You call on your victim for "things he has plenty of,— Those copies of verses no doubt at least twenty of; His desk is crammed full, for he always keeps writing 'em And reading to friends as his way of delighting 'em!" I tell you this writing of verses means business,— It makes the brain whirl in a vortex of dizziness You think they are scrawled in the languor of laziness— I tell you they're squeezed by a spasm of craziness, A fit half as bad as the staggering vertigos That seize a poor fellow and down in the dirt he goes!

And therefore it chimes with the word's etytology That the sons of Apollo are great on apology, For the writing of verse is a struggle mysterious And the gayest of rhymes is a matter that's serious. For myself, I'm relied on by friends in extremities, And I don't mind so much if a comfort to them it is; 'T is a pleasure to please, and the straw that can tickle us Is a source of enjoyment though slightly ridiculous.

I am up for a—something—and since I 've begun with it, I must give you a toast now before I have done with it. Let me pump at my wits as they pumped the Cochituate That moistened—it may be—the very last bit you ate: Success to our publishers, authors and editors To our debtors good luck,—pleasant dreams to our creditors; May the monthly grow yearly, till all we are groping for Has reached the fulfilment we're all of us hoping for; Till the bore through the tunnel—it makes me let off a sigh To think it may possibly ruin my prophecy— Has been punned on so often 't will never provoke again One mild adolescent to make the old joke again; Till abstinent, all-go-to-meeting society Has forgotten the sense of the word inebriety; Till the work that poor Hannah and Bridget and Phillis do The humanized, civilized female gorillas do; Till the roughs, as we call them, grown loving and dutiful, Shall worship the true and the pure and the beautiful, And, preying no longer as tiger and vulture do, All read the "Atlantic" as persons of culture do!



"LUCY"

FOR HER GOLDEN WEDDING, OCTOBER 18, 1875

"Lucy."—The old familiar name Is now, as always, pleasant, Its liquid melody the same Alike in past or present; Let others call you what they will, I know you'll let me use it; To me your name is Lucy still, I cannot bear to lose it.

What visions of the past return With Lucy's image blended! What memories from the silent urn Of gentle lives long ended! What dreams of childhood's fleeting morn, What starry aspirations, That filled the misty days unborn With fancy's coruscations!

Ah, Lucy, life has swiftly sped From April to November; The summer blossoms all are shed That you and I remember; But while the vanished years we share With mingling recollections, How all their shadowy features wear The hue of old affections!

Love called you. He who stole your heart Of sunshine half bereft us; Our household's garland fell apart The morning that you left us; The tears of tender girlhood streamed Through sorrow's opening sluices; Less sweet our garden's roses seemed, Less blue its flower-de-luces.

That old regret is turned to smiles, That parting sigh to greeting; I send my heart-throb fifty miles Through every line 't is beating; God grant you many and happy years, Till when the last has crowned you The dawn of endless day appears, And heaven is shining round you!

October 11, 1875.



HYMN

FOR THE INAUGURATION OF THE STATUE OF GOVERNOR ANDREW, HINGHAM, OCTOBER 7, 1875

BEHOLD the shape our eyes have known! It lives once more in changeless stone; So looked in mortal face and form Our guide through peril's deadly storm.

But hushed the beating heart we knew, That heart so tender, brave, and true, Firm as the rooted mountain rock, Pure as the quarry's whitest block!

Not his beneath the blood-red star To win the soldier's envied sear; Unarmed he battled for the right, In Duty's never-ending fight.

Unconquered will, unslumbering eye, Faith such as bids the martyr die, The prophet's glance, the master's hand To mould the work his foresight planned,

These were his gifts; what Heaven had lent For justice, mercy, truth, he spent, First to avenge the traitorous blow, And first to lift the vanquished foe.

Lo, thus he stood; in danger's strait The pilot of the Pilgrim State! Too large his fame for her alone,— A nation claims him as her own!



A MEMORIAL TRIBUTE

READ AT THE MEETING HELD AT MUSIC HALL, FEBRUARY 8, 1876, IN MEMORY OF DR. SAMUEL G. HOWE

I.

LEADER of armies, Israel's God, Thy soldier's fight is won! Master, whose lowly path he trod, Thy servant's work is done!

No voice is heard from Sinai's steep Our wandering feet to guide; From Horeb's rock no waters leap; No Jordan's waves divide;

No prophet cleaves our western sky On wheels of whirling fire; No shepherds hear the song on high Of heaven's angelic choir.

Yet here as to the patriarch's tent God's angel comes a guest; He comes on heaven's high errand sent, In earth's poor raiment drest.

We see no halo round his brow Till love its own recalls, And, like a leaf that quits the bough, The mortal vesture falls.

In autumn's chill declining day, Ere winter's killing frost, The message came; so passed away The friend our earth has lost.

Still, Father, in thy love we trust; Forgive us if we mourn The saddening hour that laid in dust His robe of flesh outworn.

II.

How long the wreck-strewn journey seems To reach the far-off past That woke his youth from peaceful dreams With Freedom's trumpet-blast.

Along her classic hillsides rung The Paynim's battle-cry, And like a red-cross knight he sprung For her to live or die.

No trustier service claimed the wreath For Sparta's bravest son; No truer soldier sleeps beneath The mound of Marathon;

Yet not for him the warrior's grave In front of angry foes; To lift, to shield, to help, to save, The holier task he chose.

He touched the eyelids of the blind, And lo! the veil withdrawn, As o'er the midnight of the mind He led the light of dawn.

He asked not whence the fountains roll No traveller's foot has found, But mapped the desert of the soul Untracked by sight or sound.

What prayers have reached the sapphire throne, By silent fingers spelt, For him who first through depths unknown His doubtful pathway felt,

Who sought the slumbering sense that lay Close shut with bolt and bar, And showed awakening thought the ray Of reason's morning star.

Where'er he moved, his shadowy form The sightless orbs would seek, And smiles of welcome light and warm The lips that could not speak.

No labored line, no sculptor's art, Such hallowed memory needs; His tablet is the human heart, His record loving deeds.

III.

The rest that earth denied is thine,— Ah, is it rest? we ask, Or, traced by knowledge more divine, Some larger, nobler task?

