In thirty goblets the wine was poured, But threescore gathered around the board,— For lo! at the side of every chair A shadow hovered—we all were there!



HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING

1869

THOU Gracious Power, whose mercy lends The light of home, the smile of friends, Our gathered flock thine arms infold As in the peaceful days of old.

Wilt thou not hear us while we raise, In sweet accord of solemn praise, The voices that have mingled long In joyous flow of mirth and song?

For all the blessings life has brought, For all its sorrowing hours have taught, For all we mourn, for all we keep, The hands we clasp, the loved that sleep;

The noontide sunshine of the past, These brief, bright moments fading fast, The stars that gild our darkening years, The twilight ray from holier spheres;

We thank thee, Father! let thy grace Our narrowing circle still embrace, Thy mercy shed its heavenly store, Thy peace be with us evermore!



EVEN-SONG.

1870

IT may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings An end to mortal things, That sends the beggar Winter in the train Of Autumn's burdened wain,— Time, that is heir of all our earthly state, And knoweth well to wait Till sea hath turned to shore and shore to sea, If so it need must be, Ere he make good his claim and call his own Old empires overthrown,— Time, who can find no heavenly orb too large To hold its fee in charge, Nor any motes that fill its beam so small, But he shall care for all,— It may be, must be,—yes, he soon shall tire This hand that holds the lyre.

Then ye who listened in that earlier day When to my careless lay I matched its chords and stole their first-born thrill, With untaught rudest skill Vexing a treble from the slender strings Thin as the locust sings When the shrill-crying child of summer's heat Pipes from its leafy seat, The dim pavilion of embowering green Beneath whose shadowy screen The small sopranist tries his single note Against the song-bird's throat, And all the echoes listen, but in vain; They hear no answering strain,— Then ye who listened in that earlier day Shall sadly turn away,

Saying, "The fire burns low, the hearth is cold That warmed our blood of old; Cover its embers and its half-burnt brands, And let us stretch our hands Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame; Lo, this is not the same, The joyous singer of our morning time, Flushed high with lusty rhyme! Speak kindly, for he bears a human heart, But whisper him apart,— Tell him the woods their autumn robes have shed And all their birds have fled, And shouting winds unbuild the naked nests They warmed with patient breasts; Tell him the sky is dark, the summer o'er, And bid him sing no more!"

Ah, welladay! if words so cruel-kind A listening ear might find! But who that hears the music in his soul Of rhythmic waves that roll Crested with gleams of fire, and as they flow Stir all the deeps below Till the great pearls no calm might ever reach Leap glistening on the beach,— Who that has known the passion and the pain, The rush through heart and brain, The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed Hard on his throbbing breast, When thou, whose smile is life and bliss and fame Hast set his pulse aflame, Muse of the lyre! can say farewell to thee? Alas! and must it be?

In many a clime, in many a stately tongue, The mighty bards have sung; To these the immemorial thrones belong And purple robes of song; Yet the slight minstrel loves the slender tone His lips may call his own, And finds the measure of the verse more sweet, Timed by his pulse's beat, Than all the hymnings of the laurelled throng. Say not I do him wrong, For Nature spoils her warblers,—them she feeds In lotus-growing meads And pours them subtle draughts from haunted streams That fill their souls with dreams.

Full well I know the gracious mother's wiles And dear delusive smiles! No callow fledgling of her singing brood But tastes that witching food, And hearing overhead the eagle's wing, And how the thrushes sing, Vents his exiguous chirp, and from his nest Flaps forth—we know the rest. I own the weakness of the tuneful kind,— Are not all harpers blind? I sang too early, must I sing too late? The lengthening shadows wait The first pale stars of twilight,—yet how sweet The flattering whisper's cheat,— "Thou hast the fire no evening chill can tame, Whose coals outlast its flame!"

Farewell, ye carols of the laughing morn, Of earliest sunshine born! The sower flings the seed and looks not back Along his furrowed track; The reaper leaves the stalks for other hands To gird with circling bands; The wind, earth's careless servant, truant-born, Blows clean the beaten corn And quits the thresher's floor, and goes his way To sport with ocean's spray; The headlong-stumbling rivulet scrambling down To wash the sea-girt town, Still babbling of the green and billowy waste Whose salt he longs to taste, Ere his warm wave its chilling clasp may feel Has twirled the miller's wheel.

The song has done its task that makes us bold With secrets else untold,— And mine has run its errand; through the dews I tracked the flying Muse; The daughter of the morning touched my lips With roseate finger-tips; Whether I would or would not, I must sing With the new choirs of spring; Now, as I watch the fading autumn day And trill my softened lay, I think of all that listened, and of one For whom a brighter sun Dawned at high summer's noon. Ah, comrades dear, Are not all gathered here? Our hearts have answered.—Yes! they hear our call: All gathered here! all! all!



THE SMILING LISTENER

1871 PRECISELY. I see it. You all want to say That a tear is too sad and a laugh is too gay; You could stand a faint smile, you could manage a sigh, But you value your ribs, and you don't want to cry.

And why at our feast of the clasping of hands Need we turn on the stream of our lachrymal glands? Though we see the white breakers of age on our bow, Let us take a good pull in the jolly-boat now!

It's hard if a fellow cannot feel content When a banquet like this does n't cost him a cent, When his goblet and plate he may empty at will, And our kind Class Committee will settle the bill.

And here's your old friend, the identical bard Who has rhymed and recited you verse by the yard Since the days of the empire of Andrew the First Till you 're full to the brim and feel ready to burst.

It's awful to think of,—how year after year With his piece in his pocket he waits for you here; No matter who's missing, there always is one To lug out his manuscript, sure as a gun.

"Why won't he stop writing?" Humanity cries The answer is briefly, "He can't if he tries; He has played with his foolish old feather so long, That the goose-quill in spite of him cackles in song."

You have watched him with patience from morning to dusk Since the tassel was bright o'er the green of the husk, And now—it 's too bad—it 's a pitiful job— He has shelled the ripe ear till he's come to the cob.

I see one face beaming—it listens so well There must be some music yet left in my shell— The wine of my soul is not thick on the lees; One string is unbroken, one friend I can please!

Dear comrade, the sunshine of seasons gone by Looks out from your tender and tear-moistened eye, A pharos of love on an ice-girdled coast,— Kind soul!—Don't you hear me?—He's deaf as a post!

Can it be one of Nature's benevolent tricks That you grow hard of hearing as I grow prolix? And that look of delight which would angels beguile Is the deaf man's prolonged unintelligent smile?

Ah! the ear may grow dull, and the eye may wax dim, But they still know a classmate—they can't mistake him; There is something to tell us, "That's one of our band," Though we groped in the dark for a touch of his hand.

Well, Time with his snuffers is prowling about And his shaky old fingers will soon snuff us out; There's a hint for us all in each pendulum tick, For we're low in the tallow and long in the wick.

You remember Rossini—you 've been at the play? How his overture-endings keep crashing away Till you think, "It 's all over—it can't but stop now— That 's the screech and the bang of the final bow-wow."

And you find you 're mistaken; there 's lots more to come, More banging, more screeching of fiddle and drum, Till when the last ending is finished and done, You feel like a horse when the winning-post 's won.

So I, who have sung to you, merry or sad, Since the days when they called me a promising lad, Though I 've made you more rhymes than a tutor could scan, Have a few more still left, like the razor-strop man.

Now pray don't be frightened—I 'm ready to stop My galloping anapests' clatter and pop— In fact, if you say so, retire from to-day To the garret I left, on a poet's half-pay.

And yet—I can't help it—perhaps—who can tell? You might miss the poor singer you treated so well, And confess you could stand him five minutes or so, "It was so like old times we remember, you know."

'T is not that the music can signify much, But then there are chords that awake with a touch,— And our hearts can find echoes of sorrow and joy To the winch of the minstrel who hails from Savoy.

So this hand-organ tune that I cheerfully grind May bring the old places and faces to mind, And seen in the light of the past we recall The flowers that have faded bloom fairest of all!



OUR SWEET SINGER

J. A.

1872

ONE memory trembles on our lips; It throbs in every breast; In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse, The shadow stands confessed.

O silent voice, that cheered so long Our manhood's marching day, Without thy breath of heavenly song, How weary seems the way!

Vain every pictured phrase to tell Our sorrowing heart's desire,— The shattered harp, the broken shell, The silent unstrung lyre;

For youth was round us while he sang; It glowed in every tone; With bridal chimes the echoes rang, And made the past our own.

Oh blissful dream! Our nursery joys We know must have an end, But love and friendship's broken toys May God's good angels mend!

The cheering smile, the voice of mirth And laughter's gay surprise That please the children born of earth. Why deem that Heaven denies?

Methinks in that refulgent sphere That knows not sun or moon, An earth-born saint might long to hear One verse of "Bonny Doon";

Or walking through the streets of gold In heaven's unclouded light, His lips recall the song of old And hum "The sky is bright."

And can we smile when thou art dead? Ah, brothers, even so! The rose of summer will be red, In spite of winter's snow.

Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom Because thy song is still, Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom With grief's untimely chill.

