue upbraids; His name a nation's heart shall keep Till morning's latest sunlight fades On the blue tablet of the deep.



THE VOICELESS

WE count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber, But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them:— Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,— Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.

O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his longed-for wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,— If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!



THE TWO STREAMS

BEHOLD the rocky wall That down its sloping sides Pours the swift rain-drops, blending, as they fall, In rushing river-tides!

Yon stream, whose sources run Turned by a pebble's edge, Is Athabasca, rolling toward the sun Through the cleft mountain-ledge.

The slender rill had strayed, But for the slanting stone, To evening's ocean, with the tangled braid Of foam-flecked Oregon.

So from the heights of Will Life's parting stream descends, And, as a moment turns its slender rill, Each widening torrent bends,—

From the same cradle's side, From the same mother's knee,— One to long darkness and the frozen tide, One to the Peaceful Sea!



THE PROMISE

NOT charity we ask, Nor yet thy gift refuse; Please thy light fancy with the easy task Only to look and choose.

The little-heeded toy That wins thy treasured gold May be the dearest memory, holiest joy, Of coming years untold.

Heaven rains on every heart, But there its showers divide, The drops of mercy choosing, as they part, The dark or glowing side.

One kindly deed may turn The fountain of thy soul To love's sweet day-star, that shall o'er thee burn Long as its currents roll.

The pleasures thou hast planned,— Where shall their memory be When the white angel with the freezing hand Shall sit and watch by thee?

Living, thou dost not live, If mercy's spring run dry; What Heaven has lent thee wilt thou freely give, Dying, thou shalt not die.

HE promised even so! To thee his lips repeat,— Behold, the tears that soothed thy sister's woe Have washed thy Master's feet!

March 20, 1859.



AVIS

I MAY not rightly call thy name,— Alas! thy forehead never knew The kiss that happier children claim, Nor glistened with baptismal dew.

Daughter of want and wrong and woe, I saw thee with thy sister-band, Snatched from the whirlpool's narrowing flow By Mercy's strong yet trembling hand.

"Avis!"—With Saxon eye and cheek, At once a woman and a child, The saint uncrowned I came to seek Drew near to greet us,—spoke, and smiled.

God gave that sweet sad smile she wore All wrong to shame, all souls to win,— A heavenly sunbeam sent before Her footsteps through a world of sin.

"And who is Avis?"—Hear the tale The calm-voiced matrons gravely tell,— The story known through all the vale Where Avis and her sisters dwell.

With the lost children running wild, Strayed from the hand of human care, They find one little refuse child Left helpless in its poisoned lair.

The primal mark is on her face,— The chattel-stamp,—the pariah-stain That follows still her hunted race,— The curse without the crime of Cain.

How shall our smooth-turned phrase relate The little suffering outcast's ail? Not Lazarus at the rich man's gate So turned the rose-wreathed revellers pale.

Ah, veil the living death from sight That wounds our beauty-loving eye! The children turn in selfish fright, The white-lipped nurses hurry by.

Take her, dread Angel! Break in love This bruised reed and make it thine!— No voice descended from above, But Avis answered, "She is mine."

The task that dainty menials spurn The fair young girl has made her own; Her heart shall teach, her hand shall learn The toils, the duties yet unknown.

So Love and Death in lingering strife Stand face to face from day to day, Still battling for the spoil of Life While the slow seasons creep away.

Love conquers Death; the prize is won; See to her joyous bosom pressed The dusky daughter of the sun,— The bronze against the marble breast!

Her task is done; no voice divine Has crowned her deeds with saintly fame. No eye can see the aureole shine That rings her brow with heavenly flame.

Yet what has holy page more sweet, Or what had woman's love more fair, When Mary clasped her Saviour's feet With flowing eyes and streaming hair?

Meek child of sorrow, walk unknown, The Angel of that earthly throng, And let thine image live alone To hallow this unstudied song!



THE LIVING TEMPLE

NOT in the world of light alone, Where God has built his blazing throne, Nor yet alone in earth below, With belted seas that come and go, And endless isles of sunlit green, Is all thy Maker's glory seen: Look in upon thy wondrous frame,— Eternal wisdom still the same!

The smooth, soft air with pulse-like waves Flows murmuring through its hidden caves, Whose streams of brightening purple rush, Fired with a new and livelier blush, While all their burden of decay The ebbing current steals away, And red with Nature's flame they start From the warm fountains of the heart.

No rest that throbbing slave may ask, Forever quivering o'er his task, While far and wide a crimson jet Leaps forth to fill the woven net Which in unnumbered crossing tides The flood of burning life divides, Then, kindling each decaying part, Creeps back to find the throbbing heart.

But warmed with that unchanging flame Behold the outward moving frame, Its living marbles jointed strong With glistening band and silvery thong, And linked to reason's guiding reins By myriad rings in trembling chains, Each graven with the threaded zone Which claims it as the master's own.

See how yon beam of seeming white Is braided out of seven-hued light, Yet in those lucid globes no ray By any chance shall break astray. Hark how the rolling surge of sound, Arches and spirals circling round, Wakes the hushed spirit through thine ear With music it is heaven to hear.

Then mark the cloven sphere that holds All thought in its mysterious folds; That feels sensation's faintest thrill, And flashes forth the sovereign will; Think on the stormy world that dwells Locked in its dim and clustering cells! The lightning gleams of power it sheds Along its hollow glassy threads!

O Father! grant thy love divine To make these mystic temples thine! When wasting age and wearying strife Have sapped the leaning walls of life, When darkness gathers over all, And the last tottering pillars fall, Take the poor dust thy mercy warms, And mould it into heavenly forms!



AT A BIRTHDAY FESTIVAL

TO J. R. LOWELL

WE will not speak of years to-night,— For what have years to bring But larger floods of love and light, And sweeter songs to sing?

We will not drown in wordy praise The kindly thoughts that rise; If Friendship own one tender phrase, He reads it in our eyes.

We need not waste our school-boy art To gild this notch of Time;— Forgive me if my wayward heart Has throbbed in artless rhyme.

Enough for him the silent grasp That knits us hand in hand, And he the bracelet's radiant clasp That locks our circling band.

Strength to his hours of manly toil! Peace to his starlit dreams! Who loves alike the furrowed soil, The music-haunted streams!

Sweet smiles to keep forever bright The sunshine on his lips, And faith that sees the ring of light Round nature's last eclipse!

February 22, 1859.



A BIRTHDAY TRIBUTE

TO J. F. CLARKE

WHO is the shepherd sent to lead, Through pastures green, the Master's sheep? What guileless "Israelite indeed" The folded flock may watch and keep?

He who with manliest spirit joins The heart of gentlest human mould, With burning light and girded loins, To guide the flock, or watch the fold;

True to all Truth the world denies, Not tongue-tied for its gilded sin; Not always right in all men's eyes, But faithful to the light within;

Who asks no meed of earthly fame, Who knows no earthly master's call, Who hopes for man, through guilt and shame, Still answering, "God is over all";

Who makes another's grief his own, Whose smile lends joy a double cheer; Where lives the saint, if such be known?— Speak softly,—such an one is here!

O faithful shepherd! thou hast borne The heat and burden of the clay; Yet, o'er thee, bright with beams unshorn, The sun still shows thine onward way.

To thee our fragrant love we bring, In buds that April half displays, Sweet first-born angels of the spring, Caught in their opening hymn of praise.

What though our faltering accents fail, Our captives know their message well, Our words unbreathed their lips exhale, And sigh more love than ours can tell.

April 4, 1860.



THE GRAY CHIEF

FOR THE MEETING OF THE MASSACHUSETTS MEDICAL SOCIETY, 1859

'T is sweet to fight our battles o'er, And crown with honest praise The gray old chief, who strikes no more The blow of better days.

Before the true and trusted sage With willing hearts we bend, When years have touched with hallowing age Our Master, Guide, and Friend.

For all his manhood's labor past, For love and faith long tried, His age is honored to the last, Though strength and will have died.

But when, untamed by toil and strife, Full in our front he stands, The torch of light, the shield of life, Still lifted in his hands,

No temple, though its walls resound With bursts of ringing cheers, Can hold the honors that surround His manhood's twice-told years!



THE LAST LOOK

W. W. SWAIN

BEHOLD—not him we knew! This was the prison which his soul looked through, Tender, and brave, and true.

His voice no more is heard; And his dead name—that dear familiar word— Lies on our lips unstirred.

He spake with poet's tongue; Living, for him the minstrel's lyre was strung: He shall not die unsung.

Grief tried his love, and pain; And the long bondage of his martyr-chain Vexed his sweet soul,—in vain!

It felt life's surges break, As, girt with stormy seas, his island lake, Smiling while tempests wake.

How can we sorrow more? Grieve not for him whose heart had gone before To that untrodden shore!

Lo, through its leafy screen, A gleam of sunlight on a ring of green, Untrodden, half unseen!

Here let his body rest, Where the calm shadows that his soul loved best May slide above his breast.

Smooth his uncurtained bed; And if some natural tears are softly shed, It is not for the dead.