Had but those boundless fields of blue One darkened sphere like this; But what has heaven for thee to do In realms of perfect bliss?

No cloud to lift, no mind to clear, No rugged path to smooth, No struggling soul to help and cheer, No mortal grief to soothe!

Enough; is there a world of love, No more we ask to know; The hand will guide thy ways above That shaped thy task below.



JOSEPH WARREN, M. D.

TRAINED in the holy art whose lifted shield Wards off the darts a never-slumbering foe, By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to throw, Oppression taught his helpful arm to wield The slayer's weapon: on the murderous field The fiery bolt he challenged laid him low, Seeking its noblest victim. Even so The charter of a nation must be sealed! The healer's brow the hero's honors crowned, From lowliest duty called to loftiest deed. Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples bound; Dying, the conqueror's laurel was his meed, Last on the broken ramparts' turf to bleed Where Freedom's victory in defeat was found.

June 11, 1875.



OLD CAMBRIDGE

JULY 3, 1875

AND can it be you've found a place Within this consecrated space, That makes so fine a show, For one of Rip Van Winkle's race? And is it really so? Who wants an old receipted bill? Who fishes in the Frog-pond still? Who digs last year's potato hill?— That's what he'd like to know!

And were it any spot on earth Save this dear home that gave him birth Some scores of years ago, He had not come to spoil your mirth And chill your festive glow; But round his baby-nest he strays, With tearful eye the scene surveys, His heart unchanged by changing days, That's what he'd have you know.

Can you whose eyes not yet are dim Live o'er the buried past with him, And see the roses blow When white-haired men were Joe and Jim Untouched by winter's snow? Or roll the years back one by one As Judah's monarch backed the sun, And see the century just begun?— That's what he'd like to know!

I come, but as the swallow dips, Just touching with her feather-tips The shining wave below, To sit with pleasure-murmuring lips And listen to the flow Of Elmwood's sparkling Hippocrene, To tread once more my native green, To sigh unheard, to smile unseen,— That's what I'd have you know.

But since the common lot I've shared (We all are sitting "unprepared," Like culprits in a row, Whose heads are down, whose necks are bared To wait the headsman's blow), I'd like to shift my task to you, By asking just a thing or two About the good old times I knew,— Here's what I want to know.

The yellow meetin' house—can you tell Just where it stood before it fell Prey of the vandal foe,— Our dear old temple, loved so well, By ruthless hands laid low? Where, tell me, was the Deacon's pew? Whose hair was braided in a queue? (For there were pig-tails not a few,)— That's what I'd like to know.

The bell—can you recall its clang? And how the seats would slam and bang? The voices high and low? The basso's trump before he sang? The viol and its bow? Where was it old Judge Winthrop sat? Who wore the last three-cornered hat? Was Israel Porter lean or fat?— That's what I'd like to know.

Tell where the market used to be That stood beside the murdered tree? Whose dog to church would go? Old Marcus Reemie, who was he? Who were the brothers Snow? Does not your memory slightly fail About that great September gale?— Whereof one told a moving tale, As Cambridge boys should know.

When Cambridge was a simple town, Say just when Deacon William Brown (Last door in yonder row), For honest silver counted down, His groceries would bestow?— For those were days when money meant Something that jingled as you went,— No hybrid like the nickel cent, I'd have you all to know,

But quarter, ninepence, pistareen, And fourpence hapennies in between, All metal fit to show, Instead of rags in stagnant green, The scum of debts we owe; How sad to think such stuff should be Our Wendell's cure-all recipe,— Not Wendell H., but Wendell P.,— The one you all must know!

I question—but you answer not— Dear me! and have I quite forgot How fivescore years ago, Just on this very blessed spot, The summer leaves below, Before his homespun ranks arrayed In green New England's elmbough shade The great Virginian drew the blade King George full soon should know!

O George the Third! you found it true Our George was more than double you, For nature made him so. Not much an empire's crown can do If brains are scant and slow,— Ah, not like that his laurel crown Whose presence gilded with renown Our brave old Academic town, As all her children know!

So here we meet with loud acclaim To tell mankind that here he came, With hearts that throb and glow; Ours is a portion of his fame Our trumpets needs must blow! On yonder hill the Lion fell, But here was chipped the eagle's shell,— That little hatchet did it well, As all the world shall know!



WELCOME TO THE NATIONS

PHILADELPHIA, JULY 4, 1876

BRIGHT on the banners of lily and rose Lo! the last sun of our century sets! Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our foes, All but her friendships the nation forgets All but her friends and their welcome forgets! These are around her; but where are her foes? Lo, while the sun of her century sets, Peace with her garlands of lily and rose!

Welcome! a shout like the war trumpet's swell Wakes the wild echoes that slumber around Welcome! it quivers from Liberty's bell; Welcome! the walls of her temple resound! Hark! the gray walls of her temple resound Fade the far voices o'er hillside and dell; Welcome! still whisper the echoes around; Welcome I still trembles on Liberty's bell!

Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine; Welcome, once more, to the land of the free, Shadowed alike by the pahn and the pine; Softly they murmur, the palm and the pine, "Hushed is our strife, in the land of the free"; Over your children their branches entwine, Thrones of the continents! isles of the sea!



A FAMILIAR LETTER

TO SEVERAL CORRESPONDENTS

YES, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying; Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold? I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying, If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold.

Here's a book full of words; one can choose as he fancies, As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool; Just think! all the poems and plays and romances Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!

You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes, And take all you want,—not a copper they cost,— What is there to hinder your picking out phrases For an epic as clever as "Paradise Lost"?

Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero, Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean; Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine.

There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother That boarding-school flavor of which we 're afraid,— There is "lush" is a good one, and "swirl" another,— Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made.

With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell; You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses, And we cry with delight, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!"

Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions For winning the laurels to which you aspire, By docking the tails of the two prepositions I' the style o' the bards you so greatly admire.

As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty For ringing the changes on metrical chimes; A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes.

Let me show you a picture—'tis far from irrelevant— By a famous old hand in the arts of design; 'T is only a photographed sketch of an elephant,— The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine.

How easy! no troublesome colors to lay on, It can't have fatigued him,—no, not in the least,— A dash here and there with a hap-hazard crayon, And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast.