The sighing wintry winds complain,— The singing bird has flown,— Hark! heard I not that ringing strain, That clear celestial tone?

How poor these pallid phrases seem, How weak this tinkling line, As warbles through my waking dream That angel voice of thine!

Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay; It falters on my tongue; For all we vainly strive to say, Thou shouldst thyself have sung!



H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W.

1873

THE dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung, The sad-voiced requiem sung; On each white urn where memory dwells The wreath of rustling immortelles Our loving hands have hung, And balmiest leaves have strown and tenderest blossoms flung.

The birds that filled the air with songs have flown, The wintry blasts have blown, And these for whom the voice of spring Bade the sweet choirs their carols sing Sleep in those chambers lone Where snows untrodden lie, unheard the night-winds moan.

We clasp them all in memory, as the vine Whose running stems intwine The marble shaft, and steal around The lowly stone, the nameless mound; With sorrowing hearts resign Our brothers true and tried, and close our broken line.

How fast the lamps of life grow dim and die Beneath our sunset sky! Still fading, as along our track We cast our saddened glances back, And while we vainly sigh The shadowy day recedes, the starry night draws nigh.

As when from pier to pier across the tide With even keel we glide, The lights we left along the shore Grow less and less, while more, yet more New vistas open wide Of fair illumined streets and casements golden-eyed.

Each closing circle of our sunlit sphere Seems to bring heaven more near Can we not dream that those we love Are listening in the world above And smiling as they hear The voices known so well of friends that still are dear?

Does all that made us human fade away With this dissolving clay? Nay, rather deem the blessed isles Are bright and gay with joyous smiles, That angels have their play, And saints that tire of song may claim their holiday.

All else of earth may perish; love alone Not heaven shall find outgrown! Are they not here, our spirit guests, With love still throbbing in their breasts? Once more let flowers be strown. Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count you still our own!



WHAT I HAVE COME FOR

1873

I HAVE come with my verses—I think I may claim It is not the first time I have tried on the same. They were puckered in rhyme, they were wrinkled in wit; But your hearts were so large that they made them a fit.

I have come—not to tease you with more of my rhyme, But to feel as I did in the blessed old time; I want to hear him with the Brobdingnag laugh— We count him at least as three men and a half.

I have come to meet judges so wise and so grand That I shake in my shoes while they're shaking my hand; And the prince among merchants who put back the crown When they tried to enthrone him the King of the Town.

I have come to see George—Yes, I think there are four, If they all were like these I could wish there were more. I have come to see one whom we used to call "Jim," I want to see—oh, don't I want to see him?

I have come to grow young—on my word I declare I have thought I detected a change in my hair! One hour with "The Boys" will restore it to brown— And a wrinkle or two I expect to rub down.

Yes, that's what I've come for, as all of us come; When I meet the dear Boys I could wish I were dumb. You asked me, you know, but it's spoiling the fun; I have told what I came for; my ditty is done.

OUR BANKER

1874

OLD TIME, in whose bank we deposit our notes, Is a miser who always wants guineas for groats; He keeps all his customers still in arrears By lending them minutes and charging them years.

The twelvemonth rolls round and we never forget On the counter before us to pay him our debt. We reckon the marks he has chalked on the door, Pay up and shake hands and begin a new score.

How long he will lend us, how much we may owe, No angel will tell us, no mortal may know. At fivescore, at fourscore, at threescore and ten, He may close the account with a stroke of his pen.

This only we know,—amid sorrows and joys Old Time has been easy and kind with "The Boys." Though he must have and will have and does have his pay, We have found him good-natured enough in his way.

He never forgets us, as others will do,— I am sure he knows me, and I think he knows you, For I see on your foreheads a mark that he lends As a sign he remembers to visit his friends.

In the shape of a classmate (a wig on his crown,— His day-book and ledger laid carefully down) He has welcomed us yearly, a glass in his hand, And pledged the good health of our brotherly band.

He 's a thief, we must own, but how many there be That rob us less gently and fairly than he He has stripped the green leaves that were over us all, But they let in the sunshine as fast as they fall.

Young beauties may ravish the world with a glance As they languish in song, as they float in the dance,— They are grandmothers now we remember as girls, And the comely white cap takes the place of the curls.

But the sighing and moaning and groaning are o'er, We are pining and moping and sleepless no more, And the hearts that were thumping like ships on the rocks Beat as quiet and steady as meeting-house clocks.

The trump of ambition, loud sounding and shrill, May blow its long blast, but the echoes are still, The spring-tides are past, but no billow may reach The spoils they have landed far up on the beach.

We see that Time robs us, we know that he cheats, But we still find a charm in his pleasant deceits, While he leaves the remembrance of all that was best, Love, friendship, and hope, and the promise of rest.

Sweet shadows of twilight! how calm their repose, While the dewdrops fall soft in the breast of the rose! How blest to the toiler his hour of release When the vesper is heard with its whisper of peace!

Then here's to the wrinkled old miser, our friend; May he send us his bills to the century's end, And lend us the moments no sorrow alloys, Till he squares his account with the last of "The Boys."



FOR CLASS MEETING

1875

IT is a pity and a shame—alas! alas! I know it is, To tread the trodden grapes again, but so it has been, so it is; The purple vintage long is past, with ripened clusters bursting so They filled the wine-vats to the brim,-'t is strange you will be thirsting so!

Too well our faithful memory tells what might be rhymed or sung about, For all have sighed and some have wept since last year's snows were flung about; The beacon flame that fired the sky, the modest ray that gladdened us, A little breath has quenched their light, and deepening shades have saddened us.

No more our brother's life is ours for cheering or for grieving us, One only sadness they bequeathed, the sorrow of their leaving us; Farewell! Farewell!—I turn the leaf I read my chiming measure in; Who knows but something still is there a friend may find a pleasure in? For who can tell by what he likes what other people's fancies are? How all men think the best of wives their own particular Nancies are? If what I sing you brings a smile, you will not stop to catechise, Nor read Bceotia's lumbering line with nicely scanning Attic eyes.

Perhaps the alabaster box that Mary broke so lovingly, While Judas looked so sternly on, the Master so approvingly, Was not so fairly wrought as those that Pilate's wife and daughters had, Or many a dame of Judah's line that drank of Jordan's waters had.

Perhaps the balm that cost so dear, as some remarked officiously, The precious nard that filled the room with fragrance so deliciously, So oft recalled in storied page and sung in verse melodious, The dancing girl had thought too cheap,—that daughter of Herodias.

Where now are all the mighty deeds that Herod boasted loudest of? Where now the flashing jewelry the tetrarch's wife was proudest of? Yet still to hear how Mary loved, all tribes of men are listening, And still the sinful woman's tears like stars heaven are glistening.

'T is not the gift our hands have brought, the love it is we bring with it,— The minstrel's lips may shape the song, his heart in tune must sing with it; And so we love the simple lays, and wish we might have more of them, Our poet brothers sing for us,—there must be half a score of them.

It may be that of fame and name our voices once were emulous,— With deeper thoughts, with tenderer throbs their softening tones are tremulous; The dead seem listening as of old, ere friendship was bereft of them; The living wear a kinder smile, the remnant that is left of them.

Though on the once unfurrowed brows the harrow- teeth of Time may show, Though all the strain of crippling years the halting feet of rhyme may show, We look and hear with melting hearts, for what we all remember is The morn of Spring, nor heed how chill the sky of gray November is.

Thanks to the gracious powers above from all mankind that singled us, And dropped the pearl of friendship in the cup they kindly mingled us, And bound us in a wreath of flowers with hoops of steel knit under it;— Nor time, nor space, nor chance, nor change, nor death himself shall sunder it!



"AD AMICOS"

1876

"Dumque virent genua Et decet, obducta solvatur fonte senectus."

THE muse of boyhood's fervid hour Grows tame as skies get chill and hazy; Where once she sought a passion-flower, She only hopes to find a daisy. Well, who the changing world bewails? Who asks to have it stay unaltered? Shall grown-up kittens chase their tails? Shall colts be never shod or haltered?

Are we "The Boys" that used to make The tables ring with noisy follies? Whose deep-lunged laughter oft would shake The ceiling with its thunder-volleys? Are we the youths with lips unshorn, At beauty's feet unwrinkled suitors, Whose memories reach tradition's morn,— The days of prehistoric tutors?

"The Boys" we knew,—but who are these Whose heads might serve for Plutarch's sages, Or Fox's martyrs, if you please, Or hermits of the dismal ages? "The Boys" we knew—can these be those? Their cheeks with morning's blush were painted;— Where are the Harrys, Jims, and Joes With whom we once were well acquainted?

If we are they, we're not the same; If they are we, why then they're masking; Do tell us, neighbor What 's—your—name, Who are you?—What's the use of asking? You once were George, or Bill, or Ben; There's you, yourself—there 's you, that other— I know you now—I knew you then— You used to be your younger brother!

You both are all our own to-day,— But ah! I hear a warning whisper; Yon roseate hour that flits away Repeats the Roman's sad paulisper. Come back! come back! we've need of you To pay you for your word of warning; We'll bathe your wings in brighter dew Than ever wet the lids of morning!