Fold the green turf aright For the long hours before the morning's light, And say the last Good Night!

And plant a clear white stone Close by those mounds which hold his loved, his own,— Lonely, but not alone.

Here let him sleeping lie, Till Heaven's bright watchers slumber in the sky And Death himself shall die!

Naushon, September 22, 1858.



IN MEMORY OF CHARLES WENTWORTH UPHAM, JR.

HE was all sunshine; in his face The very soul of sweetness shone; Fairest and gentlest of his race; None like him we can call our own.

Something there was of one that died In her fresh spring-time long ago, Our first dear Mary, angel-eyed, Whose smile it was a bliss to know.

Something of her whose love imparts Such radiance to her day's decline, We feel its twilight in our hearts Bright as the earliest morning-shine.

Yet richer strains our eye could trace That made our plainer mould more fair, That curved the lip with happier grace, That waved the soft and silken hair.

Dust unto dust! the lips are still That only spoke to cheer and bless; The folded hands lie white and chill Unclasped from sorrow's last caress.

Leave him in peace; he will not heed These idle tears we vainly pour, Give back to earth the fading weed Of mortal shape his spirit wore.

"Shall I not weep my heartstrings torn, My flower of love that falls half blown, My youth uncrowned, my life forlorn, A thorny path to walk alone?"

O Mary! one who bore thy name, Whose Friend and Master was divine, Sat waiting silent till He came, Bowed down in speechless grief like thine.

"Where have ye laid him?" "Come," they say, Pointing to where the loved one slept; Weeping, the sister led the way,— And, seeing Mary, "Jesus wept."

He weeps with thee, with all that mourn, And He shall wipe thy streaming eyes Who knew all sorrows, woman-born,— Trust in his word; thy dead shall rise!

April 15, 1860.



MARTHA

DIED JANUARY 7, 1861

SEXTON! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! Her weary hands their labor cease; Good night, poor Martha,—sleep in peace! Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! For many a year has Martha said, "I'm old and poor,—would I were dead!" Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! She'll bring no more, by day or night, Her basket full of linen white. Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! 'T is fitting she should lie below A pure white sheet of drifted snow. Toll the bell!

Sexton! Martha's dead and gone; Toll the bell! toll the bell! Sleep, Martha, sleep, to wake in light, Where all the robes are stainless white. Toll the bell!



MEETING OF THE ALUMNI OF HARVARD COLLEGE

1857

I THANK you, MR. PRESIDENT, you've kindly broke the ice; Virtue should always be the first,—I 'm only SECOND VICE— (A vice is something with a screw that's made to hold its jaw Till some old file has played away upon an ancient saw).

Sweet brothers by the Mother's side, the babes of days gone by, All nurslings of her Juno breasts whose milk is never dry, We come again, like half-grown boys, and gather at her beck About her knees, and on her lap, and clinging round her neck.

We find her at her stately door, and in her ancient chair, Dressed in the robes of red and green she always loved to wear. Her eye has all its radiant youth, her cheek its morning flame; We drop our roses as we go, hers flourish still the same.

We have been playing many an hour, and far away we've strayed, Some laughing in the cheerful sun, some lingering in the shade; And some have tired, and laid them down where darker shadows fall, Dear as her loving voice may be, they cannot hear its call.

What miles we 've travelled since we shook the dew-drops from our shoes We gathered on this classic green, so famed for heavy dues! How many boys have joined the game, how many slipped away, Since we've been running up and down, and having out our play!

One boy at work with book and brief, and one with gown and band, One sailing vessels on the pool, one digging sand, One flying paper kites on change, one planting little pills,— The seeds of certain annual flowers well known as little bills.

What maidens met us on our way, and clasped us hand in hand! What cherubs,—not the legless kind, that fly, but never stand! How many a youthful head we've seen put on its silver crown What sudden changes back again to youth's empurpled brown!

But fairer sights have met our eyes, and broader lights have shone, Since others lit their midnight lamps where once we trimmed our own; A thousand trains that flap the sky with flags of rushing fire, And, throbbing in the Thunderer's hand, Thought's million-chorded lyre.

We've seen the sparks of Empire fly beyond the mountain bars, Till, glittering o'er the Western wave, they joined the setting stars; And ocean trodden into paths that trampling giants ford, To find the planet's vertebrae and sink its spinal cord.

We've tried reform,—and chloroform,—and both have turned our brain; When France called up the photograph, we roused the foe to pain; Just so those earlier sages shared the chaplet of renown,— Hers sent a bladder to the clouds, ours brought their lightning down.

We've seen the little tricks of life, its varnish and veneer, Its stucco-fronts of character flake off and disappear, We 've learned that oft the brownest hands will heap the biggest pile, And met with many a "perfect brick" beneath a rimless "tile."

What dreams we 've had of deathless name, as scholars, statesmen, bards, While Fame, the lady with the trump, held up her picture cards! Till, having nearly played our game, she gayly whispered, "Ah! I said you should be something grand,—you'll soon be grandpapa."

Well, well, the old have had their day, the young must take their turn; There's something always to forget, and something still to learn; But how to tell what's old or young, the tap-root from the sprigs, Since Florida revealed her fount to Ponce de Leon Twiggs?

The wisest was a Freshman once, just freed from bar and bolt, As noisy as a kettle-drum, as leggy as a colt; Don't be too savage with the boys,—the Primer does not say The kitten ought to go to church because the cat doth prey.

The law of merit and of age is not the rule of three; Non constat that A. M. must prove as busy as A. B. When Wise the father tracked the son, ballooning through the skies, He taught a lesson to the old,—go thou and do like Wise!

Now then, old boys, and reverend youth, of high or low degree, Remember how we only get one annual out of three, And such as dare to simmer down three dinners into one Must cut their salads mighty short, and pepper well with fun.

I've passed my zenith long ago, it's time for me to set; A dozen planets wait to shine, and I am lingering yet, As sometimes in the blaze of day a milk-and-watery moon Stains with its dim and fading ray the lustrous blue of noon.

Farewell! yet let one echo rise to shake our ancient hall; God save the Queen,—whose throne is here,—the Mother of us all Till dawns the great commencement-day on every shore and sea, And "Expectantur" all mankind, to take their last Degree!



THE PARTING SONG

FESTIVAL OF THE ALUMNI, 1857

THE noon of summer sheds its ray On Harvard's holy ground; The Matron calls, the sons obey, And gather smiling round.

CHORUS. Then old and young together stand, The sunshine and the snow, As heart to heart, and hand in hand, We sing before we go!

Her hundred opening doors have swung Through every storied hall The pealing echoes loud have rung, "Thrice welcome one and all!" Then old and young, etc.

We floated through her peaceful bay, To sail life's stormy seas But left our anchor where it lay Beneath her green old trees. Then old and young, etc.

As now we lift its lengthening chain, That held us fast of old, The rusted rings grow bright again,— Their iron turns to gold. Then old and young, etc.

Though scattered ere the setting sun, As leaves when wild winds blow, Our home is here, our hearts are one, Till Charles forgets to flow. Then old and young, etc.



FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL SANITARY ASSOCIATION

1860

WHAT makes the Healing Art divine? The bitter drug we buy and sell, The brands that scorch, the blades that shine, The scars we leave, the "cures" we tell?

Are these thy glories, holiest Art,— The trophies that adorn thee best,— Or but thy triumph's meanest part,— Where mortal weakness stands confessed?

We take the arms that Heaven supplies For Life's long battle with Disease, Taught by our various need to prize Our frailest weapons, even these.

But ah! when Science drops her shield— Its peaceful shelter proved in vain— And bares her snow-white arm to wield The sad, stern ministry of pain;

When shuddering o'er the fount of life, She folds her heaven-anointed wings, To lift unmoved the glittering knife That searches all its crimson springs;

When, faithful to her ancient lore, She thrusts aside her fragrant balm For blistering juice, or cankering ore, And tames them till they cure or calm;

When in her gracious hand are seen The dregs and scum of earth and seas, Her kindness counting all things clean That lend the sighing sufferer ease;

Though on the field that Death has won, She save some stragglers in retreat;— These single acts of mercy done Are but confessions of defeat.

What though our tempered poisons save Some wrecks of life from aches and ails; Those grand specifics Nature gave Were never poised by weights or scales!

God lent his creatures light and air, And waters open to the skies; Man locks him in a stifling lair, And wonders why his brother dies!

In vain our pitying tears are shed, In vain we rear the sheltering pile Where Art weeds out from bed to bed The plagues we planted by the mile!

Be that the glory of the past; With these our sacred toils begin So flies in tatters from its mast The yellow flag of sloth and sin,

And lo! the starry folds reveal The blazoned truth we hold so dear To guard is better than to heal,— The shield is nobler than the spear!



FOR THE BURNS CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

JANUARY 25, 1859

His birthday.—Nay, we need not speak The name each heart is beating,— Each glistening eye and flushing cheek In light and flame repeating!