Just so with your verse,—'t is as easy as sketching,— You—can reel off a song without knitting your brow, As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching; It is nothing at all, if you only know how.

Well; imagine you've printed your volume of verses: Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame, Your poems the eloquent school-boy rehearses, Her album the school-girl presents for your name;

Each morning the post brings you autograph letters; You'll answer them promptly,—an hour is n't much For the honor of sharing a page with your betters, With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.

Of course you're delighted to serve the committees That come with requests from the country all round, You would grace the occasion with poems and ditties When they've got a new schoolhouse, or poor-house, or pound.

With a hymn for the saints and a song for the sinners, You go and are welcome wherever you please; You're a privileged guest at all manner of dinners, You've a seat on the platform among the grandees.

At length your mere presence becomes a sensation, Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brim With the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration, As the whisper runs round of "That's he!" or "That Is him!"

But remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous, So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched, Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o'er us, The ovum was human from which you were hatched.

No will of your own with its puny compulsion Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre; It comes, if at all, like the Sibyl's convulsion And touches the brain with a finger of fire.

So perhaps, after all, it's as well to be quiet, If you've nothing you think is worth saying in prose, As to furnish a meal of their cannibal diet To the critics, by publishing, as you propose.

But it's all of no use, and I 'm sorry I've written,— I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf; For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten, And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.



UNSATISFIED

"ONLY a housemaid!" She looked from the kitchen,— Neat was the kitchen and tidy was she; There at her window a sempstress sat stitching; "Were I a sempstress, how happy I'd be!"

"Only a Queen!" She looked over the waters,— Fair was her kingdom and mighty was she; There sat an Empress, with Queens for her daughters; "Were I an Empress, how happy I'd be!"

Still the old frailty they all of them trip in! Eve in her daughters is ever the same; Give her all Eden, she sighs for a pippin; Give her an Empire, she pines for a name!

May 8, 1876.



HOW THE OLD HORSE WON THE BET

DEDICATED BY A CONTRIBUTOR TO THE COLLEGIAN, 1830, TO THE EDITORS OF THE HARVARD ADVOCATE, 1876.

'T WAS on the famous trotting-ground, The betting men were gathered round From far and near; the "cracks" were there Whose deeds the sporting prints declare The swift g. m., Old Hiram's nag, The fleet s. h., Dan Pfeiffer's brag, With these a third—and who is he That stands beside his fast b. g.? Budd Doble, whose catarrhal name So fills the nasal trump of fame. There too stood many a noted steed Of Messenger and Morgan breed; Green horses also, not a few; Unknown as yet what they could do; And all the hacks that know so well The scourgings of the Sunday swell.

Blue are the skies of opening day; The bordering turf is green with May; The sunshine's golden gleam is thrown On sorrel, chestnut, bay, and roan; The horses paw and prance and neigh, Fillies and colts like kittens play, And dance and toss their rippled manes Shining and soft as silken skeins; Wagons and gigs are ranged about, And fashion flaunts her gay turn-out; Here stands—each youthful Jehu's dream The jointed tandem, ticklish team! And there in ampler breadth expand The splendors of the four-in-hand; On faultless ties and glossy tiles The lovely bonnets beam their smiles; (The style's the man, so books avow; The style's the woman, anyhow); From flounces frothed with creamy lace Peeps out the pug-dog's smutty face, Or spaniel rolls his liquid eye, Or stares the wiry pet of Skye,— O woman, in your hours of ease So shy with us, so free with these!

"Come on! I 'll bet you two to one I 'll make him do it!" "Will you? Done!"

What was it who was bound to do? I did not hear and can't tell you,— Pray listen till my story's through.

Scarce noticed, back behind the rest, By cart and wagon rudely prest, The parson's lean and bony bay Stood harnessed in his one-horse shay— Lent to his sexton for the day; (A funeral—so the sexton said; His mother's uncle's wife was dead.)

Like Lazarus bid to Dives' feast, So looked the poor forlorn old beast; His coat was rough, his tail was bare, The gray was sprinkled in his hair; Sportsmen and jockeys knew him not, And yet they say he once could trot Among the fleetest of the town, Till something cracked and broke him down,— The steed's, the statesman's, common lot! "And are we then so soon forgot?" Ah me! I doubt if one of you Has ever heard the name "Old Blue," Whose fame through all this region rung In those old days when I was young!

"Bring forth the horse!" Alas! he showed Not like the one Mazeppa rode; Scant-maned, sharp-backed, and shaky-kneed, The wreck of what was once a steed, Lips thin, eyes hollow, stiff in joints; Yet not without his knowing points. The sexton laughing in his sleeve, As if 't were all a make-believe, Led forth the horse, and as he laughed Unhitched the breeching from a shaft, Unclasped the rusty belt beneath, Drew forth the snaffle from his teeth, Slipped off his head-stall, set him free From strap and rein,—a sight to see!

So worn, so lean in every limb, It can't be they are saddling him! It is! his back the pig-skin strides And flaps his lank, rheumatic sides; With look of mingled scorn and mirth They buckle round the saddle-girth; With horsey wink and saucy toss A youngster throws his leg across, And so, his rider on his back, They lead him, limping, to the track, Far up behind the starting-point, To limber out each stiffened joint.

As through the jeering crowd he past, One pitying look Old Hiram cast; "Go it, ye cripple, while ye can!" Cried out unsentimental Dan; "A Fast-Day dinner for the crows!" Budd Doble's scoffing shout arose.

Slowly, as when the walking-beam First feels the gathering head of steam, With warning cough and threatening wheeze The stiff old charger crooks his knees; At first with cautious step sedate, As if he dragged a coach of state He's not a colt; he knows full well That time is weight and sure to tell; No horse so sturdy but he fears The handicap of twenty years.

As through the throng on either hand The old horse nears the judges' stand, Beneath his jockey's feather-weight He warms a little to his gait, And now and then a step is tried That hints of something like a stride.

"Go!"—Through his ear the summons stung As if a battle-trump had rung; The slumbering instincts long unstirred Start at the old familiar word; It thrills like flame through every limb,— What mean his twenty years to him? The savage blow his rider dealt Fell on his hollow flanks unfelt; The spur that pricked his staring hide Unheeded tore his bleeding side; Alike to him are spur and rein,— He steps a five-year-old again!