Behold this cup; its mystic wine No alien's lip has ever tasted; The blood of friendship's clinging vine, Still flowing, flowing, yet unwasted Old Time forgot his running sand And laid his hour-glass down to fill it, And Death himself with gentle hand Has touched the chalice, not to spill it.

Each bubble rounding at the brim Is rainbowed with its magic story; The shining days with age grown dim Are dressed again in robes of glory; In all its freshness spring returns With song of birds and blossoms tender; Once more the torch of passion burns, And youth is here in all its splendor!

Hope swings her anchor like a toy, Love laughs and shows the silver arrow We knew so well as man and boy,— The shaft that stings through bone and marrow; Again our kindling pulses beat, With tangled curls our fingers dally, And bygone beauties smile as sweet As fresh-blown lilies of the valley.

O blessed hour! we may forget Its wreaths, its rhymes, its songs, its laughter, But not the loving eyes we met, Whose light shall gild the dim hereafter. How every heart to each grows warm! Is one in sunshine's ray? We share it. Is one in sorrow's blinding storm? A look, a word, shall help him bear it.

"The Boys" we were, "The Boys" we 'll be As long as three, as two, are creeping; Then here 's to him—ah! which is he?— Who lives till all the rest are sleeping; A life with tranquil comfort blest, The young man's health, the rich man's plenty, All earth can give that earth has best, And heaven at fourscore years and twenty.



HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT

1877

I LIKE, at times, to hear the steeples' chimes With sober thoughts impressively that mingle; But sometimes, too, I rather like—don't you?— To hear the music of the sleigh bells' jingle.

I like full well the deep resounding swell Of mighty symphonies with chords inwoven; But sometimes, too, a song of Burns—don't you? After a solemn storm-blast of Beethoven.

Good to the heels the well-worn slipper feels When the tired player shuffles off the buskin; A page of Hood may do a fellow good After a scolding from Carlyle or Ruskin.

Some works I find,—say Watts upon the Mind,— No matter though at first they seemed amusing, Not quite the same, but just a little tame After some five or six times' reperusing.

So, too, at times when melancholy rhymes Or solemn speeches sober down a dinner, I've seen it 's true, quite often,—have n't you?— The best-fed guests perceptibly grow thinner.

Better some jest (in proper terms expressed) Or story (strictly moral) even if musty, Or song we sung when these old throats were young,— Something to keep our souls from getting rusty.

The poorest scrap from memory's ragged lap Comes like an heirloom from a dear dead mother— Hush! there's a tear that has no business here, A half-formed sigh that ere its birth we smother.

We cry, we laugh; ah, life is half and half, Now bright and joyous as a song of Herrick's, Then chill and bare as funeral-minded Blair; As fickle as a female in hysterics.

If I could make you cry I would n't try; If you have hidden smiles I'd like to find them, And that although, as well I ought to know, The lips of laughter have a skull behind them.

Yet when I think we may be on the brink Of having Freedom's banner to dispose of, All crimson-hued, because the Nation would Insist on cutting its own precious nose off,

I feel indeed as if we rather need A sermon such as preachers tie a text on. If Freedom dies because a ballot lies, She earns her grave; 't is time to call the sexton!

But if a fight can make the matter right, Here are we, classmates, thirty men of mettle; We're strong and tough, we've lived nigh long enough,— What if the Nation gave it us to settle?

The tale would read like that illustrious deed When Curtius took the leap the gap that filled in, Thus: "Fivescore years, good friends, as it appears, At last this people split on Hayes and Tilden.

"One half cried, 'See! the choice is S. J. T.!' And one half swore as stoutly it was t' other; Both drew the knife to save the Nation's life By wholesale vivisection of each other.

"Then rose in mass that monumental Class,— 'Hold! hold!' they cried, 'give us, give us the daggers!' 'Content! content!' exclaimed with one consent The gaunt ex-rebels and the carpet-baggers.

"Fifteen each side, the combatants divide, So nicely balanced are their predilections; And first of all a tear-drop each lets fall, A tribute to their obsolete affections.

"Man facing man, the sanguine strife began, Jack, Jim and Joe against Tom, Dick and Harry, Each several pair its own account to square, Till both were down or one stood solitary.

"And the great fight raged furious all the night Till every integer was made a fraction; Reader, wouldst know what history has to show As net result of the above transaction?

"Whole coat-tails, four; stray fragments, several score; A heap of spectacles; a deaf man's trumpet; Six lawyers' briefs; seven pocket-handkerchiefs; Twelve canes wherewith the owners used to stump it;

"Odd rubber-shoes; old gloves of different hues; Tax—bills,—unpaid,—and several empty purses; And, saved from harm by some protecting charm, A printed page with Smith's immortal verses;

"Trifles that claim no very special name,— Some useful, others chiefly ornamental; Pins, buttons, rings, and other trivial things, With various wrecks, capillary and dental.

"Also, one flag,—'t was nothing but a rag, And what device it bore it little matters; Red, white, and blue, but rent all through and through, 'Union forever' torn to shreds and tatters.

"They fought so well not one was left to tell Which got the largest share of cuts and slashes; When heroes meet, both sides are bound to beat; They telescoped like cars in railroad smashes.

"So the great split that baffled human wit And might have cost the lives of twenty millions, As all may see that know the rule of three, Was settled just as well by these civilians.

"As well. Just so. Not worse, not better. No, Next morning found the Nation still divided; Since all were slain, the inference is plain They left the point they fought for undecided."

If not quite true, as I have told it you, This tale of mutual extermination, To minds perplexed with threats of what comes next, Perhaps may furnish food for contemplation.

To cut men's throats to help them count their votes Is asinine—nay, worse—ascidian folly; Blindness like that would scare the mole and bat, And make the liveliest monkey melancholy.

I say once more, as I have said before, If voting for our Tildens and our Hayeses Means only fight, then, Liberty, good night! Pack up your ballot-box and go to blazes.

Unfurl your blood-red flags, you murderous hags, You petroleuses of Paris, fierce and foamy; We'll sell our stock in Plymouth's blasted rock, Pull up our stakes and migrate to Dahomey!



THE LAST SURVIVOR

1878

YES! the vacant chairs tell sadly we are going, going fast, And the thought comes strangely o'er me, who will live to be the last? When the twentieth century's sunbeams climb the far-off eastern hill, With his ninety winters burdened, will he greet the morning still?

Will he stand with Harvard's nurslings when they hear their mother's call And the old and young are gathered in the many alcoved hall? Will he answer to the summons when they range themselves in line And the young mustachioed marshal calls out "Class of '29 "?

Methinks I see the column as its lengthened ranks appear In the sunshine of the morrow of the nineteen hundredth year; Through the yard 't is creeping, winding, by the walls of dusky red,— What shape is that which totters at the long procession's head?

Who knows this ancient graduate of fourscore years and ten,— What place he held, what name he bore among the sons of men? So speeds the curious question; its answer travels slow; "'T is the last of sixty classmates of seventy years ago."

His figure shows but dimly, his face I scarce can see,— There's something that reminds me,—it looks like—is it he? He? Who? No voice may whisper what wrinkled brow shall claim The wreath of stars that circles our last survivor's name.

Will he be some veteran minstrel, left to pipe in feeble rhyme All the stories and the glories of our gay and golden time? Or some quiet, voiceless brother in whose lonely,loving breast Fond memory broods in silence, like a dove upon her nest?

Will it be some old Emeritus, who taught so long ago The boys that heard him lecture have heads as white as snow? Or a pious, painful preacher, holding forth from year to year Till his colleague got a colleague whom the young folks flocked to hear?

Will it be a rich old merchant in a square-tied white cravat, Or select-man of a village in a pre-historic hat? Will his dwelling be a mansion in a marble-fronted row, Or a homestead by a hillside where the huckleberries grow?

I can see our one survivor, sitting lonely by himself,— All his college text-books round him, ranged in order on their shelf; There are classic "interliners" filled with learning's choicest pith, Each cum notis variorum, quas recensuit doctus Smith;

Physics, metaphysics, logic, mathematics—all the lot Every wisdom—crammed octavo he has mastered and forgot, With the ghosts of dead professors standing guard beside them all; And the room is fall of shadows which their lettered backs recall.

How the past spreads out in vision with its far receding train, Like a long embroidered arras in the chambers of the brain, From opening manhood's morning when first we learned to grieve To the fond regretful moments of our sorrow-saddened eve!

What early shadows darkened our idle summer's joy When death snatched roughly from us that lovely bright-eyed boy! The years move swiftly onwards; the deadly shafts fall fast,— Till all have dropped around him—lo, there he stands,—the last!

Their faces flit before him, some rosy-hued and fair, Some strong in iron manhood, some worn with toil and care; Their smiles no more shall greet him on cheeks with pleasure flushed! The friendly hands are folded, the pleasant voices hushed!

My picture sets me dreaming; alas! and can it be Those two familiar faces we never more may see? In every entering footfall I think them drawing near, With every door that opens I say, "At last they 're here!"