We come in one tumultuous tide,— One surge of wild emotion,— As crowding through the Frith of Clyde Rolls in the Western Ocean;

As when yon cloudless, quartered moon Hangs o'er each storied river, The swelling breasts of Ayr and Doon With sea green wavelets quiver.

The century shrivels like a scroll,— The past becomes the present,— And face to face, and soul to soul, We greet the monarch-peasant.

While Shenstone strained in feeble flights With Corydon and Phillis,— While Wolfe was climbing Abraham's heights To snatch the Bourbon lilies,—

Who heard the wailing infant's cry, The babe beneath the sheeliug, Whose song to-night in every sky Will shake earth's starry ceiling,—

Whose passion-breathing voice ascends And floats like incense o'er us, Whose ringing lay of friendship blends With labor's anvil chorus?

We love him, not for sweetest song, Though never tone so tender; We love him, even in his wrong,— His wasteful self-surrender.

We praise him, not for gifts divine,— His Muse was born of woman,— His manhood breathes in every line,— Was ever heart more human?

We love him, praise him, just for this In every form and feature, Through wealth and want, through woe and bliss, He saw his fellow-creature!

No soul could sink beneath his love,— Not even angel blasted; No mortal power could soar above The pride that all outlasted!

Ay! Heaven had set one living man Beyond the pedant's tether,— His virtues, frailties, HE may scan, Who weighs them all together!

I fling my pebble on the cairn Of him, though dead, undying; Sweet Nature's nursling, bonniest bairn Beneath her daisies lying.

The waning suns, the wasting globe, Shall spare the minstrel's story,— The centuries weave his purple robe, The mountain-mist of glory!



AT A MEETING OF FRIENDS

AUGUST 29, 1859

I REMEMBER—why, yes! God bless me! and was it so long ago? I fear I'm growing forgetful, as old folks do, you know; It must have been in 'forty—I would say 'thirty-nine— We talked this matter over, I and a friend of mine.

He said, "Well now, old fellow, I'm thinking that you and I, If we act like other people, shall be older by and by; What though the bright blue ocean is smooth as a pond can be, There is always a line of breakers to fringe the broadest sea.

"We're taking it mighty easy, but that is nothing strange, For up to the age of thirty we spend our years like Change; But creeping up towards the forties, as fast as the old years fill, And Time steps in for payment, we seem to change a bill."

"I know it," I said, "old fellow; you speak the solemn truth; A man can't live to a hundred and likewise keep his youth; But what if the ten years coming shall silver-streak my hair, You know I shall then be forty; of course I shall not care.

"At forty a man grows heavy and tired of fun and noise; Leaves dress to the five-and-twenties and love to the silly boys; No foppish tricks at forty, no pinching of waists and toes, But high-low shoes and flannels and good thick worsted hose."

But one fine August morning I found myself awake My birthday:—By Jove, I'm forty! Yes, forty, and no mistake! Why, this is the very milestone, I think I used to hold, That when a fellow had come to, a fellow would then be old!

But that is the young folks' nonsense; they're full of their foolish stuff; A man's in his prime at forty,—I see that plain enough; At fifty a man is wrinkled, and may be bald or gray; I call men old at fifty, in spite of all they say.

At last comes another August with mist and rain and shine; Its mornings are slowly counted and creep to twenty-nine, And when on the western summits the fading light appears, It touches with rosy fingers the last of my fifty years.

There have been both men and women whose hearts were firm and bold, But there never was one of fifty that loved to say "I'm old"; So any elderly person that strives to shirk his years, Make him stand up at a table and try him by his peers.

Now here I stand at fifty, my jury gathered round; Sprinkled with dust of silver, but not yet silver-crowned, Ready to meet your verdict, waiting to hear it told; Guilty of fifty summers; speak! Is the verdict old.

No! say that his hearing fails him; say that his sight grows dim; Say that he's getting wrinkled and weak in back and limb, Losing his wits and temper, but pleading, to make amends, The youth of his fifty summers he finds in his twenty friends.



FOR THE FAIR IN AID OF THE FUND TO PROCURE BALL'S STATUE OF WASHINGTON

1630

ALL overgrown with bush and fern, And straggling clumps of tangled trees, With trunks that lean and boughs that turn, Bent eastward by the mastering breeze,— With spongy bogs that drip and fill A yellow pond with muddy rain, Beneath the shaggy southern hill Lies wet and low the Shawinut plain. And hark! the trodden branches crack; A crow flaps off with startled scream; A straying woodchuck canters back; A bittern rises from the stream; Leaps from his lair a frightened deer; An otter plunges in the pool;— Here comes old Shawmut's pioneer, The parson on his brindled bull!

1774

The streets are thronged with trampling feet, The northern hill is ridged with graves, But night and morn the drum is beat To frighten down the "rebel knaves." The stones of King Street still are red, And yet the bloody red-coats come I hear their pacing sentry's tread, The click of steel, the tap of drum, And over all the open green, Where grazed of late the harmless kine, The cannon's deepening ruts are seen, The war-horse stamps, the bayonets shine. The clouds are dark with crimson rain Above the murderous hirelings' den, And soon their whistling showers shall stain The pipe-clayed belts of Gage's men.

186-

Around the green, in morning light, The spired and palaced summits blaze, And, sunlike, from her Beacon-height The dome-crowned city spreads her rays; They span the waves, they belt the plains, They skirt the roads with bands of white, Till with a flash of gilded panes Yon farthest hillside bounds the sight. Peace, Freedom, Wealth! no fairer view, Though with the wild-bird's restless wings We sailed beneath the noontide's blue Or chased the moonlight's endless rings! Here, fitly raised by grateful hands His holiest memory to recall, The Hero's, Patriot's image stands; He led our sires who won them all!

November 14, 1859.



THE OLD MAN OF THE SEA A NIGHTMARE DREAM BY DAYLIGHT

Do you know the Old Man of the Sea, of the Sea? Have you met with that dreadful old man? If you have n't been caught, you will be, you will be; For catch you he must and he can.

He does n't hold on by your throat, by your throat, As of old in the terrible tale; But he grapples you tight by the coat, by the coat, Till its buttons and button-holes fail.

There's the charm of a snake in his eye, in his eye, And a polypus-grip in his hands; You cannot go back, nor get by, nor get by, If you look at the spot where he stands.

Oh, you're grabbed! See his claw on your sleeve, on your sleeve! It is Sinbad's Old Man of the Sea! You're a Christian, no doubt you believe, you believe You're a martyr, whatever you be!

Is the breakfast-hour past? They must wait, they must wait, While the coffee boils sullenly down, While the Johnny-cake burns on the grate, on the grate, And the toast is done frightfully brown.

Yes, your dinner will keep; let it cool, let it cool, And Madam may worry and fret, And children half-starved go to school, go to school; He can't think of sparing you yet.

Hark! the bell for the train! "Come along! Come along! For there is n't a second to lose." "ALL ABOARD!" (He holds on.) "Fsht I ding-dong! Fsht! ding-dong!"— You can follow on foot, if you choose.

There's a maid with a cheek like a peach, like a peach, That is waiting for you in the church;— But he clings to your side like a leech, like a leech, And you leave your lost bride in the lurch.

There's a babe in a fit,—hurry quick! hurry quick! To the doctor's as fast as you can! The baby is off, while you stick, while you stick, In the grip of the dreadful Old Man!

I have looked on the face of the Bore, of the Bore; The voice of the Simple I know; I have welcomed the Flat at my door, at my door; I have sat by the side of the Slow;

I have walked like a lamb by the friend, by the friend, That stuck to my skirts like a bur; I have borne the stale talk without end, without end, Of the sitter whom nothing could stir.

But my hamstrings grow loose, and I shake, and I shake, At the sight of the dreadful Old Man; Yea, I quiver and quake, and I take, and I take, To my legs with what vigor I can!

Oh the dreadful Old Man of the Sea, of the Sea He's come back like the Wandering Jew! He has had his cold claw upon me, upon me,— And be sure that he 'll have it on you!



INTERNATIONAL ODE

OUR FATHERS' LAND

GOD bless our Fathers' Land! Keep her in heart and hand One with our own! From all her foes defend, Be her brave People's Friend, On all her realms descend, Protect her Throne!

Father, with loving care Guard Thou her kingdom's Heir, Guide all his ways Thine arm his shelter be, From him by land and sea Bid storm and danger flee, Prolong his days!

Lord, let War's tempest cease, Fold the whole Earth in peace Under thy wings Make all thy nations one, All hearts beneath the sun, Till Thou shalt reign alone, Great King of kings!



A SENTIMENT OFFERED AT THE DINNER TO H. I. H. THE PRINCE NAPOLEON, AT THE REVERE HOUSE, SEPTEMBER 25,1861

THE land of sunshine and of song! Her name your hearts divine; To her the banquet's vows belong Whose breasts have poured its wine; Our trusty friend, our true ally Through varied change and chance So, fill your flashing goblets high,— I give you, VIVE LA FRANCE!

Above our hosts in triple folds The selfsame colors spread, Where Valor's faithful arm upholds The blue, the white, the red; Alike each nation's glittering crest Reflects the morning's glance,— Twin eagles, soaring east and west Once more, then, VIVE LA FRANCE!