Before the quarter pole was past, Old Hiram said, "He's going fast." Long ere the quarter was a half, The chuckling crowd had ceased to laugh; Tighter his frightened jockey clung As in a mighty stride he swung, The gravel flying in his track, His neck stretched out, his ears laid back, His tail extended all the while Behind him like a rat-tail file! Off went a shoe,—away it spun, Shot like a bullet from a gun;

The quaking jockey shapes a prayer From scraps of oaths he used to swear; He drops his whip, he drops his rein, He clutches fiercely for a mane; He'll lose his hold—he sways and reels— He'll slide beneath those trampling heels! The knees of many a horseman quake, The flowers on many a bonnet shake, And shouts arise from left and right, "Stick on! Stick on!" "Hould tight! Hould tight!" "Cling round his neck and don't let go—" "That pace can't hold—there! steady! whoa!" But like the sable steed that bore The spectral lover of Lenore, His nostrils snorting foam and fire, No stretch his bony limbs can tire; And now the stand he rushes by, And "Stop him!—stop him!" is the cry. Stand back! he 's only just begun— He's having out three heats in one!

"Don't rush in front! he'll smash your brains; But follow up and grab the reins!" Old Hiram spoke. Dan Pfeiffer heard, And sprang impatient at the word; Budd Doble started on his bay, Old Hiram followed on his gray, And off they spring, and round they go, The fast ones doing "all they know." Look! twice they follow at his heels, As round the circling course he wheels, And whirls with him that clinging boy Like Hector round the walls of Troy; Still on, and on, the third time round They're tailing off! they're losing ground! Budd Doble's nag begins to fail! Dan Pfeiffer's sorrel whisks his tail! And see! in spite of whip and shout, Old Hiram's mare is giving out! Now for the finish! at the turn, The old horse—all the rest astern— Comes swinging in, with easy trot; By Jove! he's distanced all the lot!

That trot no mortal could explain; Some said, "Old Dutchman come again!" Some took his time,—at least they tried, But what it was could none decide; One said he couldn't understand What happened to his second hand; One said 2.10; that could n't be— More like two twenty-two or three; Old Hiram settled it at last; "The time was two—too dee-vel-ish fast!"

The parson's horse had won the bet; It cost him something of a sweat; Back in the one-horse shay he went; The parson wondered what it meant, And murmured, with a mild surprise And pleasant twinkle of the eyes, That funeral must have been a trick, Or corpses drive at double-quick; I should n't wonder, I declare, If brother—Jehu—made the prayer!

And this is all I have to say About that tough old trotting bay, Huddup! Huddup! G'lang! Good day! Moral for which this tale is told A horse can trot, for all he 's old.



AN APPEAL FOR "THE OLD SOUTH"

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall."

FULL sevenscore years our city's pride— The comely Southern spire— Has cast its shadow, and defied The storm, the foe, the fire; Sad is the sight our eyes behold; Woe to the three-hilled town, When through the land the tale is told— "The brave 'Old South' is down!"

Let darkness blot the starless dawn That hears our children tell, "Here rose the walls, now wrecked and gone, Our fathers loved so well; Here, while his brethren stood aloof, The herald's blast was blown That shook St. Stephen's pillared roof And rocked King George's throne!

"The home-bound wanderer of the main Looked from his deck afar, To where the gilded, glittering vane Shone like the evening star, And pilgrim feet from every clime The floor with reverence trod, Where holy memories made sublime The shrine of Freedom's God!"

The darkened skies, alas! have seen Our monarch tree laid low, And spread in ruins o'er the green, But Nature struck the blow; No scheming thrift its downfall planned, It felt no edge of steel, No soulless hireling raised his hand The deadly stroke to deal.

In bridal garlands, pale and mute, Still pleads the storied tower; These are the blossoms, but the fruit Awaits the golden shower; The spire still greets the morning sun,— Say, shall it stand or fall? Help, ere the spoiler has begun! Help, each, and God help all!



THE FIRST FAN

READ AT A MEETING OF THE BOSTON BRIC-A-BRAC CLUB, FEBRUARY 21, 1877

WHEN rose the cry "Great Pan is dead!" And Jove's high palace closed its portal, The fallen gods, before they fled, Sold out their frippery to a mortal.

"To whom?" you ask. I ask of you. The answer hardly needs suggestion; Of course it was the Wandering Jew,— How could you put me such a question?

A purple robe, a little worn, The Thunderer deigned himself to offer; The bearded wanderer laughed in scorn,— You know he always was a scoffer.

"Vife shillins! 't is a monstrous price; Say two and six and further talk shun." "Take it," cried Jove; "we can't be nice,— 'T would fetch twice that at Leonard's auction."

The ice was broken; up they came, All sharp for bargains, god and goddess, Each ready with the price to name For robe or head-dress, scarf or bodice.

First Juno, out of temper, too,— Her queenly forehead somewhat cloudy; Then Pallas in her stockings blue, Imposing, but a little dowdy.

The scowling queen of heaven unrolled Before the Jew a threadbare turban "Three shillings." "One. 'T will suit some old Terrific feminine suburban."

But as for Pallas,—how to tell In seemly phrase a fact so shocking? She pointed,—pray excuse me,—well, She pointed to her azure stocking.

And if the honest truth were told, Its heel confessed the need of darning; "Gods!" low-bred Vulcan cried, "behold! There! that's what comes of too much larning!"

Pale Proserpine came groping round, Her pupils dreadfully dilated With too much living underground,— A residence quite overrated;

This kerchief's what you want, I know,— Don't cheat poor Venus of her cestus,— You'll find it handy when you go To—you know where; it's pure asbestus.

Then Phoebus of the silverr bow, And Hebe, dimpled as a baby, And Dian with the breast of snow, Chaser and chased—and caught, it may be:

One took the quiver from her back, One held the cap he spent the night in, And one a bit of bric-a-brac, Such as the gods themselves delight in.

Then Mars, the foe of human kind, Strode up and showed his suit of armor; So none at last was left behind Save Venus, the celestial charmer.