The willow bends unbroken when angry tempests blow, The stately oak is levelled and all its strength laid low; So fell that tower of manhood, undaunted, patient, strong, White with the gathering snowflakes, who faced the storm so long.

And he,—what subtle phrases their varying light must blend To paint as each remembers our many-featured friend! His wit a flash auroral that laughed in every look, His talk a sunbeam broken on the ripples of a brook,

Or, fed from thousand sources, a fountain's glittering jet, Or careless handfuls scattered of diamond sparks unset; Ah, sketch him, paint him, mould him in every shape you will, He was himself—the only—the one unpictured still!

Farewell! our skies are darkened and—yet the stars will shine, We 'll close our ranks together and still fall into line Till one is left, one only, to mourn for all the rest; And Heaven bequeath their memories to him who loves us best!



THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS

A MODERNIZED VERSION

1879

I DON'T think I feel much older; I'm aware I'm rather gray, But so are many young folks; I meet 'em every day. I confess I 'm more particular in what I eat and drink, But one's taste improves with culture; that is all it means, I think.

Can you read as once you used to? Well, the printing is so bad, No young folks' eyes can read it like the books that once we had. Are you quite as quick of hearing? Please to say that once again. Don't I use plain words, your Reverence? Yes, I often use a cane,

But it's not because I need it,—no, I always liked a stick; And as one might lean upon it, 't is as well it should be thick. Oh, I'm smart, I'm spry, I'm lively,—I can walk, yes, that I can, On the days I feel like walking, just as well as you, young man!

Don't you get a little sleepy after dinner every day? Well, I doze a little, sometimes, but that always was my way. Don't you cry a little easier than some twenty years ago? Well, my heart is very tender, but I think 't was always so.

Don't you find it sometimes happens that you can't recall a name? Yes, I know such lots of people,—but my memory 's not to blame. What! You think my memory's failing! Why, it's just as bright and clear, I remember my great-grandma! She's been dead these sixty year!

Is your voice a little trembly? Well, it may be, now and then, But I write as well as ever with a good old-fashioned pen; It 's the Gillotts make the trouble,—not at all my finger-ends,— That is why my hand looks shaky when I sign for dividends.

Don't you stoop a little, walking? It 's a way I 've always had, I have always been round-shouldered, ever since I was a lad. Don't you hate to tie your shoe-strings? Yes, I own it—that is true. Don't you tell old stories over? I am not aware I do.

Don't you stay at home of evenings? Don't you love a cushioned seat In a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet? Don't you wear warm fleecy flannels? Don't you muffle up your throat Don't you like to have one help you when you're putting on your coat?

Don't you like old books you've dogs-eared, you can't remember when? Don't you call it late at nine o'clock and go to bed at ten? How many cronies can you count of all you used to know Who called you by your Christian name some fifty years ago?

How look the prizes to you that used to fire your brain? You've reared your mound-how high is it above the level plain? You 've drained the brimming golden cup that made your fancy reel, You've slept the giddy potion off,—now tell us how you feel!

You've watched the harvest ripening till every stem was cropped, You 've seen the rose of beauty fade till every petal dropped, You've told your thought, you 've done your task, you've tracked your dial round, —I backing down! Thank Heaven, not yet! I'm hale and brisk and sound,

And good for many a tussle, as you shall live to see; My shoes are not quite ready yet,—don't think you're rid of me! Old Parr was in his lusty prime when he was older far, And where will you be if I live to beat old Thomas Parr?

Ah well,—I know,—at every age life has a certain charm,— You're going? Come, permit me, please, I beg you'll take my arm. I take your arm! Why take your arm? I 'd thank you to be told I 'm old enough to walk alone, but not so very old!



THE SHADOWS

1880

"How many have gone?" was the question of old Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels bereft; Alas! for too often the death-bell has tolled, And the question we ask is, "How many are left?"

Bright sparkled the wine; there were fifty that quaffed; For a decade had slipped and had taken but three. How they frolicked and sung, how they shouted and laughed, Like a school full of boys from their benches set free!

There were speeches and toasts, there were stories and rhymes, The hall shook its sides with their merriment's noise; As they talked and lived over the college-day times,— No wonder they kept their old name of "The Boys"!

The seasons moved on in their rhythmical flow With mornings like maidens that pouted or smiled, With the bud and the leaf and the fruit and the snow, And the year-books of Time in his alcoves were piled.

There were forty that gathered where fifty had met; Some locks had got silvered, some lives had grown sere, But the laugh of the laughers was lusty as yet, And the song of the singers rose ringing and clear.

Still flitted the years; there were thirty that came; "The Boys" they were still, and they answered their call; There were foreheads of care, but the smiles were the same, And the chorus rang loud through the garlanded hall.

The hour-hand moved on, and they gathered again; There were twenty that joined in the hymn that was sung; But ah! for our song-bird we listened in vain,— The crystalline tones like a seraph's that rung!

How narrow the circle that holds us to-night! How many the loved ones that greet us no more, As we meet like the stragglers that come from the fight, Like the mariners flung from a wreck on the shore!

We look through the twilight for those we have lost; The stream rolls between us, and yet they seem near; Already outnumbered by those who have crossed, Our band is transplanted, its home is not here!

They smile on us still—is it only a dream?— While fondly or proudly their names we recall; They beckon—they come—they are crossing the stream— Lo! the Shadows! the Shadows! room—room for them all!



BENJAMIN PEIRCE

ASTRONOMER, MATHEMATICIAN. 1809-1890

1881

FOR him the Architect of all Unroofed our planet's starlit hall; Through voids unknown to worlds unseen His clearer vision rose serene.

With us on earth he walked by day, His midnight path how far away! We knew him not so well who knew The patient eyes his soul looked through;

For who his untrod realm could share Of us that breathe this mortal air, Or camp in that celestial tent Whose fringes gild our firmament?

How vast the workroom where he brought The viewless implements of thought! The wit how subtle, how profound, That Nature's tangled webs unwound;

That through the clouded matrix saw The crystal planes of shaping law, Through these the sovereign skill that planned,— The Father's care, the Master's hand!

To him the wandering stars revealed The secrets in their cradle sealed The far-off, frozen sphere that swings Through ether, zoned with lucid rings;

The orb that rolls in dim eclipse Wide wheeling round its long ellipse,— His name Urania writes with these And stamps it on her Pleiades.

We knew him not? Ah, well we knew The manly soul, so brave, so true, The cheerful heart that conquered age, The childlike silver-bearded sage.

No more his tireless thought explores The azure sea with golden shores; Rest, wearied frame I the stars shall keep A loving watch where thou shalt sleep.

Farewell! the spirit needs must rise, So long a tenant of the skies,— Rise to that home all worlds above Whose sun is God, whose light is love.



IN THE TWILIGHT

1882

NOT bed-time yet! The night-winds blow, The stars are out,—full well we know The nurse is on the stair, With hand of ice and cheek of snow, And frozen lips that whisper low, "Come, children, it is time to go My peaceful couch to share."

No years a wakeful heart can tire; Not bed-time yet! Come, stir the fire And warm your dear old hands; Kind Mother Earth we love so well Has pleasant stories yet to tell Before we hear the curfew bell; Still glow the burning brands.

Not bed-time yet! We long to know What wonders time has yet to show, What unborn years shall bring; What ship the Arctic pole shall reach, What lessons Science waits to teach, What sermons there are left to preach. What poems yet to sing.

What next? we ask; and is it true The sunshine falls on nothing new, As Israel's king declared? Was ocean ploughed with harnessed fire? Were nations coupled with a wire? Did Tarshish telegraph to Tyre? How Hiram would have stared!

And what if Sheba's curious queen, Who came to see,—and to be seen,— Or something new to seek, And swooned, as ladies sometimes do, At sights that thrilled her through and through, Had heard, as she was "coming to," A locomotive's shriek,

And seen a rushing railway train As she looked out along the plain From David's lofty tower,— A mile of smoke that blots the sky And blinds the eagles as they fly Behind the cars that thunder by A score of leagues an hour!

See to my fiat lux respond This little slumbering fire-tipped wand,— One touch,—it bursts in flame! Steal me a portrait from the sun,— One look,—and to! the picture done! Are these old tricks, King Solomon, We lying moderns claim?

Could you have spectroscoped a star? If both those mothers at your bar, The cruel and the mild, The young and tender, old and tough, Had said, "Divide,—you're right, though rough,"— Did old Judea know enough To etherize the child?

These births of time our eyes have seen, With but a few brief years between; What wonder if the text, For other ages doubtless true, For coming years will never do,— Whereof we all should like a few, If but to see what next.

If such things have been, such may be; Who would not like to live and see— If Heaven may so ordain— What waifs undreamed of, yet in store, The waves that roll forevermore On life's long beach may east ashore From out the mist-clad main?

Will Earth to pagan dreams return To find from misery's painted urn That all save hope has flown,— Of Book and Church and Priest bereft, The Rock of Ages vainly cleft, Life's compass gone, its anchor left, Left,—lost,—in depths unknown?