Sister in trial! who shall count Thy generous friendship's claim, Whose blood ran mingling in the fount That gave our land its name, Till Yorktown saw in blended line Our conquering arms advance, And victory's double garlands twine Our banners? VIVE LA FRANCE!

O land of heroes! in our need One gift from Heaven we crave To stanch these wounds that vainly bleed,— The wise to lead the brave! Call back one Captain of thy past From glory's marble trance, Whose name shall be a bugle-blast To rouse us! VIVE LA FRANCE!

Pluck Conde's baton from the trench, Wake up stout Charles Martel, Or find some woman's hand to clench The sword of La Pucelle! Give us one hour of old Turenne,— One lift of Bayard's lance,— Nay, call Marengo's Chief again To lead us! VIVE LA FRANCE!

Ah, hush! our welcome Guest shall hear But sounds of peace and joy; No angry echo vex thine ear, Fair Daughter of Savoy Once more! the land of arms and arts, Of glory, grace, romance; Her love lies warm in all our hearts God bless her! VIVE LA FRANCE!



BROTHER JONATHAN'S LAMENT FOR SISTER CAROLINE

SHE has gone,—she has left us in passion and pride,— Our stormy-browed sister, so long at our side! She has torn her own star from our firmament's glow, And turned on her brother the face of a foe!

Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, We can never forget that our hearts have been one,— Our foreheads both sprinkled in Liberty's name, From the fountain of blood with the finger of flame!

You were always too ready to fire at a touch; But we said, "She is hasty,—she does not mean much." We have scowled, when you uttered some turbulent threat; But Friendship still whispered, "Forgive and forget!"

Has our love all died out? Have its altars grown cold? Has the curse come at last which the fathers foretold? Then Nature must teach us the strength of the chain That her petulant children would sever in vain.

They may fight till the buzzards are gorged with their spoil, Till the harvest grows black as it rots in the soil, Till the wolves and the catamounts troop from their eaves, And the shark tracks the pirate, the lord of the waves:

In vain is the strife! When its fury is past, Their fortunes must flow in one channel at last, As the torrents that rush from the mountains of snow Roll mingled in peace through the valleys below.

Our Union is river, lake, ocean, and sky Man breaks not the medal, when God cuts the die! Though darkened with sulphur, though cloven with steel, The blue arch will brighten, the waters will heal!

Oh, Caroline, Caroline, child of the sun, There are battles with Fate that can never be won! The star-flowering banner must never be furled, For its blossoms of light are the hope of the world!

Go, then, our rash sister! afar and aloof, Run wild in the sunshine away from our roof; But when your heart aches and your feet have grown sore, Remember the pathway that leads to our door!

March 25, 1861.



NOTES: (For original print volume one)

[There stand the Goblet and the Sun.] The Goblet and the Sun (Vas-Sol), sculptured on a free-stone slab supported by five pillars, are the only designation of the family tomb of the Vassalls.

[Thus mocked the spoilers with his school-boy scorn.] See "Old Ironsides," of this volume.

[On other shores, above their mouldering towns.] Daniel Webster quoted several of the verses which follow, in his address at the laying of the corner-stone of the addition to the Capitol at Washington, July 4, 1851.

[Thou calm, chaste scholar.] Charles Chauncy Emerson; died May 9, 1836.

[And thou, dear friend, whom Science still deplores.] James Jackson, Jr., M. D.; died March 28, 1834.

[THE STEAMBOAT.] Mr. Emerson has quoted some lines from this poem, but somewhat disguised as he recalled them. It is never safe to quote poetry without referring to the original.

[Hark! The sweet bells renew their welcome sound.] The churches referred to in the lines which follow are,— 1. King's Chapel, the foundation of which was laid by Governor Shirley in 1749. 2. Brattle Street Church, consecrated in 1773. The completion of this edifice, the design of which included a spire, was prevented by the troubles of the Revolution, and its plain, square tower presented nothing more attractive than a massive simplicity. In the front of this tower, till the church was demolished in 1872, there was to be seen, half imbedded in the brick-work, a cannon-ball, which was thrown from the American fortifications at Cambridge, during the bombard-ment of the city, then occupied by the British troops. 3. The Old South, first occupied for public worship in 1730. 4. Park Street Church, built in 1809, the tall white steeple of which is the most conspicuous of all the Boston spires. 5. Christ Church, opened for public worship in 1723, and containing a set of eight bells, long the only chime in Boston.

[INTERNATIONAL ODE.] This ode was sung in unison by twelve hundred children of the public schools, to the air of "God save the Queen," at the visit of the Prince of Wales to Boston, October 18, 1860.



THE POETICAL WORKS

OF

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

[Volume 2 or the 1893 three volume set]

CONTENTS:

POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29 (1851-1889) BILL AND JOE A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE" QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS AN IMPROMPTU THE OLD MAN DREAMS REMEMBER—FORGET OUR INDIAN SUMMER MARE RUBRUM THE Boys LINES A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH J. D. R. VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION "CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE" F. W. C. THE LAST CHARGE OUR OLDEST FRIEND SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH MY ANNUAL ALL HERE ONCE MORE THE OLD CRUISER HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING EVEN-SONG THE SMILING LISTENER OUR SWEET SINGER: J. A. H. C. M., H. S., J. K. W. WHAT I HAVE COME FOR OUR BANKER FOR CLASS-MEETING "AD AMICOS" HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT THE LAST SURVIVOR THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS THE SHADOWS BENJAMIN PEIRCE IN THE TWILIGHT A LOVING-CUP SONG THE GIRDLE OF FRIENDSHIP THE LYRE OF ANACREON THE OLD TUNE THE BROKEN CIRCLE THE ANGEL-THIEF AFTER THE CURFEW

POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1857-1858) THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS SUN AND SHADOW MUSA A PARTING HEALTH: To J. L. MOTLEY WHAT WE ALL THINK SPRING HAS COME PROLOGUE LATTER-DAY WARNINGS ALBUM VERSES A GOOD TIME GOING! THE LAST BLOSSOM CONTENTMENT AESTIVATION THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE; OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSE SHAY" PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY; OR, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING, WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER

POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1858-1859) UNDER THE VIOLETS HYMN OF TRUST A SUN-DAY HYMN THE CROOKED FOOTPATH IRIS, HER BOOK ROBINSON OF LEYDEN ST ANTHONY THE REFORMER THE OPENING OF THE PIANO MIDSUMMER DE SAUTY

POEMS FROM THE POET AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE (1871-1872) HOMESICK IN HEAVEN FANTASIA AUNT TABITHA WIND-CLOUDS AND STAR-DRIFTS EPILOGUE TO THE BREAKFAST-TABLE SERIES

SONGS OF MANY SEASONS (1862-1874) OPENING THE WINDOW PROGRAMME

IN THE QUIET DAYS AN OLD-YEAR SONG DOROTHY Q: A FAMILY PORTRAIT THE ORGAN-BLOWER AT THE PANTOMIME AFTER THE FIRE A BALLAD OF THE BOSTON TEA-PARTY NEARING THE SNOW-LINE

IN WAR TIME TO CANAAN: A PURITAN WAR-SONG "THUS SAITH THE LORD, I OFFER THEE THREE THINGS" NEVER OR NOW ONE COUNTRY GOD SAVE THE FLAG! HYMN AFTER THE EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION HYMN FOR THE FAIR AT CHICAGO UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE FREEDOM, OUR QUEEN ARMY HYMN PARTING HYMN THE FLOWER OF LIBERTY THE SWEET LITTLE MAN UNION AND LIBERTY

SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL AMERICA TO RUSSIA WELCOME TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS AT THE BANQUET TO THE GRAND DUKE ALEXIS AT THE BANQUET TO THE CHINESE EMBASSY AT THE BANQUET TO THE JAPANESE EMBASSY BRYANT'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY A FAREWELL TO AGASSIZ AT A DINNER TO ADMIRAL FARRAGUT AT A DINNER TO GENERAL GRANT To H W LONGFELLOW To CHRISTIAN GOTTFRIED EHRENBERG A TOAST TO WILKIE COLLINS

MEMORIAL VERSES FOR THE SERVICES IN MEMORY OF ABRAHAM LINCOLN, BOSTON, 1865 FOR THE COMMEMORATION SERVICES, CAMBRIDGE JULY 21, 1865 EDWARD EVERETT: JANUARY 30, 1865 SHAKESPEARE TERCENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, APRIL 23, 1864 IN MEMORY OF JOHN AND ROBERT WARE, MAY 25, 1864 HUMBOLDT'S BIRTHDAY: CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION, SEPTEMBER 14, 1869 POEM AT THE DEDICATION OF THE HALLECK MONUMENT, JULY 8, 1869 HYMN FOR THE CELEBRATION AT THE LAYING OF THE CORNER-STONE OF HARVARD MEMORIAL HALL, CAMBRIDGE, OCTOBER 6, 1870 HYMN FOR THE DEDICATION OF MEMORIAL HALL AT CAMBRIDGE, 1874 HYMN AT THE FUNERAL SERVICES OF CHARLES SUMNER, APRIL 29, 1874

RHYMES OF AN HOUR ADDRESS FOR THE OPENING OF THE FIFTH AVENUE THEATRE, N. Y. 1873 A SEA DIALOGUE CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER, PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, 1873 A POEM SERVED TO ORDER THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH No TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME A HYMN OF PEACE, TO THE MUSIC OF KELLER'S "AMERICAN HYMN"

NOTES



POEMS OF THE CLASS OF '29

1851-1889

BILL AND JOE

COME, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by, The shining days when life was new, And all was bright with morning dew, The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail, And mine as brief appendix wear As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare; To-day, old friend, remember still That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You've won the great world's envied prize, And grand you look in people's eyes, With H O N. and L L. D. In big brave letters, fair to see,— Your fist, old fellow! off they go!— How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?