Poor Venus! What had she to sell? For all she looked so fresh and jaunty, Her wardrobe, as I blush' to tell, Already seemed but quite too scanty.

Her gems were sold, her sandals gone,— She always would be rash and flighty,— Her winter garments all in pawn, Alas for charming Aphrodite.

The lady of a thousand loves, The darling of the old religion, Had only left of all the doves That drew her car one fan-tailed pigeon.

How oft upon her finger-tips He perched, afraid of Cupid's arrow, Or kissed her on the rosebud lips, Like Roman Lesbia's loving sparrow!

"My bird, I want your train," she cried; "Come, don't let's have a fuss about it; I'll make it beauty's pet and pride, And you'll be better off without it.

"So vulgar! Have you noticed, pray, An earthly belle or dashing bride walk, And how her flounces track her way, Like slimy serpents on the sidewalk?

"A lover's heart it quickly cools; In mine it kindles up enough rage To wring their necks. How can such fools Ask men to vote for woman suffrage?"

The goddess spoke, and gently stripped Her bird of every caudal feather; A strand of gold-bright hair she clipped, And bound the glossy plumes together,

And lo, the Fan! for beauty's hand, The lovely queen of beauty made it; The price she named was hard to stand, But Venus smiled: the Hebrew paid it.

Jove, Juno, Venus, where are you? Mars, Mercury, Phoebus, Neptune, Saturn? But o'er the world the Wandering Jew Has borne the Fan's celestial pattern.

So everywhere we find the Fan,— In lonely isles of the Pacific, In farthest China and Japan,— Wherever suns are sudorific.

Nay, even the oily Esquimaux In summer court its cooling breezes,— In fact, in every clime 't is so, No matter if it fries or freezes.

And since from Aphrodite's dove The pattern of the fan was given, No wonder that it breathes of love And wafts the perfumed gales of heaven!

Before this new Pandora's gift In slavery woman's tyrant kept her, But now he kneels her glove to lift,— The fan is mightier than the sceptre.

The tap it gives how arch and sly! The breath it wakes how fresh and grateful! Behind its shield how soft the sigh! The whispered tale of shame how fateful!

Its empire shadows every throne And every shore that man is tost on; It rules the lords of every zone, Nay, even the bluest blood of Boston!

But every one that swings to-night, Of fairest shape, from farthest region, May trace its pedigree aright To Aphrodite's fan-tailed pigeon.



TO R. B. H.

AT THE DINNER TO THE PRESIDENT, BOSTON, JUNE 26, 1877

How to address him? awkward, it is true Call him "Great Father," as the Red Men do? Borrow some title? this is not the place That christens men Your Highness and Your Grace; We tried such names as these awhile, you know, But left them off a century ago.

His Majesty? We've had enough of that Besides, that needs a crown; he wears a hat. What if, to make the nicer ears content, We say His Honesty, the President?

Sir, we believed you honest, truthful, brave, When to your hands their precious trust we gave, And we have found you better than we knew, Braver, and not less honest, not less true! So every heart has opened, every hand Tingles with welcome, and through all the land All voices greet you in one broad acclaim, Healer of strife! Has earth a nobler name?

What phrases mean you do not need to learn; We must be civil, and they serve our turn "Your most obedient humble" means—means what? Something the well-bred signer just is not.

Yet there are tokens, sir, you must believe; There is one language never can deceive The lover knew it when the maiden smiled; The mother knows it when she clasps her child; Voices may falter, trembling lips turn pale, Words grope and stumble; this will tell their tale Shorn of all rhetoric, bare of all pretence, But radiant, warm, with Nature's eloquence. Look in our eyes! Your welcome waits you there,— North, South, East, West, from all and everywhere!



THE SHIP OF STATE

A SENTIMENT

This "sentiment" was read on the same occasion as the "Family Record," which immediately follows it. The latter poem is the dutiful tribute of a son to his father and his father's ancestors, residents of Woodstock from its first settlement.

THE Ship of State! above her skies are blue, But still she rocks a little, it is true, And there are passengers whose faces white Show they don't feel as happy as they might; Yet on the whole her crew are quite content, Since its wild fury the typhoon has spent, And willing, if her pilot thinks it best, To head a little nearer south by west. And this they feel: the ship came too near wreck, In the long quarrel for the quarter-deck, Now when she glides serenely on her way,— The shallows past where dread explosives lay,— The stiff obstructive's churlish game to try Let sleeping dogs and still torpedoes lie! And so I give you all the Ship of State; Freedom's last venture is her priceless freight; God speed her, keep her, bless her, while she steers Amid the breakers of unsounded years; Lead her through danger's paths with even keel, And guide the honest hand that holds her wheel!

WOODSTOCK, CONN., July 4, 1877.



A FAMILY RECORD

WOODSTOCK, CONN., JULY 4, 1877

NOT to myself this breath of vesper song, Not to these patient friends, this kindly throng, Not to this hallowed morning, though it be Our summer Christmas, Freedom's jubilee, When every summit, topmast, steeple, tower, That owns her empire spreads her starry flower, Its blood-streaked leaves in heaven's benignant dew Washed clean from every crimson stain they knew,— No, not to these the passing thrills belong That steal my breath to hush themselves with song. These moments all are memory's; I have come To speak with lips that rather should be dumb; For what are words? At every step I tread The dust that wore the footprints of the dead But for whose life my life had never known This faded vesture which it calls its own. Here sleeps my father's sire, and they who gave That earlier life here found their peaceful grave. In days gone by I sought the hallowed ground; Climbed yon long slope; the sacred spot I found Where all unsullied lies the winter snow, Where all ungathered spring's pale violets blow, And tracked from stone to stone the Saxon name That marks the blood I need not blush to claim, Blood such as warmed the Pilgrim sons of toil, Who held from God the charter of the soil. I come an alien to your hills and plains, Yet feel your birthright tingling in my veins; Mine are this changing prospect's sun and shade, In full-blown summer's bridal pomp arrayed; Mine these fair hillsides and the vales between; Mine the sweet streams that lend their brightening green; I breathed your air—the sunlit landscape smiled; I touch your soil—it knows its children's child; Throned in my heart your heritage is mine; I claim it all by memory's right divine Waking, I dream. Before my vacant eyes In long procession shadowy forms arise; Far through the vista of the silent years I see a venturous band; the pioneers, Who let the sunlight through the forest's gloom, Who bade the harvest wave, the garden bloom. Hark! loud resounds the bare-armed settler's axe, See where the stealthy panther left his tracks! As fierce, as stealthy creeps the skulking foe With stone-tipped shaft and sinew-corded bow; Soon shall he vanish from his ancient reign, Leave his last cornfield to the coming train, Quit the green margin of the wave he drinks, For haunts that hide the wild-cat and the lynx.