Shall Faith the trodden path pursue The crux ansata wearers knew Who sleep with folded hands, Where, like a naked, lidless eye, The staring Nile rolls wandering by Those mountain slopes that climb the sky Above the drifting sands?

Or shall a nobler Faith return, Its fanes a purer gospel learn, With holier anthems ring, And teach us that our transient creeds Were but the perishable seeds Of harvests sown for larger needs, That ripening years shall bring?

Well, let the present do its best, We trust our Maker for the rest, As on our way we plod; Our souls, full dressed in fleshly suits, Love air and sunshine, flowers and fruits, The daisies better than their roots Beneath the grassy sod.

Not bed-time yet! The full-blown flower Of all the year—this evening hour— With friendship's flame is bright; Life still is sweet, the heavens are fair, Though fields are brown and woods are bare, And many a joy is left to share Before we say Good-night!

And when, our cheerful evening past, The nurse, long waiting, comes at last, Ere on her lap we lie In wearied nature's sweet repose, At peace with all her waking foes, Our lips shall murmur, ere they close, Good-night! and not Good-by!



A LOVING-CUP SONG

1883

COME, heap the fagots! Ere we go Again the cheerful hearth shall glow; We 'll have another blaze, my boys! When clouds are black and snows are white, Then Christmas logs lend ruddy light They stole from summer days, my boys, They stole from summer days.

And let the Loving-Cup go round, The Cup with blessed memories crowned, That flows whene'er we meet, my boys; No draught will hold a drop of sin If love is only well stirred in To keep it sound and sweet, my boys, To keep it sound and sweet.

Give me, to pin upon my breast, The blossoms twain I love the best, A rosebud and a pink, my boys; Their leaves shall nestle next my heart, Their perfumed breath shall own its part In every health we drink, my boys, In every health we drink.

The breathing blossoms stir my blood, Methinks I see the lilacs bud And hear the bluebirds sing, my boys; Why not? Yon lusty oak has seen Full tenscore years, yet leaflets green Peep out with every spring, my boys, Peep out with every spring.

Old Time his rusty scythe may whet, The unmowed grass is glowing yet Beneath the sheltering snow, my boys; And if the crazy dotard ask, Is love worn out? Is life a task? We'll bravely answer No! my boys, We 'll bravely answer No!

For life's bright taper is the same Love tipped of old with rosy flame That heaven's own altar lent, my boys, To glow in every cup we fill Till lips are mute and hearts are still, Till life and love are spent, my boys, Till life and love are spent.



THE GIRDLE OF FRIENDSHIP

1884

SHE gathered at her slender waist The beauteous robe she wore; Its folds a golden belt embraced, One rose-hued gem it bore.

The girdle shrank; its lessening round Still kept the shining gem, But now her flowing locks it bound, A lustrous diadem.

And narrower still the circlet grew; Behold! a glittering band, Its roseate diamond set anew, Her neck's white column spanned.

Suns rise and set; the straining clasp The shortened links resist, Yet flashes in a bracelet's grasp The diamond, on her wrist.

At length, the round of changes past The thieving years could bring, The jewel, glittering to the last, Still sparkles in a ring.

So, link by link, our friendships part, So loosen, break, and fall, A narrowing zone; the loving heart Lives changeless through them all.



THE LYRE OF ANACREON

1885

THE minstrel of the classic lay Of love and wine who sings Still found the fingers run astray That touched the rebel strings.

Of Cadmus he would fain have sung, Of Atreus and his line; But all the jocund echoes rung With songs of love and wine.

Ah, brothers! I would fain have caught Some fresher fancy's gleam; My truant accents find, unsought, The old familiar theme.

Love, Love! but not the sportive child With shaft and twanging bow, Whose random arrows drove us wild Some threescore years ago;

Not Eros, with his joyous laugh, The urchin blind and bare, But Love, with spectacles and staff, And scanty, silvered hair.

Our heads with frosted locks are white, Our roofs are thatched with snow, But red, in chilling winter's spite, Our hearts and hearthstones glow.

Our old acquaintance, Time, drops in, And while the running sands Their golden thread unheeded spin, He warms his frozen hands.

Stay, winged hours, too swift, too sweet, And waft this message o'er To all we miss, from all we meet On life's fast-crumbling shore:

Say that, to old affection true, We hug the narrowing chain That binds our hearts,—alas, how few The links that yet remain!

The fatal touch awaits them all That turns the rocks to dust; From year to year they break and fall,— They break, but never rust.

Say if one note of happier strain This worn-out harp afford,— One throb that trembles, not in vain,— Their memory lent its chord.

Say that when Fancy closed her wings And Passion quenched his fire, Love, Love, still echoed from the strings As from Anacreon's lyre!



THE OLD TUNE

THIRTY-SIXTH VARIATION

1886

THIS shred of song you bid me bring Is snatched from fancy's embers; Ah, when the lips forget to sing, The faithful heart remembers!

Too swift the wings of envious Time To wait for dallying phrases, Or woven strands of labored rhyme To thread their cunning mazes.

A word, a sigh, and lo, how plain Its magic breath discloses Our life's long vista through a lane Of threescore summers' roses!

One language years alone can teach Its roots are young affections That feel their way to simplest speech Through silent recollections.

That tongue is ours. How few the words We need to know a brother! As simple are the notes of birds, Yet well they know each other.

This freezing month of ice and snow That brings our lives together Lends to our year a living glow That warms its wintry weather.

So let us meet as eve draws nigh, And life matures and mellows, Till Nature whispers with a sigh, "Good-night, my dear old fellows!"



THE BROKEN CIRCLE

1887

I STOOD On Sarum's treeless plain, The waste that careless Nature owns; Lone tenants of her bleak domain, Loomed huge and gray the Druid stones.

Upheaved in many a billowy mound The sea-like, naked turf arose, Where wandering flocks went nibbling round The mingled graves of friends and foes.

The Briton, Roman, Saxon, Dane, This windy desert roamed in turn; Unmoved these mighty blocks remain Whose story none that lives may learn.

Erect, half buried, slant or prone, These awful listeners, blind and dumb, Hear the strange tongues of tribes unknown, As wave on wave they go and come.

"Who are you, giants, whence and why?" I stand and ask in blank amaze; My soul accepts their mute reply "A mystery, as are you that gaze.

"A silent Orpheus wrought the charm From riven rocks their spoils to bring; A nameless Titan lent his arm To range us in our magic ring.

"But Time with still and stealthy stride, That climbs and treads and levels all, That bids the loosening keystone slide, And topples down the crumbling wall,—

"Time, that unbuilds the quarried past, Leans on these wrecks that press the sod; They slant, they stoop, they fall at last, And strew the turf their priests have trod.

"No more our altar's wreath of smoke Floats up with morning's fragrant dew; The fires are dead, the ring is broke, Where stood the many stand the few."

My thoughts had wandered far away, Borne off on Memory's outspread wing, To where in deepening twilight lay The wrecks of friendship's broken ring.

Ah me! of all our goodly train How few will find our banquet hall! Yet why with coward lips complain That this must lean, and that must fall?

Cold is the Druid's altar-stone, Its vanished flame no more returns; But ours no chilling damp has known,— Unchanged, unchanging, still it burns.

So let our broken circle stand A wreck, a remnant, yet the same, While one last, loving, faithful hand Still lives to feed its altar-flame!



THE ANGEL-THIEF

1888

TIME is a thief who leaves his tools behind him; He comes by night, he vanishes at dawn; We track his footsteps, but we never find him Strong locks are broken, massive bolts are drawn,

And all around are left the bars and borers, The splitting wedges and the prying keys, Such aids as serve the soft-shod vault-explorers To crack, wrench open, rifle as they please.

Ah, these are tools which Heaven in mercy lends us When gathering rust has clenched our shackles fast, Time is the angel-thief that Nature sends us To break the cramping fetters of our past.

Mourn as we may for treasures he has taken, Poor as we feel of hoarded wealth bereft, More precious are those implements forsaken, Found in the wreck his ruthless hands have left.

Some lever that a casket's hinge has broken Pries off a bolt, and lo! our souls are free; Each year some Open Sesame is spoken, And every decade drops its master-key.

So as from year to year we count our treasure, Our loss seems less, and larger look our gains; Time's wrongs repaid in more than even measure,— We lose our jewels, but we break our chains.



AFTER THE CURFEW

1889

THE Play is over. While the light Yet lingers in the darkening hall, I come to say a last Good-night Before the final Exeunt all.

We gathered once, a joyous throng: The jovial toasts went gayly round; With jest, and laugh, and shout, and song, We made the floors and walls resound.

We come with feeble steps and slow, A little band of four or five, Left from the wrecks of long ago, Still pleased to find ourselves alive.

Alive! How living, too, are they Whose memories it is ours to share! Spread the long table's full array,— There sits a ghost in every chair!

One breathing form no more, alas! Amid our slender group we see; With him we still remained "The Class,"— Without his presence what are we?

The hand we ever loved to clasp,— That tireless hand which knew no rest,— Loosed from affection's clinging grasp, Lies nerveless on the peaceful breast.