You've worn the judge's ermined robe; You 've taught your name to half the globe; You've sung mankind a deathless strain; You've made the dead past live again The world may call you what it will, But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say "See those old buffers, bent and gray,— They talk like fellows in their teens! Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means,"— And shake their heads; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe!—

How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,— Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.

Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame? A fitful tongue of leaping flame; A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust; A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?

The weary idol takes his stand, Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go,— How vain it seems, this empty show! Till all at once his pulses thrill;— 'T is poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!"

And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears; In some sweet lull of harp and song For earth-born spirits none too long, Just whispering of the world below Where this was Bill and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here No sounding name is half so dear; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say? Read on the hearts that love us still, Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.



A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE"

1851

THE summer dawn is breaking On Auburn's tangled bowers, The golden light is waking On Harvard's ancient towers; The sun is in the sky That must see us do or die, Ere it shine on the line Of the CLASS OF '29.

At last the day is ended, The tutor screws no more, By doubt and fear attended Each hovers round the door, Till the good old Praeses cries, While the tears stand in his eyes, "You have passed, and are classed With the Boys of '29."

Not long are they in making The college halls their own, Instead of standing shaking, Too bashful to be known; But they kick the Seniors' shins Ere the second week begins, When they stray in the way Of the BOYS OF '29.

If a jolly set is trolling The last Der Freischutz airs, Or a "cannon bullet" rolling Comes bouncing down the stairs, The tutors, looking out, Sigh, "Alas! there is no doubt, 'T is the noise of the Boys Of the CLASS OF '29."

Four happy years together, By storm and sunshine tried, In changing wind and weather, They rough it side by side, Till they hear their Mother cry, "You are fledged, and you must fly," And the bell tolls the knell Of the days of '29.

Since then, in peace or trouble, Full many a year has rolled, And life has counted double The days that then we told; Yet we'll end as we've begun, For though scattered, we are one, While each year sees us here, Round the board of '29.

Though fate may throw between us The mountains or the sea, No time shall ever wean us, No distance set us free; But around the yearly board, When the flaming pledge is poured, It shall claim every name On the roll of '29.

To yonder peaceful ocean That glows with sunset fires, Shall reach the warm emotion This welcome day inspires, Beyond the ridges cold Where a brother toils for gold, Till it shine through the mine Round the Boy of '29.

If one whom fate has broken Shall lift a moistened eye, We'll say, before he 's spoken— "Old Classmate, don't you cry! Here, take the purse I hold, There 's a tear upon the gold— It was mine-it is thine— A'n't we BOYS OF '29?"

As nearer still and nearer The fatal stars appear, The living shall be dearer With each encircling year, Till a few old men shall say, "We remember 't is the day— Let it pass with a glass For the CLASS OF '29."

As one by one is falling Beneath the leaves or snows, Each memory still recalling, The broken ring shall close, Till the nightwinds softly pass O'er the green and growing grass, Where it waves on the graves Of the BOYS OF '29!



QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS

1852

WHERE, oh where are the visions of morning, Fresh as the dews of our prime? Gone, like tenants that quit without warning, Down the back entry of time.

Where, oh where are life's lilies and roses, Nursed in the golden dawn's smile? Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, On the old banks of the Nile.

Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, Loving and lovely of yore? Look in the columns of old Advertisers,— Married and dead by the score.

Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies, Saturday's triumph and joy? Gone, like our friend (—Greek—) Achilles, Homer's ferocious old boy.

Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion, Hopes like young eagles at play, Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion, How ye have faded away!

Yet, through the ebbing of Time's mighty river Leave our young blossoms to die, Let him roll smooth in his current forever, Till the last pebble is dry.



AN IMPROMPTU

Not premeditated

1853

THE clock has struck noon; ere it thrice tell the hours We shall meet round the table that blushes with flowers, And I shall blush deeper with shame-driven blood That I came to the banquet and brought not a bud.

Who cares that his verse is a beggar in art If you see through its rags the full throb of his heart? Who asks if his comrade is battered and tanned When he feels his warm soul in the clasp of his hand?

No! be it an epic, or be it a line, The Boys will all love it because it is mine; I sung their last song on the morn of the day That tore from their lives the last blossom of May.

It is not the sunset that glows in the wine, But the smile that beams over it, makes it divine; I scatter these drops, and behold, as they fall, The day-star of memory shines through them all!

And these are the last; they are drops that I stole From a wine-press that crushes the life from the soul, But they ran through my heart and they sprang to my brain Till our twentieth sweet summer was smiling again!



THE OLD MAN DREAMS

1854

OH for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring! I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, Than reign, a gray-beard king.

Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! Away with Learning's crown! Tear out life's Wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame.

My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track, To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day?"

"Ah, truest soul of womankind! Without thee what were life? One bliss I cannot leave behind: I'll take—my—precious—wife!"

The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, The man would be a boy again, And be a husband too!

"And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years."

"Why, yes;" for memory would recall My fond paternal joys; "I could not bear to leave them all I'll take—my—girl—and—boys."

The smiling angel dropped his pen,— "Why, this will never do; The man would be a boy again, And be a father too!"

And so I laughed,—my laughter woke The household with its noise,— And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys.



REMEMBER—FORGET

1855

AND what shall be the song to-night, If song there needs must be? If every year that brings us here Must steal an hour from me? Say, shall it ring a merry peal, Or heave a mourning sigh O'er shadows cast, by years long past, On moments flitting by?

Nay, take the first unbidden line The idle hour may send, No studied grace can mend the face That smiles as friend on friend; The balsam oozes from the pine, The sweetness from the rose, And so, unsought, a kindly thought Finds language as it flows.

The years rush by in sounding flight, I hear their ceaseless wings; Their songs I hear, some far, some near, And thus the burden rings "The morn has fled, the noon has past, The sun will soon be set, The twilight fade to midnight shade; Remember-and Forget!"

Remember all that time has brought— The starry hope on high, The strength attained, the courage gained, The love that cannot die. Forget the bitter, brooding thought,— The word too harshly said, The living blame love hates to name, The frailties of the dead!

We have been younger, so they say, But let the seasons roll, He doth not lack an almanac Whose youth is in his soul. The snows may clog life's iron track, But does the axle tire, While bearing swift through bank and drift The engine's heart of fire?

I lift a goblet in my hand; If good old wine it hold, An ancient skin to keep it in Is just the thing, we 're told. We 're grayer than the dusty flask,— We 're older than our wine; Our corks reveal the "white top" seal, The stamp of '29.

Ah, Boys! we clustered in the dawn, To sever in the dark; A merry crew, with loud halloo, We climbed our painted bark; We sailed her through the four years' cruise, We 'll sail her to the last, Our dear old flag, though but a rag, Still flying on her mast.

So gliding on, each winter's gale Shall pipe us all on deck, Till, faint and few, the gathering crew Creep o'er the parting wreck, Her sails and streamers spread aloft To fortune's rain or shine, Till storm or sun shall all be one, And down goes TWENTY-NINE!



OUR INDIAN SUMMER

1856

You 'll believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise, With a welcome like this in your darling old eyes; To meet the same smiles and to hear the same tone Which have greeted me oft in the years that have flown.

Were I gray as the grayest old rat in the wall, My locks would turn brown at the sight of you all; If my heart were as dry as the shell on the sand, It would fill like the goblet I hold in my hand.

There are noontides of autumn when summer returns. Though the leaves are all garnered and sealed in their urns, And the bird on his perch, that was silent so long, Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks into song.

We have caged the young birds of our beautiful June; Their plumes are still bright and their voices in tune; One moment of sunshine from faces like these And they sing as they sung in the green-growing trees.

The voices of morning! how sweet is their thrill When the shadows have turned, and the evening grows still! The text of our lives may get wiser with age, But the print was so fair on its twentieth page!

Look off from your goblet and up from your plate, Come, take the last journal, and glance at its date: Then think what we fellows should say and should do, If the 6 were a 9 and the 5 were a 2.

Ah, no! for the shapes that would meet with as here, From the far land of shadows, are ever too dear! Though youth flung around us its pride and its charms, We should see but the comrades we clasped in our arms.