But who the Youth his glistening axe that swings To smite the pine that shows a hundred rings? His features?—something in his look I find That calls the semblance of my race to mind. His name?—my own; and that which goes before The same that once the loved disciple bore. Young, brave, discreet, the father of a line Whose voiceless lives have found a voice in mine; Thinned by unnumbered currents though they be, Thanks for the ruddy drops I claim from thee!

The seasons pass; the roses come and go; Snows fall and melt; the waters freeze and flow; The boys are men; the girls, grown tall and fair, Have found their mates; a gravestone here and there Tells where the fathers lie; the silvered hair Of some bent patriarch yet recalls the time That saw his feet the northern hillside climb, A pilgrim from the pilgrims far away, The godly men, the dwellers by the bay. On many a hearthstone burns the cheerful fire; The schoolhouse porch, the heavenward pointing spire Proclaim in letters every eye can read, Knowledge and Faith, the new world's simple creed. Hush! 't is the Sabbath's silence-stricken morn No feet must wander through the tasselled corn; No merry children laugh around the door, No idle playthings strew the sanded floor; The law of Moses lays its awful ban On all that stirs; here comes the tithing-man At last the solemn hour of worship calls; Slowly they gather in the sacred walls; Man in his strength and age with knotted staff, And boyhood aching for its week-day laugh, The toil-worn mother with the child she leads, The maiden, lovely in her golden beads,— The popish symbols round her neck she wears, But on them counts her lovers, not her prayers,— Those youths in homespun suits and ribboned queues, Whose hearts are beating in the high-backed pews. The pastor rises; looks along the seats With searching eye; each wonted face he meets; Asks heavenly guidance; finds the chapter's place That tells some tale of Israel's stubborn race; Gives out the sacred song; all voices join, For no quartette extorts their scanty coin; Then while both hands their black-gloved palms display, Lifts his gray head, and murmurs, "Let us pray!" And pray he does! as one that never fears To plead unanswered by the God that hears; What if he dwells on many a fact as though Some things Heaven knew not which it ought to know,— Thanks God for all his favors past, and yet, Tells Him there's something He must not forget; Such are the prayers his people love to hear,— See how the Deacon slants his listening ear! What! look once more! Nay, surely there I trace The hinted outlines of a well-known face! Not those the lips for laughter to beguile, Yet round their corners lurks an embryo smile, The same on other lips my childhood knew That scarce the Sabbath's mastery could subdue. Him too my lineage gives me leave to claim,— The good, grave man that bears the Psalmist's name.

And still in ceaseless round the seasons passed; Spring piped her carol; Autumn blew his blast; Babes waxed to manhood; manhood shrunk to age; Life's worn-out players tottered off the stage; The few are many; boys have grown to men Since Putnam dragged the wolf from Pomfret's den; Our new-old Woodstock is a thriving town; Brave are her children; faithful to the crown; Her soldiers' steel the savage redskin knows; Their blood has crimsoned his Canadian snows. And now once more along the quiet vale Rings the dread call that turns the mothers pale; Full well they know the valorous heat that runs In every pulse-beat of their loyal sons; Who would not bleed in good King George's cause When England's lion shows his teeth and claws? With glittering firelocks on the village green In proud array a martial band is seen; You know what names those ancient rosters hold,— Whose belts were buckled when the drum-beat rolled,— But mark their Captain! tell us, who is he? On his brown face that same old look I see Yes! from the homestead's still retreat he came, Whose peaceful owner bore the Psalmist's name; The same his own. Well, Israel's glorious king Who struck the harp could also whirl the sling,— Breathe in his song a penitential sigh And smite the sons of Amalek hip and thigh: These shared their task; one deaconed out the psalm, One slashed the scalping hell-hounds of calm; The praying father's pious work is done, Now sword in hand steps forth the fighting son. On many a field he fought in wilds afar; See on his swarthy cheek the bullet's scar! There hangs a murderous tomahawk; beneath, Without its blade, a knife's embroidered sheath; Save for the stroke his trusty weapon dealt His scalp had dangled at their owner's belt; But not for him such fate; he lived to see The bloodier strife that made our nation free, To serve with willing toil, with skilful hand, The war-worn saviors of the bleeding land. His wasting life to others' needs he gave,— Sought rest in home and found it in the grave. See where the stones life's brief memorials keep, The tablet telling where he "fell on sleep,"— Watched by a winged cherub's rayless eye,— A scroll above that says we all must die,— Those saddening lines beneath, the "Night-Thoughts" lent: So stands the Soldier's, Surgeon's monument. Ah! at a glance my filial eye divines The scholar son in those remembered lines.

The Scholar Son. His hand my footsteps led. No more the dim unreal past I tread. O thou whose breathing form was once so dear, Whose cheering voice was music to my ear, Art thou not with me as my feet pursue The village paths so well thy boyhood knew, Along the tangled margin of the stream Whose murmurs blended with thine infant dream, Or climb the hill, or thread the wooded vale, Or seek the wave where gleams yon distant sail, Or the old homestead's narrowed bounds explore, Where sloped the roof that sheds the rains no more, Where one last relic still remains to tell Here stood thy home,—the memory-haunted well, Whose waters quench a deeper thirst than thine, Changed at my lips to sacramental wine,— Art thou not with me, as I fondly trace The scanty records of thine honored race, Call up the forms that earlier years have known, And spell the legend of each slanted stone? With thoughts of thee my loving verse began, Not for the critic's curious eye to scan, Not for the many listeners, but the few Whose fathers trod the paths my fathers knew; Still in my heart thy loved remembrance burns; Still to my lips thy cherished name returns; Could I but feel thy gracious presence near Amid the groves that once to thee were dear Could but my trembling lips with mortal speech Thy listening ear for one brief moment reach! How vain the dream! The pallid voyager's track No sign betrays; he sends no message back. No word from thee since evening's shadow fell On thy cold forehead with my long farewell,— Now from the margin of the silent sea, Take my last offering ere I cross to thee!