The beaming eye, the cheering voice, That lent to life a generous glow, Whose every meaning said "Rejoice," We see, we hear, no more below.

The air seems darkened by his loss, Earth's shadowed features look less fair, And heavier weighs the daily cross His willing shoulders helped us bear.

Why mourn that we, the favored few Whom grasping Time so long has spared Life's sweet illusions to pursue, The common lot of age have shared?

In every pulse of Friendship's heart There breeds unfelt a throb of pain,— One hour must rend its links apart, Though years on years have forged the chain.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

So ends "The Boys,"—a lifelong play. We too must hear the Prompter's call To fairer scenes and brighter day Farewell! I let the curtain fall.



POEMS FROM THE AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST-TABLE

1857-1858

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

THIS is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,— The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,— Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!

Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!



SUN AND SHADOW

As I look from the isle, o'er its billows of green, To the billows of foam-crested blue, Yon bark, that afar in the distance is seen, Half dreaming, my eyes will pursue Now dark in the shadow, she scatters the spray As the chaff in the stroke of the flail; Now white as the sea-gull, she flies on her way, The sun gleaming bright on her sail.

Yet her pilot is thinking of dangers to shun,— Of breakers that whiten and roar; How little he cares, if in shadow or sun They see him who gaze from the shore! He looks to the beacon that looms from the reef, To the rock that is under his lee, As he drifts on the blast, like a wind-wafted leaf, O'er the gulfs of the desolate sea.

Thus drifting afar to the dim-vaulted caves Where life and its ventures are laid, The dreamers who gaze while we battle the waves May see us in sunshine or shade; Yet true to our course, though the shadows grow dark, We'll trim our broad sail as before, And stand by the rudder that governs the bark, Nor ask how we look from the shore!



MUSA

O MY lost beauty!—hast thou folded quite Thy wings of morning light Beyond those iron gates Where Life crowds hurrying to the haggard Fates, And Age upon his mound of ashes waits To chill our fiery dreams, Hot from the heart of youth plunged in his icy streams?

Leave me not fading in these weeds of care, Whose flowers are silvered hair! Have I not loved thee long, Though my young lips have often done thee wrong, And vexed thy heaven-tuned ear with careless song? Ah, wilt thou yet return, Bearing thy rose-hued torch, and bid thine altar burn?

Come to me!—I will flood thy silent shrine With my soul's sacred wine, And heap thy marble floors As the wild spice-trees waste their fragrant stores, In leafy islands walled with madrepores And lapped in Orient seas, When all their feathery palms toss, plume-like, in the breeze.

Come to me!—thou shalt feed on honeyed words, Sweeter than song of birds;— No wailing bulbul's throat, No melting dulcimer's melodious note When o'er the midnight wave its murmurs float, Thy ravished sense might soothe With flow so liquid-soft, with strain so velvet-smooth.

Thou shalt be decked with jewels, like a queen, Sought in those bowers of green Where loop the clustered vines And the close-clinging dulcamara twines,— Pure pearls of Maydew where the moonlight shines, And Summer's fruited gems, And coral pendants shorn from Autumn's berried stems.

Sit by me drifting on the sleepy waves,— Or stretched by grass-grown graves, Whose gray, high-shouldered stones, Carved with old names Life's time-worn roll disowns, Lean, lichen-spotted, o'er the crumbled bones Still slumbering where they lay While the sad Pilgrim watched to scare the wolf away.

Spread o'er my couch thy visionary wing! Still let me dream and sing,— Dream of that winding shore Where scarlet cardinals bloom-for me no more,— The stream with heaven beneath its liquid floor, And clustering nenuphars Sprinkling its mirrored blue like golden-chaliced stars!

Come while their balms the linden-blossoms shed!— Come while the rose is red,— While blue-eyed Summer smiles On the green ripples round yon sunken piles Washed by the moon-wave warm from Indian isles, And on the sultry air The chestnuts spread their palms like holy men in prayer!

Oh for thy burning lips to fire my brain With thrills of wild, sweet pain!— On life's autumnal blast, Like shrivelled leaves, youth's passion-flowers are cast,— Once loving thee, we love thee to the last!— Behold thy new-decked shrine, And hear once more the voice that breathed "Forever thine!"



A PARTING HEALTH

TO J. L. MOTLEY

YES, we knew we must lose him,—though friendship may claim To blend her green leaves with the laurels of fame; Though fondly, at parting, we call him our own, 'T is the whisper of love when the bugle has blown.

As the rider that rests with the spur on his heel, As the guardsman that sleeps in his corselet of steel, As the archer that stands with his shaft on the string, He stoops from his toil to the garland we bring.

What pictures yet slumber unborn in his loom, Till their warriors shall breathe and their beauties shall bloom, While the tapestry lengthens the life-glowing dyes That caught from our sunsets the stain of their skies!

In the alcoves of death, in the charnels of timid, Where flit the gaunt spectres of passion and crime, There are triumphs untold, there are martyrs unsung, There are heroes yet silent to speak with his tongue!

Let us hear the proud story which time has bequeathed! From lips that are warm with the freedom they breathed! Let him summon its tyrants, and tell us their doom, Though he sweep the black past like Van Tromp with his broom!

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The dream flashes by, for the west-winds awake On pampas, on prairie, o'er mountain and lake, To bathe the swift bark, like a sea-girdled shrine, With incense they stole from the rose and the pine.

So fill a bright cup with the sunlight that gushed When the dead summer's jewels were trampled and crushed: THE TRUE KNIGHT OF LEARNING,—the world holds him dear,— Love bless him, Joy crown him, God speed his career!

1857.



WHAT WE ALL THINK

THAT age was older once than now, In spite of locks untimely shed, Or silvered on the youthful brow; That babes make love and children wed.

That sunshine had a heavenly glow, Which faded with those "good old days" When winters came with deeper snow, And autumns with a softer haze.

That—mother, sister, wife, or child— The "best of women" each has known. Were school-boys ever half so wild? How young the grandpapas have grown!

That but for this our souls were free, And but for that our lives were blest; That in some season yet to be Our cares will leave us time to rest.

Whene'er we groan with ache or pain,— Some common ailment of the race,— Though doctors think the matter plain,— That ours is "a peculiar case."

That when like babes with fingers burned We count one bitter maxim more, Our lesson all the world has learned, And men are wiser than before.

That when we sob o'er fancied woes, The angels hovering overhead Count every pitying drop that flows, And love us for the tears we shed.

That when we stand with tearless eye And turn the beggar from our door, They still approve us when we sigh, "Ah, had I but one thousand more!"

Though temples crowd the crumbled brink O'erhanging truth's eternal flow, Their tablets bold with what we think, Their echoes dumb to what we know;

That one unquestioned text we read, All doubt beyond, all fear above, Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed Can burn or blot it: GOD IS LOVE!



SPRING HAS COME

INTRA MUROS

THE sunbeams, lost for half a year, Slant through my pane their morning rays; For dry northwesters cold and clear, The east blows in its thin blue haze.

And first the snowdrop's bells are seen, Then close against the sheltering wall The tulip's horn of dusky green, The peony's dark unfolding ball.

The golden-chaliced crocus burns; The long narcissus-blades appear; The cone-beaked hyacinth returns To light her blue-flamed chandelier.

The willow's whistling lashes, wrung By the wild winds of gusty March, With sallow leaflets lightly strung, Are swaying by the tufted larch.

The elms have robed their slender spray With full-blown flower and embryo leaf; Wide o'er the clasping arch of day Soars like a cloud their hoary chief.

See the proud tulip's flaunting cup, That flames in glory for an hour,— Behold it withering,—then look up,— How meek the forest monarch's flower!

When wake the violets, Winter dies; When sprout the elm-buds, Spring is near: When lilacs blossom, Summer cries, "Bud, little roses! Spring is here!"

The windows blush with fresh bouquets, Cut with the May-dew on their lips; The radish all its bloom displays, Pink as Aurora's finger-tips.

Nor less the flood of light that showers On beauty's changed corolla-shades,— The walks are gay as bridal bowers With rows of many-petalled maids.

The scarlet shell-fish click and clash In the blue barrow where they slide; The horseman, proud of streak and splash, Creeps homeward from his morning ride.

Here comes the dealer's awkward string, With neck in rope and tail in knot,— Rough colts, with careless country-swing, In lazy walk or slouching trot.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Wild filly from the mountain-side, Doomed to the close and chafing thills, Lend me thy long, untiring stride To seek with thee thy western hills!

I hear the whispering voice of Spring, The thrush's trill, the robin's cry, Like some poor bird with prisoned wing That sits and sings, but longs to fly.

Oh for one spot of living greed,— One little spot where leaves can grow,— To love unblamed, to walk unseen, To dream above, to sleep below!