A health to our future—a sigh for our past, We love, we remember, we hope to the last; And for all the base lies that the almanacs hold, While we've youth in our hearts we can never grow old!



MARE RUBRUM

1858

FLASH out a stream of blood-red wine, For I would drink to other days, And brighter shall their memory shine, Seen flaming through its crimson blaze! The roses die, the summers fade, But every ghost of boyhood's dream By nature's magic power is laid To sleep beneath this blood-red stream!

It filled the purple grapes that lay, And drank the splendors of the sun, Where the long summer's cloudless day Is mirrored in the broad Garonne; It pictures still the bacchant shapes That saw their hoarded sunlight shed,— The maidens dancing on the grapes,— Their milk-white ankles splashed with red.

Beneath these waves of crimson lie, In rosy fetters prisoned fast, Those flitting shapes that never die,— The swift-winged visions of the past. Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim, Each shadow rends its flowery chain, Springs in a bubble from its brim, And walks the chambers of the brain.

Poor beauty! Time and fortune's wrong No shape nor feature may withstand; Thy wrecks are scattered all along, Like emptied sea-shells on the sand; Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain, The dust restores each blooming girl, As if the sea-shells moved again Their glistening lips of pink and pearl.

Here lies the home of school-boy life, With creaking stair and wind-swept hall, And, scarred by many a truant knife, Our old initials on the wall; Here rest, their keen vibrations mute, The shout of voices known so well, The ringing laugh, the wailing flute, The chiding of the sharp-tongued bell.

Here, clad in burning robes, are laid Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed, And here those cherished forms have strayed We miss awhile, and call them dead. What wizard fills the wondrous glass? What soil the enchanted clusters grew? That buried passions wake and pass In beaded drops of fiery dew?

Nay, take the cup of blood-red wine,— Our hearts can boast a warmer glow, Filled from a vintage more divine, Calmed, but not chilled, by winter's snow! To-night the palest wave we sip Rich as the priceless draught shall be That wet the bride of Cana's lip,— The wedding wine of Galilee!



THE BOYS

1859

HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys? If there has, take him out, without making a noise. Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night!

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more? He's tipsy,—young jackanapes!—show him the door! "Gray temples at twenty?"—Yes! white if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake! Look close,—you will see not a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed,— And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old:— That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;" It 's a neat little fiction,—of course it 's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker,"—the one on the right; "Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night? That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend" What's his name?—don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was true! So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,— Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,— Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!"

You hear that boy laughing?—You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all!

Yes, we 're boys,—always playing with tongue or with pen,— And I sometimes have asked,—Shall we ever be men? Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS!



LINES

1860

I 'm ashamed,—that 's the fact,—it 's a pitiful case,— Won't any kind classmate get up in my place? Just remember how often I've risen before,— I blush as I straighten my legs on the floor!

There are stories, once pleasing, too many times told,— There are beauties once charming, too fearfully old,— There are voices we've heard till we know them so well, Though they talked for an hour they'd have nothing to tell.

Yet, Classmates! Friends! Brothers! Dear blessed old boys! Made one by a lifetime of sorrows and joys, What lips have such sounds as the poorest of these, Though honeyed, like Plato's, by musical bees?

What voice is so sweet and what greeting so dear As the simple, warm welcome that waits for us here? The love of our boyhood still breathes in its tone, And our hearts throb the answer, "He's one of our own!"

Nay! count not our numbers; some sixty we know, But these are above, and those under the snow; And thoughts are still mingled wherever we meet For those we remember with those that we greet.

We have rolled on life's journey,—how fast and how far! One round of humanity's many-wheeled car, But up-hill and down-hill, through rattle and rub, Old, true Twenty-niners! we've stuck to our hub!

While a brain lives to think, or a bosom to feel, We will cling to it still like the spokes of a wheel! And age, as it chills us, shall fasten the tire That youth fitted round in his circle of fire!



A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH

1861

JANUARY THIRD

WE sing "Our Country's" song to-night With saddened voice and eye; Her banner droops in clouded light Beneath the wintry sky. We'll pledge her once in golden wine Before her stars have set Though dim one reddening orb may shine, We have a Country yet.

'T were vain to sigh o'er errors past, The fault of sires or sons; Our soldier heard the threatening blast, And spiked his useless guns; He saw the star-wreathed ensign fall, By mad invaders torn; But saw it from the bastioned wall That laughed their rage to scorn!

What though their angry cry is flung Across the howling wave,— They smite the air with idle tongue The gathering storm who brave; Enough of speech! the trumpet rings; Be silent, patient, calm,— God help them if the tempest swings The pine against the palm!

Our toilsome years have made us tame; Our strength has slept unfelt; The furnace-fire is slow to flame That bids our ploughshares melt; 'T is hard to lose the bread they win In spite of Nature's frowns,— To drop the iron threads we spin That weave our web of towns,

To see the rusting turbines stand Before the emptied flumes, To fold the arms that flood the land With rivers from their looms,— But harder still for those who learn The truth forgot so long; When once their slumbering passions burn, The peaceful are the strong!

The Lord have mercy on the weak, And calm their frenzied ire, And save our brothers ere they shriek, "We played with Northern fire!" The eagle hold his mountain height,— The tiger pace his den Give all their country, each his right! God keep us all! Amen!



J. D. R.

1862

THE friends that are, and friends that were, What shallow waves divide! I miss the form for many a year Still seated at my side.

I miss him, yet I feel him still Amidst our faithful band, As if not death itself could chill The warmth of friendship's hand.

His story other lips may tell,— For me the veil is drawn; I only knew he loved me well, He loved me—and is gone!



VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION

1862

'T is midnight: through my troubled dream Loud wails the tempest's cry; Before the gale, with tattered sail, A ship goes plunging by. What name? Where bound?—The rocks around Repeat the loud halloo. —The good ship Union, Southward bound: God help her and her crew!

And is the old flag flying still That o'er your fathers flew, With bands of white and rosy light, And field of starry blue? —Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft Have braved the roaring blast, And still shall fly when from the sky This black typhoon has past!

Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark! May I thy peril share? —O landsman, there are fearful seas The brave alone may dare! —Nay, ruler of the rebel deep, What matters wind or wave? The rocks that wreck your reeling deck Will leave me naught to save!

O landsman, art thou false or true? What sign hast thou to show? —The crimson stains from loyal veins That hold my heart-blood's flow —Enough! what more shall honor claim? I know the sacred sign; Above thy head our flag shall spread, Our ocean path be thine!

The bark sails on; the Pilgrim's Cape Lies low along her lee, Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes To lock the shore and sea. No treason here! it cost too dear To win this barren realm And true and free the hands must be That hold the whaler's helm!

Still on! Manhattan's narrowing bay No rebel cruiser scars; Her waters feel no pirate's keel That flaunts the fallen stars! —But watch the light on yonder height,— Ay, pilot, have a care! Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud The capes of Delaware!

Say, pilot, what this fort may be, Whose sentinels look down From moated walls that show the sea Their deep embrasures' frown? The Rebel host claims all the coast, But these are friends, we know, Whose footprints spoil the "sacred soil," And this is?—Fort Monroe!

The breakers roar,—how bears the shore? —The traitorous wreckers' hands Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays Along the Hatteras sands. —Ha! say not so! I see its glow! Again the shoals display The beacon light that shines by night, The Union Stars by day!

The good ship flies to milder skies, The wave more gently flows, The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas The breath of Beaufort's rose. What fold is this the sweet winds kiss, Fair-striped and many-starred, Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls, The twins of Beauregard?

What! heard you not Port Royal's doom? How the black war-ships came And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom To redder wreaths of flame? How from Rebellion's broken reed We saw his emblem fall, As soon his cursed poison-weed Shall drop from Sumter's wall?

On! on! Pulaski's iron hail Falls harmless on Tybee! The good ship feels the freshening gales, She strikes the open sea; She rounds the point, she threads the keys That guard the Land of Flowers, And rides at last where firm and fast Her own Gibraltar towers!

The good ship Union's voyage is o'er, At anchor safe she swings, And loud and clear with cheer on cheer Her joyous welcome rings: Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave, It thunders on the shore,— One flag, one land, one heart, one hand, One Nation, evermore!



"CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE"

1863

YES, tyrants, you hate us, and fear while you hate The self-ruling, chain-breaking, throne-shaking State! The night-birds dread morning,—your instinct is true,— The day-star of Freedom brings midnight for you!

Why plead with the deaf for the cause of mankind? The owl hoots at noon that the eagle is blind! We ask not your reasons,—'t were wasting our time,— Our life is a menace, our welfare a crime!

We have battles to fight, we have foes to subdue,— Time waits not for us, and we wait not for you! The mower mows on, though the adder may writhe And the copper-head coil round the blade of his scythe!

"No sides in this quarrel," your statesmen may urge, Of school-house and wages with slave-pen scourge!— No sides in the quarrel! proclaim it as well To the angels that fight with the legions of hell!