THE IRON GATE

AND OTHER POEMS

1877-1881



THE IRON GATE

Read at the Breakfast given in honor of Dr. Holmes's Seventieth Birthday by the publishers of the "Atlantic Monthly," Boston, December 3, 1879.

WHERE is this patriarch you are kindly greeting? Not unfamiliar to my ear his name, Nor yet unknown to many a joyous meeting In days long vanished,—is he still the same,

Or changed by years, forgotten and forgetting, Dull-eared, dim-sighted, slow of speech and thought, Still o'er the sad, degenerate present fretting, Where all goes wrong, and nothing as it ought?

Old age, the graybeard! Well, indeed, I know him,— Shrunk, tottering, bent, of aches and ills the prey; In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem, Oft have I met him from my earliest day.

In my old AEsop, toiling with his bundle,— His load of sticks,—politely asking Death, Who comes when called for,—would he lug or trundle His fagot for him?—he was scant of breath.

And sad "Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher,"— Has he not stamped the image on my soul, In that last chapter, where the worn-out Teacher Sighs o'er the loosened cord, the broken bowl?

Yes, long, indeed, I've known him at a distance, And now my lifted door-latch shows him here; I take his shrivelled hand without resistance, And find him smiling as his step draws near.

What though of gilded baubles he bereaves us, Dear to the heart of youth, to manhood's prime; Think of the calm he brings, the wealth he leaves us, The hoarded spoils, the legacies of time!

Altars once flaming, still with incense fragrant, Passion's uneasy nurslings rocked asleep, Hope's anchor faster, wild desire less vagrant, Life's flow less noisy, but the stream how deep!

Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender, Its lightened task-work tugs with lessening strain, Hands get more helpful, voices, grown more tender, Soothe with their softened tones the slumberous brain.

Youth longs and manhood strives, but age remembers, Sits by the raked-up ashes of the past, Spreads its thin hands above the whitening embers That warm its creeping life-blood till the last.

Dear to its heart is every loving token That comes unbidden ere its pulse grows cold, Ere the last lingering ties of life are broken, Its labors ended and its story told.

Ah, while around us rosy youth rejoices, For us the sorrow-laden breezes sigh, And through the chorus of its jocund voices Throbs the sharp note of misery's hopeless cry.

As on the gauzy wings of fancy flying From some far orb I track our watery sphere, Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying, The silvered globule seems a glistening tear.

But Nature lends her mirror of illusion To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes, And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion The wintry landscape and the summer skies.

So when the iron portal shuts behind us, And life forgets us in its noise and whirl, Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us, And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl.

I come not here your morning hour to sadden, A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,— I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh.

If word of mine another's gloom has brightened, Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came; If hand of mine another's task has lightened, It felt the guidance that it dares not claim.

But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers, These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil's release; These feebler pulses bid me leave to others The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace.

Time claims his tribute; silence now is golden; Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre; Though to your love untiring still beholden, The curfew tells me—cover up the fire.

And now with grateful smile and accents cheerful, And warmer heart than look or word can tell, In simplest phrase—these traitorous eyes are tearful— Thanks, Brothers, Sisters,—Children,—and farewell!



VESTIGIA QUINQUE RETRORSUM

AN ACADEMIC POEM

1829-1879

Read at the Commencement Dinner of the Alumni of Harvard University, June 25, 1879.

WHILE fond, sad memories all around us throng, Silence were sweeter than the sweetest song; Yet when the leaves are green and heaven is blue, The choral tribute of the grove is due, And when the lengthening nights have chilled the skies, We fain would hear the song-bird ere be flies, And greet with kindly welcome, even as now, The lonely minstrel on his leafless bough.

This is our golden year,—its golden day; Its bridal memories soon must pass away; Soon shall its dying music cease to ring, And every year must loose some silver string, Till the last trembling chords no longer thrill,— Hands all at rest and hearts forever still.

A few gray heads have joined the forming line; We hear our summons,—"Class of 'Twenty-Nine!" Close on the foremost, and, alas, how few! Are these "The Boys" our dear old Mother knew? Sixty brave swimmers. Twenty—something more— Have passed the stream and reached this frosty shore!

How near the banks these fifty years divide When memory crosses with a single stride! 'T is the first year of stern "Old Hickory" 's rule When our good Mother lets us out of school, Half glad, half sorrowing, it must be confessed, To leave her quiet lap, her bounteous breast, Armed with our dainty, ribbon-tied degrees, Pleased and yet pensive, exiles and A. B.'s.

Look back, O comrades, with your faded eyes, And see the phantoms as I bid them rise. Whose smile is that? Its pattern Nature gave, A sunbeam dancing in a dimpled wave; KIRKLAND alone such grace from Heaven could win, His features radiant as the soul within; That smile would let him through Saint Peter's gate While sad-eyed martyrs had to stand and wait. Here flits mercurial Farrar; standing there, See mild, benignant, cautious, learned Ware, And sturdy, patient, faithful, honest Hedge, Whose grinding logic gave our wits their edge; Ticknor, with honeyed voice and courtly grace; And Willard, larynxed like a double bass; And Channing, with his bland, superior look, Cool as a moonbeam on a frozen brook,

While the pale student, shivering in his shoes, Sees from his theme the turgid rhetoric ooze; And the born soldier, fate decreed to wreak His martial manhood on a class in Greek, Popkin! How that explosive name recalls The grand old Busby of our ancient halls Such faces looked from Skippon's grim platoons, Such figures rode with Ireton's stout dragoons: He gave his strength to learning's gentle charms, But every accent sounded "Shoulder arms!"