PROLOGUE

A PROLOGUE? Well, of course the ladies know,— I have my doubts. No matter,—here we go! What is a Prologue? Let our Tutor teach: Pro means beforehand; logos stands for speech. 'T is like the harper's prelude on the strings, The prima donna's courtesy ere she sings; Prologues in metre are to other pros As worsted stockings are to engine-hose. "The world's a stage,"—as Shakespeare said, one day; The stage a world—was what he meant to say. The outside world's a blunder, that is clear; The real world that Nature meant is here. Here every foundling finds its lost mamma; Each rogue, repentant, melts his stern papa; Misers relent, the spendthrift's debts are paid, The cheats are taken in the traps they laid; One after one the troubles all are past Till the fifth act comes right side up at last, When the young couple, old folks, rogues, and all, Join hands, so happy at the curtain's fall. Here suffering virtue ever finds relief, And black-browed ruffians always come to grief. When the lorn damsel, with a frantic screech, And cheeks as hueless as a brandy-peach, Cries, "Help, kyind Heaven!" and drops upon her knees On the green—baize,—beneath the (canvas) trees,— See to her side avenging Valor fly:— "Ha! Villain! Draw! Now, Terraitorr, yield or die!" When the poor hero flounders in despair, Some dear lost uncle turns up millionaire, Clasps the young scapegrace with paternal joy, Sobs on his neck, "My boy! MY BOY!! MY BOY!!!"

Ours, then, sweet friends, the real world to-night, Of love that conquers in disaster's spite. Ladies, attend! While woful cares and doubt Wrong the soft passion in the world without, Though fortune scowl, though prudence interfere, One thing is certain: Love will triumph here! Lords of creation, whom your ladies rule,— The world's great masters, when you 're out of school,— Learn the brief moral of our evening's play Man has his will,—but woman has her way! While man's dull spirit toils in smoke and fire, Woman's swift instinct threads the electric wire,— The magic bracelet stretched beneath the waves Beats the black giant with his score of slaves. All earthly powers confess your sovereign art But that one rebel,—woman's wilful heart. All foes you master, but a woman's wit Lets daylight through you ere you know you 're hit. So, just to picture what her art can do, Hear an old story, made as good as new.

Rudolph, professor of the headsman's trade, Alike was famous for his arm and blade. One day a prisoner Justice had to kill Knelt at the block to test the artist's skill. Bare-armed, swart-visaged, gaunt, and shaggy-browed, Rudolph the headsman rose above the crowd. His falchion lighted with a sudden gleam, As the pike's armor flashes in the stream. He sheathed his blade; he turned as if to go; The victim knelt, still waiting for the blow. "Why strikest not? Perform thy murderous act," The prisoner said. (His voice was slightly cracked.) "Friend, I have struck," the artist straight replied; "Wait but one moment, and yourself decide." He held his snuff-box,—"Now then, if you please!" The prisoner sniffed, and, with a crashing sneeze, Off his head tumbled,—bowled along the floor,— Bounced down the steps;—the prisoner said no more! Woman! thy falchion is a glittering eye; If death lurk in it, oh how sweet to die! Thou takest hearts as Rudolph took the head; We die with love, and never dream we're dead!



LATTER-DAY WARNINGS

WHEN legislators keep the law, When banks dispense with bolts and looks, When berries—whortle, rasp, and straw— Grow bigger downwards through the box,—

When he that selleth house or land Shows leak in roof or flaw in right,— When haberdashers choose the stand Whose window hath the broadest light,—

When preachers tell us all they think, And party leaders all they mean,— When what we pay for, that we drink, From real grape and coffee-bean,—

When lawyers take what they would give, And doctors give what they would take,— When city fathers eat to live, Save when they fast for conscience' sake,—

When one that hath a horse on sale Shall bring his merit to the proof, Without a lie for every nail That holds the iron on the hoof,—

When in the usual place for rips Our gloves are stitched with special care, And guarded well the whalebone tips Where first umbrellas need repair,—

When Cuba's weeds have quite forgot The power of suction to resist, And claret-bottles harbor not Such dimples as would hold your fist,—

When publishers no longer steal, And pay for what they stole before,— When the first locomotive's wheel Rolls through the Hoosac Tunnel's bore;—

Till then let Cumming blaze away, And Miller's saints blow up the globe; But when you see that blessed day, Then order your ascension robe.



ALBUM VERSES

WHEN Eve had led her lord away, And Cain had killed his brother, The stars and flowers, the poets say, Agreed with one another.

To cheat the cunning tempter's art, And teach the race its duty, By keeping on its wicked heart Their eyes of light and beauty.

A million sleepless lids, they say, Will be at least a warning; And so the flowers would watch by day, The stars from eve to morning.

On hill and prairie, field and lawn, Their dewy eyes upturning, The flowers still watch from reddening dawn Till western skies are burning.

Alas! each hour of daylight tells A tale of shame so crushing, That some turn white as sea-bleached shells, And some are always blushing.

But when the patient stars look down On all their light discovers, The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown, The lips of lying lovers,

They try to shut their saddening eyes, And in the vain endeavor We see them twinkling in the skies, And so they wink forever.



A GOOD TIME GOING!

BRAVE singer of the coming time, Sweet minstrel of the joyous present, Crowned with the noblest wreath of rhyme, The holly-leaf of Ayrshire's peasant, Good by! Good by!—Our hearts and hands, Our lips in honest Saxon phrases, Cry, God be with him, till he stands His feet among the English daisies!

'T is here we part;—for other eyes The busy deck, the fluttering streamer, The dripping arms that plunge and rise, The waves in foam, the ship in tremor, The kerchiefs waving from the pier, The cloudy pillar gliding o'er him, The deep blue desert, lone and drear, With heaven above and home before him!

His home!—the Western giant smiles, And twirls the spotty globe to find it; This little speck the British Isles? 'T is but a freckle,—never mind it! He laughs, and all his prairies roll, Each gurgling cataract roars and chuckles, And ridges stretched from pole to pole Heave till they crack their iron knuckles!

But Memory blushes at the sneer, And Honor turns with frown defiant, And Freedom, leaning on her spear, Laughs louder than the laughing giant "An islet is a world," she said, "When glory with its dust has blended, And Britain keeps her noble dead Till earth and seas and skies are rended!"

Beneath each swinging forest-bough Some arm as stout in death reposes,— From wave-washed foot to heaven-kissed brow Her valor's life-blood runs in roses; Nay, let our brothers of the West Write smiling in their florid pages, One half her soil has walked the rest In poets, heroes, martyrs, sages!

Hugged in the clinging billow's clasp, From sea-weed fringe to mountain heather, The British oak with rooted grasp Her slender handful holds together;— With cliffs of white and bowers of green, And Ocean narrowing to caress her, And hills and threaded streams between,— Our little mother isle, God bless her!

In earth's broad temple where we stand, Fanned by the eastern gales that brought us, We hold the missal in our hand, Bright with the lines our Mother taught us. Where'er its blazoned page betrays The glistening links of gilded fetters, Behold, the half-turned leaf displays Her rubric stained in crimson letters!

Enough! To speed a parting friend 'T is vain alike to speak and listen;— Yet stay,—these feeble accents blend With rays of light from eyes that glisten. Good by! once more,—and kindly tell In words of peace the young world's story,— And say, besides, we love too well Our mothers' soil, our fathers' glory.



THE LAST BLOSSOM

THOUGH young no more, we still would dream Of beauty's dear deluding wiles; The leagues of life to graybeards seem Shorter than boyhood's lingering miles.

Who knows a woman's wild caprice? 'It played with Goethe's silvered hair, And many a Holy Father's "niece" Has softly smoothed the papal chair.

When sixty bids us sigh in vain To melt the heart of sweet sixteen, We think upon those ladies twain Who loved so well the tough old Dean.

We see the Patriarch's wintry face, The maid of Egypt's dusky glow, And dream that Youth and Age embrace, As April violets fill with snow.

Tranced in her lord's Olympian smile His lotus-loving Memphian lies,— The musky daughter of the Nile, With plaited hair and almond eyes.

Might we but share one wild caress Ere life's autumnal blossoms fall, And Earth's brown, clinging lips impress The long cold kiss that waits us all!

My bosom heaves, remembering yet The morning of that blissful day, When Rose, the flower of spring, I met, And gave my raptured soul away.

Flung from her eyes of purest blue, A lasso, with its leaping chain, Light as a loop of larkspurs, flew O'er sense and spirit, heart and brain.

Thou com'st to cheer my waning age, Sweet vision, waited for so long! Dove that would seek the poet's cage Lured by the magic breath of song!

She blushes! Ah, reluctant maid, Love's drapeau rouge the truth has told! O' er girlhood's yielding barricade Floats the great Leveller's crimson fold!

Come to my arms!—love heeds not years; No frost the bud of passion knows. Ha! what is this my frenzy hears? A voice behind me uttered,—Rose!

Sweet was her smile,—but not for me; Alas! when woman looks too kind, Just turn your foolish head and see,— Some youth is walking close behind!