They kneel in God's temple, the North and the South, With blood on each weapon and prayers in each mouth. Whose cry shall be answered? Ye Heavens, attend The lords of the lash as their voices ascend!

"O Lord, we are shaped in the image of Thee,— Smite down the base millions that claim to be free, And lend thy strong arm to the soft-handed race Who eat not their bread in the sweat of their face!"

So pleads the proud planter. What echoes are these? The bay of his bloodhound is borne on the breeze, And, lost in the shriek of his victim's despair, His voice dies unheard.—Hear the Puritan's prayer!

"O Lord, that didst smother mankind in thy flood, The sun is as sackcloth, the moon is as blood, The stars fall to earth as untimely are cast The figs from the fig-tree that shakes in the blast!

"All nations, all tribes in whose nostrils is breath Stand gazing at Sin as she travails with Death! Lord, strangle the monster that struggles to birth, Or mock us no more with thy 'Kingdom on Earth!'

"If Ammon and Moab must reign in the land Thou gavest thine Israel, fresh from thy hand, Call Baal and Ashtaroth out of their graves To be the new gods for the empire of slaves!"

Whose God will ye serve, O ye rulers of men? Will ye build you new shrines in the slave-breeder's den? Or bow with the children of light, as they call On the Judge of the Earth and the Father of All?

Choose wisely, choose quickly, for time moves apace,— Each day is an age in the life of our race! Lord, lead them in love, ere they hasten in fear From the fast-rising flood that shall girdle the sphere!



F. W. C.

1864

FAST as the rolling seasons bring The hour of fate to those we love, Each pearl that leaves the broken string Is set in Friendship's crown above. As narrower grows the earthly chain, The circle widens in the sky; These are our treasures that remain, But those are stars that beam on high.

We miss—oh, how we miss!—his face,— With trembling accents speak his name. Earth cannot fill his shadowed place From all her rolls of pride and fame; Our song has lost the silvery thread That carolled through his jocund lips; Our laugh is mute, our smile is fled, And all our sunshine in eclipse.

And what and whence the wondrous charm That kept his manhood boylike still,— That life's hard censors could disarm And lead them captive at his will? His heart was shaped of rosier clay,— His veins were filled with ruddier fire,— Time could not chill him, fortune sway, Nor toil with all its burdens tire.

His speech burst throbbing from its fount And set our colder thoughts aglow, As the hot leaping geysers mount And falling melt the Iceland snow. Some word, perchance, we counted rash,— Some phrase our calmness might disclaim, Yet 't was the sunset's lightning's flash, No angry bolt, but harmless flame.

Man judges all, God knoweth each; We read the rule, He sees the law; How oft his laughing children teach The truths his prophets never saw O friend, whose wisdom flowered in mirth, Our hearts are sad, our eyes are dim; He gave thy smiles to brighten earth,— We trust thy joyous soul to Him!

Alas!—our weakness Heaven forgive! We murmur, even while we trust, "How long earth's breathing burdens live, Whose hearts, before they die, are dust!" But thou!—through grief's untimely tears We ask with half-reproachful sigh— "Couldst thou not watch a few brief years Till Friendship faltered, 'Thou mayst die'?"

Who loved our boyish years so well? Who knew so well their pleasant tales, And all those livelier freaks could tell Whose oft-told story never fails? In vain we turn our aching eyes,— In vain we stretch our eager hands,— Cold in his wintry shroud he lies Beneath the dreary drifting sands!

Ah, speak not thus! He lies not there! We see him, hear him as of old! He comes! He claims his wonted chair; His beaming face we still behold! His voice rings clear in all our songs, And loud his mirthful accents rise; To us our brother's life belongs,— Dear friends, a classmate never dies!



THE LAST CHARGE

1864

Now, men of the North! will you join in the strife For country, for freedom, for honor, for life? The giant grows blind in his fury and spite,— One blow on his forehead will settle the fight!

Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel, And stun him with cannon-bolts, peal upon peal! Mount, troopers, and follow your game to its lair, As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare!

Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake! Beat, drums, till the roofs of the faint-hearted shake! Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on the scroll, Their names may be traced on the blood-sprinkled roll!

Trust not the false herald that painted your shield True honor to-day must be sought on the field! Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon of red,— The life-drops of crimson for liberty shed.

The hour is at hand, and the moment draws nigh; The dog-star of treason grows dim in the sky; Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light of the morn, Call back the bright hour when the Nation was born!

The rivers of peace through our valleys shall run, As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the sun; Smite, smite the proud parricide down from his throne,— His sceptre once broken, the world is our own!



OUR OLDEST FRIEND

1865

I GIVE you the health of the oldest friend That, short of eternity, earth can lend,— A friend so faithful and tried and true That nothing can wean him from me and you.

When first we screeched in the sudden blaze Of the daylight's blinding and blasting rays, And gulped at the gaseous, groggy air, This old, old friend stood waiting there.

And when, with a kind of mortal strife, We had gasped and choked into breathing life, He watched by the cradle, day and night, And held our hands till we stood upright.

From gristle and pulp our frames have grown To stringy muscle and solid bone; While we were changing, he altered not; We might forget, but he never forgot.

He came with us to the college class,— Little cared he for the steward's pass! All the rest must pay their fee, Put the grim old dead-head entered free.

He stayed with us while we counted o'er Four times each of the seasons four; And with every season, from year to year, The dear name Classmate he made more dear.

He never leaves us,—he never will, Till our hands are cold and our hearts are still; On birthdays, and Christmas, and New-Year's too, He always remembers both me and you.

Every year this faithful friend His little present is sure to send; Every year, wheresoe'er we be, He wants a keepsake from you and me.

How he loves us! he pats our heads, And, lo! they are gleaming with silver threads; And he 's always begging one lock of hair, Till our shining crowns have nothing to wear.

At length he will tell us, one by one, "My child, your labor on earth is done; And now you must journey afar to see My elder brother,—Eternity!"

And so, when long, long years have passed, Some dear old fellow will be the last,— Never a boy alive but he Of all our goodly company!

When he lies down, but not till then, Our kind Class-Angel will drop the pen That writes in the day-book kept above Our lifelong record of faith and love.

So here's a health in homely rhyme To our oldest classmate, Father Time! May our last survivor live to be As bald and as wise and as tough as he!



SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH

A HALF-RHYMED IMPROMPTU

1865

LIKE the tribes of Israel, Fed on quails and manna, Sherman and his glorious band Journeyed through the rebel land, Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand, Marching on Savannah!

As the moving pillar shone, Streamed the starry banner All day long in rosy light, Flaming splendor all the night, Till it swooped in eagle flight Down on doomed Savannah!

Glory be to God on high! Shout the loud Hosanna! Treason's wilderness is past, Canaan's shore is won at last, Peal a nation's trumpet-blast,— Sherman 's in Savannah!

Soon shall Richmond's tough old hide Find a tough old tanner! Soon from every rebel wall Shall the rag of treason fall, Till our banner flaps o'er all As it crowns Savannah!



MY ANNUAL

1866

How long will this harp which you once loved to hear Cheat your lips of a smile or your eyes of a tear? How long stir the echoes it wakened of old, While its strings were unbroken, untarnished its gold?

Dear friends of my boyhood, my words do you wrong; The heart, the heart only, shall throb in my song; It reads the kind answer that looks from your eyes,— "We will bid our old harper play on till he dies."

Though Youth, the fair angel that looked o'er the strings, Has lost the bright glory that gleamed on his wings, Though the freshness of morning has passed from its tone It is still the old harp that was always your own.

I claim not its music,—each note it affords I strike from your heart-strings, that lend me its chords; I know you will listen and love to the last, For it trembles and thrills with the voice of your past.

Ah, brothers! dear brothers! the harp that I hold No craftsman could string and no artisan mould; He shaped it, He strung it, who fashioned the lyres That ring with the hymns of the seraphim choirs.

Not mine are the visions of beauty it brings, Not mine the faint fragrance around it that clings; Those shapes are the phantoms of years that are fled, Those sweets breathe from roses your summers have shed.

Each hour of the past lends its tribute to this, Till it blooms like a bower in the Garden of Bliss; The thorn and the thistle may grow as they will, Where Friendship unfolds there is Paradise still.

The bird wanders careless while summer is green, The leaf-hidden cradle that rocked him unseen; When Autumn's rude fingers the woods have undressed, The boughs may look bare, but they show him his nest.

Too precious these moments! the lustre they fling Is the light of our year, is the gem of its ring, So brimming with sunshine, we almost forget The rays it has lost, and its border of jet.

While round us the many-hued halo is shed, How dear are the living, how near are the dead! One circle, scarce broken, these waiting below, Those walking the shores where the asphodels blow!

Not life shall enlarge it nor death shall divide,— No brother new-born finds his place at my side; No titles shall freeze us, no grandeurs infest, His Honor, His Worship, are boys like the rest.

Some won the world's homage, their names we hold dear,— But Friendship, not Fame, is the countersign here; Make room by the conqueror crowned in the strife For the comrade that limps from the battle of life!

What tongue talks of battle? Too long we have heard In sorrow, in anguish, that terrible word; It reddened the sunshine, it crimsoned the wave, It sprinkled our doors with the blood of our brave.

Peace, Peace comes at last, with her garland of white; Peace broods in all hearts as we gather to-night; The blazon of Union spreads full in the sun; We echo its words,—We are one! We are one!



ALL HERE

1867

IT is not what we say or sing, That keeps our charm so long unbroken, Though every lightest leaf we bring May touch the heart as friendship's token; Not what we sing or what we say Can make us dearer to each other; We love the singer and his lay, But love as well the silent brother.

Yet bring whate'er your garden grows, Thrice welcome to our smiles and praises; Thanks for the myrtle and the rose, Thanks for the marigolds and daisies; One flower erelong we all shall claim, Alas! unloved of Amaryllis— Nature's last blossom-need I name The wreath of threescore's silver lilies?

How many, brothers, meet to-night Around our boyhood's covered embers? Go read the treasured names aright The old triennial list remembers; Though twenty wear the starry sign That tells a life has broke its tether, The fifty-eight of 'twenty-nine— God bless THE Boys!—are all together!

These come with joyous look and word, With friendly grasp and cheerful greeting,— Those smile unseen, and move unheard, The angel guests of every meeting; They cast no shadow in the flame That flushes from the gilded lustre, But count us—we are still the same; One earthly band, one heavenly cluster!

Love dies not when he bows his head To pass beyond the narrow portals,— The light these glowing moments shed Wakes from their sleep our lost immortals; They come as in their joyous prime, Before their morning days were numbered,— Death stays the envious hand of Time,— The eyes have not grown dim that slumbered!

The paths that loving souls have trod Arch o'er the dust where worldlings grovel High as the zenith o'er the sod,— The cross above the sexton's shovel! We rise beyond the realms of day; They seem to stoop from spheres of glory With us one happy hour to stray, While youth comes back in song and story.

Ah! ours is friendship true as steel That war has tried in edge and temper; It writes upon its sacred seal The priest's ubique—omnes—semper! It lends the sky a fairer sun That cheers our lives with rays as steady As if our footsteps had begun To print the golden streets already!

The tangling years have clinched its knot Too fast for mortal strength to sunder; The lightning bolts of noon are shot; No fear of evening's idle thunder! Too late! too late!—no graceless hand Shall stretch its cords in vain endeavor To rive the close encircling band That made and keeps us one forever!

So when upon the fated scroll The falling stars have all descended, And, blotted from the breathing roll, Our little page of life is ended, We ask but one memorial line Traced on thy tablet, Gracious Mother "My children. Boys of '29. In pace. How they loved each other!" ONCE MORE



ONCE MORE

1868

"Will I come?" That is pleasant! I beg to inquire If the gun that I carry has ever missed fire? And which was the muster-roll-mention but one— That missed your old comrade who carries the gun?

You see me as always, my hand on the lock, The cap on the nipple, the hammer full cock; It is rusty, some tell me; I heed not the scoff; It is battered and bruised, but it always goes off!

"Is it loaded?" I'll bet you! What doesn't it hold? Rammed full to the muzzle with memories untold; Why, it scares me to fire, lest the pieces should fly Like the cannons that burst on the Fourth of July.

One charge is a remnant of College-day dreams (Its wadding is made of forensics and themes); Ah, visions of fame! what a flash in the pan As the trigger was pulled by each clever young man!

And love! Bless my stars, what a cartridge is there! With a wadding of rose-leaves and ribbons and hair,— All crammed in one verse to go off at a shot! "Were there ever such sweethearts?" Of course there were not!

And next,—what a load! it wall split the old gun,— Three fingers,—four fingers,—five fingers of fun! Come tell me, gray sages, for mischief and noise Was there ever a lot like us fellows, "The Boys"?

Bump I bump! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes,— Aha, old Professor! Look out for your toes! Don't think, my poor Tutor, to sleep in your bed,— Two "Boys"—'twenty-niners-room over your head!

Remember the nights when the tar-barrel blazed! From red "Massachusetts" the war-cry was raised; And "Hollis" and "Stoughton" reechoed the call; Till P——- poked his head out of Holworthy Hall!

Old P——, as we called him,—at fifty or so,— Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full blow; In ripening manhood, suppose we should say, Just nearing his prime, as we boys are to-day!

Oh say, can you look through the vista of age To the time when old Morse drove the regular stage? When Lyon told tales of the long-vanished years, And Lenox crept round with the rings in his ears?

And dost thou, my brother, remember indeed The days of our dealings with Willard and Read? When "Dolly" was kicking and running away, And punch came up smoking on Fillebrown's tray?

But where are the Tutors, my brother, oh tell!— And where the Professors, remembered so well? The sturdy old Grecian of Holworthy Hall, And Latin, and Logic, and Hebrew, and all?

"They are dead, the old fellows" (we called them so then, Though we since have found out they were lusty young men). They are dead, do you tell me?—but how do you know? You've filled once too often. I doubt if it's so.

I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Is this 'sixty-eight? It's not quite so clear. It admits of debate. I may have been dreaming. I rather incline To think—yes, I'm certain—it is 'twenty-nine!

"By Zhorzhe!"—as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,— You tell me they're dead, but I know it's a lie! Is Jackson not President?—What was 't you said? It can't be; you're joking; what,—all of 'em dead?

Jim,—Harry,—Fred,—Isaac,—all gone from our side? They could n't have left us,—no, not if they tried. Look,—there 's our old Prises,—he can't find his text; See,—P——- rubs his leg, as he growls out "The next!"

I told you 't was nonsense. Joe, give us a song! Go harness up "Dolly," and fetch her along!— Dead! Dead! You false graybeard, I swear they are not! Hurrah for Old Hickory!—Oh, I forgot!

Well, one we have with us (how could he contrive To deal with us youngsters and still to survive?) Who wore for our guidance authority's robe,— No wonder he took to the study of Job!

And now, as my load was uncommonly large, Let me taper it off with a classical charge; When that has gone off, I shall drop my old gun— And then stand at ease, for my service is done.

Bibamus ad Classem vocatam "The Boys" Et eorum Tutorem cui nomen est "Noyes"; Et floreant, valeant, vigeant tam, Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam!



THE OLD CRUISER

1869

HERE 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine, Forty times she 's crossed the line; Same old masts and sails and crew, Tight and tough and as good as new.

Into the harbor she bravely steers Just as she 's done for these forty years, Over her anchor goes, splash and clang! Down her sails drop, rattle and bang!

Comes a vessel out of the dock Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock, Feathered with sails and spurred with steam, Heading out of the classic stream.

Crew of a hundred all aboard, Every man as fine as a lord. Gay they look and proud they feel, Bowling along on even keel.

On they float with wind and tide,— Gain at last the old ship's side; Every man looks down in turn,— Reads the name that's on her stern.

"Twenty-nine!—Diable you say! That was in Skipper Kirkland's day! What was the Flying Dutchman's name? This old rover must be the same.

"Ho! you Boatswain that walks the deck, How does it happen you're not a wreck? One and another have come to grief, How have you dodged by rock and reef?"

Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid, Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid "Hey? What is it? Who 's come to grief Louder, young swab, I 'm a little deaf."

"I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat With all you jolly old boys afloat, When scores of vessels as good as she Have swallowed the salt of the bitter sea?

"Many a crew from many a craft Goes drifting by on a broken raft Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine Taller and prouder than 'Twenty-nine.

"Some capsized in an angry breeze, Some were lost in the narrow seas, Some on snags and some on sands Struck and perished and lost their hands.

"Tell us young ones, you gray old man, What is your secret, if you can. We have a ship as good as you, Show us how to keep our crew."

So in his ear the youngster cries; Then the gray Boatswain straight replies:— "All your crew be sure you know,— Never let one of your shipmates go.

"If he leaves you, change your tack, Follow him close and fetch him back; When you've hauled him in at last, Grapple his flipper and hold him fast.

"If you've wronged him, speak him fair, Say you're sorry and make it square; If he's wronged you, wink so tight None of you see what 's plain in sight.

"When the world goes hard and wrong, Lend a hand to help him along; When his stockings have holes to darn, Don't you grudge him your ball of yarn.

"Once in a twelvemonth, come what may, Anchor your ship in a quiet bay, Call all hands and read the log, And give 'em a taste of grub and grog.

"Stick to each other through thick and thin; All the closer as age leaks in; Squalls will blow and clouds will frown, But stay by your ship till you all go down!"



ADDED FOR THE ALUMNI MEETING, JUNE 29,

1869.

So the gray Boatswain of 'Twenty-nine Piped to "The Boys" as they crossed the line; Round the cabin sat thirty guests, Babes of the nurse with a thousand breasts.

There were the judges, grave and grand, Flanked by the priests on either hand; There was the lord of wealth untold, And the dear good fellow in broadcloth old.

Thirty men, from twenty towns, Sires and grandsires with silvered crowns,— Thirty school-boys all in a row,— Bens and Georges and Bill and Joe.