CONTENTMENT

"Man wants but little here below"

LITTLE I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brown stone will do,) That I may call my own;— And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten;— If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen I always thought cold victual nice;— My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;— Give me a mortgage here and there,— Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share,— I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names; I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,— But only near St. James; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are baubles; 't is a sin To care for such unfruitful things;— One good-sized diamond in a pin,— Some, not so large, in rings,— A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me;—I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire; (Good, heavy silks are never dear;)— I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere,— Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait—two, forty-five— Suits me; I do not care;— Perhaps, for just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four,— I love so much their style and tone, One Turner, and no more, (A landscape,—foreground golden dirt,— The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,—some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor;— Some little luxury there Of red morocco's gilded gleam And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these, Which others often show for pride, I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride;— One Stradivarius, I confess, Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn, Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;— Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But all must be of buhl? Give grasping pomp its double share,— I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much,— Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!



AESTIVATION

AN UNPUBLISHED POEM, BY MY LATE LATIN TUTOR

IN candent ire the solar splendor flames; The foles, langueseent, pend from arid rames; His humid front the Give, anheling, wipes, And dreams of erring on ventiferous riper.

How dulce to vive occult to mortal eyes, Dorm on the herb with none to supervise, Carp the suave berries from the crescent vine, And bibe the flow from longicaudate kine!

To me, alas! no verdurous visions come, Save yon exiguous pool's conferva-scum,— No concave vast repeats the tender hue That laves my milk-jug with celestial blue!

Me wretched! Let me curr to quercine shades! Effund your albid hausts, lactiferous maids! Oh, might I vole to some umbrageous clump,— Depart,—be off,—excede,—evade,—erump!



THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE

OR, THE WONDERFUL "ONE-HOSS SHAY"

A LOGICAL STORY

HAVE you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way It ran a hundred years to a day, And then, of a sudden, it—ah, but stay, I 'll tell you what happened without delay, Scaring the parson into fits, Frightening people out of their wits,— Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five. Georgius Secundus was then alive,— Snuffy old drone from the German hive. That was the year when Lisbon-town Saw the earth open and gulp her down, And Braddock's army was done so brown, Left without a scalp to its crown. It was on the terrible Earthquake-day That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always somewhere a weakest spot,— In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will,— Above or below, or within or without,— And that 's the reason, beyond a doubt, That a chaise breaks down, but does n't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou ") He would build one shay to beat the taown 'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun'; It should be so built that it couldn' break daown "Fur," said the Deacon, "'t 's mighty plain Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,— That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"— Last of its timber,—they could n't sell 'em, Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way he "put her through." "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she 'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess She was a wonder, and nothing less! Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, Deacon and deaconess dropped away, Children and grandchildren—where were they? But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED;—it came and found The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound. Eighteen hundred increased by ten;— "Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then. Eighteen hundred and twenty came;— Running as usual; much the same. Thirty and forty at last arrive, And then come fifty, and FIFTY-FIVE. First of November, 'Fifty-five! This morning the parson takes a drive. Now, small boys, get out of the way! Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,

Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there 's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. (This is a moral that runs at large; Take it.—You 're welcome.—No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER,—the Earthquake-day,— There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay, A general flavor of mild decay, But nothing local, as one may say. There couldn't be,—for the Deacon's art Had made it so like in every part That there was n't a chance for one to start. For the wheels were just as strong as the thills, And the floor was just as strong as the sills, And the panels just as strong as the floor, And the whipple-tree neither less nor more, And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore, And spring and axle and hub encore. And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt In another hour it will be worn out!

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay. "Huddup!" said the parson.—Off went they. The parson was working his Sunday's text,— Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed At what the—Moses—was coming next. All at once the horse stood still, Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill. First a shiver, and then a thrill, Then something decidedly like a spill,— And the parson was sitting upon a rock, At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock,— Just the hour of the Earthquake shock! What do you think the parson found, When he got up and stared around? The poor old chaise in a heap or mound, As if it had been to the mill and ground! You see, of course, if you 're not a dunce, How it went to pieces all at once,— All at once, and nothing first,— Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. Logic is logic. That's all I say.



PARSON TURELL'S LEGACY

OR, THE PRESIDENT'S OLD ARM-CHAIR

A MATHEMATICAL STORY

FACTS respecting an old arm-chair. At Cambridge. Is kept in the College there. Seems but little the worse for wear. That 's remarkable when I say It was old in President Holyoke's day. (One of his boys, perhaps you know, Died, at one hundred, years ago.) He took lodgings for rain or shine Under green bed-clothes in '69.

Know old Cambridge? Hope you do.— Born there? Don't say so! I was, too. (Born in a house with a gambrel-roof,— Standing still, if you must have proof.— "Gambrel?—Gambrel?"—Let me beg You'll look at a horse's hinder leg,— First great angle above the hoof,— That 's the gambrel; hence gambrel-roof.) Nicest place that ever was seen,— Colleges red and Common green, Sidewalks brownish with trees between. Sweetest spot beneath the skies When the canker-worms don't rise,— When the dust, that sometimes flies Into your mouth and ears and eyes, In a quiet slumber lies, Not in the shape of umbaked pies Such as barefoot children prize.

A kind of harbor it seems to be, Facing the flow of a boundless sea. Rows of gray old Tutors stand Ranged like rocks above the sand; Rolling beneath them, soft and green, Breaks the tide of bright sixteen,— One wave, two waves, three waves, four,— Sliding up the sparkling floor.

Then it ebbs to flow no more, Wandering off from shore to shore With its freight of golden ore! Pleasant place for boys to play;— Better keep your girls away; Hearts get rolled as pebbles do Which countless fingering waves pursue, And every classic beach is strown With heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red stone.

But this is neither here nor there; I'm talking about an old arm-chair. You 've heard, no doubt, of PARSON TURELL? Over at Medford he used to dwell; Married one of the Mathers' folk; Got with his wife a chair of oak,— Funny old chair with seat like wedge, Sharp behind and broad front edge,— One of the oddest of human things, Turned all over with knobs and rings,— But heavy, and wide, and deep, and grand,— Fit for the worthies of the land,— Chief Justice Sewall a cause to try in, Or Cotton Mather to sit—and lie—in. Parson Turell bequeathed the same To a certain student,—SMITH by name; These were the terms, as we are told: "Saide Smith saide Chaire to have and holde; When he doth graduate, then to passe To ye oldest Youth in ye Senior Classe. On payment of "—(naming a certain sum)— "By him to whom ye Chaire shall come; He to ye oldest Senior next, And soe forever,"—(thus runs the text,)— "But one Crown lesse then he gave to claime, That being his Debte for use of same." Smith transferred it to one of the BROWNS, And took his money,—five silver crowns. Brown delivered it up to MOORE, Who paid, it is plain, not five, but four. Moore made over the chair to LEE, Who gave him crowns of silver three. Lee conveyed it unto DREW, And now the payment, of course, was two. Drew gave up the chair to DUNN,— All he got, as you see, was one. Dunn released the chair to HALL, And got by the bargain no crown at all. And now it passed to a second BROWN, Who took it and likewise claimed a crown. When Brown conveyed it unto WARE, Having had one crown, to make it fair, He paid him two crowns to take the chair; And Ware, being honest, (as all Wares be,) He paid one POTTER, who took it, three. Four got ROBINSON; five got Dix; JOHNSON primus demanded six; And so the sum kept gathering still Till after the battle of Bunker's Hill.

When paper money became so cheap, Folks would n't count it, but said "a heap," A certain RICHARDS,—the books declare,— (A. M. in '90? I've looked with care Through the Triennial,—name not there,)— This person, Richards, was offered then Eightscore pounds, but would have ten; Nine, I think, was the sum he took,— Not quite certain,—but see the book. By and by the wars were still, But nothing had altered the Parson's will. The old arm-chair was solid yet, But saddled with such a monstrous debt! Things grew quite too bad to bear, Paying such sums to get rid of the chair But dead men's fingers hold awful tight, And there was the will in black and white, Plain enough for a child to spell. What should be done no man could tell, For the chair was a kind of nightmare curse, And every season but made it worse.

As a last resort, to clear the doubt, They got old GOVERNOR HANCOCK out. The Governor came with his Lighthorse Troop And his mounted truckmen, all cock-a-hoop; Halberds glittered and colors flew, French horns whinnied and trumpets blew, The yellow fifes whistled between their teeth, And the bumble-bee bass-drums boomed beneath; So he rode with all his band, Till the President met him, cap in hand. The Governor "hefted" the crowns, and said,— "A will is a will, and the Parson's dead." The Governor hefted the crowns. Said he,— "There is your p'int. And here 's my fee.

"These are the terms you must fulfil,— On such conditions I BREAK THE WILL!" The Governor mentioned what these should be. (Just wait a minute and then you 'll see.) The President prayed. Then all was still, And the Governor rose and BROKE THE WILL! "About those conditions?" Well, now you go And do as I tell you, and then you'll know. Once a year, on Commencement day, If you 'll only take the pains to stay, You'll see the President in the CHAIR, Likewise the Governor sitting there. The President rises; both old and young May hear his speech in a foreign tongue, The meaning whereof, as lawyers swear, Is this: Can I keep this old arm-chair? And then his Excellency bows, As much as to say that he allows. The Vice-Gub. next is called by name; He bows like t' other, which means the same. And all the officers round 'em bow, As much as to say that they allow. And a lot of parchments about the chair Are handed to witnesses then and there, And then the lawyers hold it clear That the chair is safe for another year.