Names,—empty names! Save only here and there Some white-haired listener, dozing in his chair, Starts at the sound he often used to hear, And upward slants his Sunday-sermon ear. And we—our blooming manhood we regain; Smiling we join the long Commencement train, One point first battled in discussion hot,— Shall we wear gowns? and settled: We will not. How strange the scene,—that noisy boy-debate Where embryo-speakers learn to rule the State! This broad-browed youth, sedate and sober-eyed, Shall wear the ermined robe at Taney's side; And he, the stripling, smooth of face and slight, Whose slender form scarce intercepts the light, Shall rule the Bench where Parsons gave the law, And sphinx-like sat uncouth, majestic Shaw Ah, many a star has shed its fatal ray On names we loved—our brothers—where are they?

Nor these alone; our hearts in silence claim Names not less dear, unsyllabled by fame.

How brief the space! and yet it sweeps us back Far, far along our new-born history's track Five strides like this;—the sachem rules the land; The Indian wigwams cluster where we stand.

The second. Lo! a scene of deadly strife— A nation struggling into infant life; Not yet the fatal game at Yorktown won Where failing Empire fired its sunset gun. LANGDON sits restless in the ancient chair,— Harvard's grave Head,—these echoes heard his prayer When from yon mansion, dear to memory still, The banded yeomen marched for Bunker's Hill. Count on the grave triennial's thick-starred roll What names were numbered on the lengthening scroll,— Not unfamiliar in our ears they ring,— Winthrop, Hale, Eliot, Everett, Dexter, Tyng.

Another stride. Once more at 'twenty-nine,— GOD SAVE KING GEORGE, the Second of his line! And is Sir Isaac living? Nay, not so,— He followed Flainsteed two short years ago,— And what about the little hump-backed man Who pleased the bygone days of good Queen Anne? What, Pope? another book he's just put out,— "The Dunciad,"—witty, but profane, no doubt.

Where's Cotton Mather? he was always here. And so he would be, but he died last year. Who is this preacher our Northampton claims, Whose rhetoric blazes with sulphureous flames And torches stolen from Tartarean mines? Edwards, the salamander of divines. A deep, strong nature, pure and undefiled; Faith, firm as his who stabbed his sleeping child; Alas for him who blindly strays apart, And seeking God has lost his human heart! Fall where they might, no flying cinders caught These sober halls where WADSWORTH ruled and taught.

One footstep more; the fourth receding stride Leaves the round century on the nearer side. GOD SAVE KING CHARLES! God knows that pleasant knave His grace will find it hard enough to save. Ten years and more, and now the Plague, the Fire, Talk of all tongues, at last begin to tire; One fear prevails, all other frights forgot,— White lips are whispering,—hark! The Popish Plot! Happy New England, from such troubles free In health and peace beyond the stormy sea! No Romish daggers threat her children's throats, No gibbering nightmare mutters "Titus Oates;" Philip is slain, the Quaker graves are green, Not yet the witch has entered on the scene; Happy our Harvard; pleased her graduates four; URIAN OAKES the name their parchments bore.

Two centuries past, our hurried feet arrive At the last footprint of the scanty five; Take the fifth stride; our wandering eyes explore A tangled forest on a trackless shore; Here, where we stand, the savage sorcerer howls, The wild cat snarls, the stealthy gray wolf prowls, The slouching bear, perchance the trampling moose Starts the brown squaw and scares her red pappoose; At every step the lurking foe is near; His Demons reign; God has no temple here!

Lift up your eyes! behold these pictured walls; Look where the flood of western glory falls Through the great sunflower disk of blazing panes In ruby, saffron, azure, emerald stains; With reverent step the marble pavement tread Where our proud Mother's martyr-roll is read; See the great halls that cluster, gathering round This lofty shrine with holiest memories crowned; See the fair Matron in her summer bower, Fresh as a rose in bright perennial flower; Read on her standard, always in the van, "TRUTH,"—the one word that makes a slave a man; Think whose the hands that fed her altar-fires, Then count the debt we owe our scholar-sires!

Brothers, farewell! the fast declining ray Fades to the twilight of our golden day; Some lesson yet our wearied brains may learn, Some leaves, perhaps, in life's thin volume turn. How few they seem as in our waning age We count them backwards to the title-page! Oh let us trust with holy men of old Not all the story here begun is told; So the tired spirit, waiting to be freed, On life's last leaf with tranquil eye shall read By the pale glimmer of the torch reversed, Not Finis, but The End of Volume First!



MY AVIARY

Through my north window, in the wintry weather,— My airy oriel on the river shore,— I watch the sea-fowl as they flock together Where late the boatman flashed his dripping oar.

The gull, high floating, like a sloop unladen, Lets the loose water waft him as it will; The duck, round-breasted as a rustic maiden, Paddles and plunges, busy, busy still.

I see the solemn gulls in council sitting On some broad ice-floe pondering long and late, While overhead the home-bound ducks are flitting, And leave the tardy conclave in debate,

Those weighty questions in their breasts revolving Whose deeper meaning science never learns, Till at some reverend elder's look dissolving, The speechless senate silently adjourns.

But when along the waves the shrill north-easter Shrieks through the laboring coaster's shrouds "Beware!" The pale bird, kindling like a Christmas feaster When some wild chorus shakes the vinous air,

Flaps from the leaden wave in fierce rejoicing, Feels heaven's dumb lightning thrill his torpid nerves, Now on the blast his whistling plumage poising, Now wheeling, whirling in fantastic curves.

Such is our gull; a gentleman of leisure, Less fleshed than feathered; bagged you'll find him such; His virtue silence; his employment pleasure; Not bad to look at, and not good for much.

What of our duck? He has some high-bred cousins,— His Grace the Canvas-back, My Lord the Brant,— Anas and Anser,—both served up by dozens, At Boston's Rocher, half-way to Nahant.

As for himself, he seems alert and thriving,— Grubs up a living somehow—what, who knows? Crabs? mussels? weeds?—Look quick! there 's one just diving! Flop! Splash! his white breast glistens—down he goes!

And while he 's under—just about a minute— I take advantage of the fact to say His fishy carcase has no virtue in it The gunning idiot's worthless hire to pay.

Shrewd is our bird; not easy to outwit him! Sharp is the outlook of those pin-head eyes; Still, he is mortal and a shot may hit him, One cannot always miss him if he tries.

He knows you! "sportsmen" from suburban alleys, Stretched under seaweed in the treacherous punt; Knows every lazy, shiftless lout that sallies Forth to waste powder—as he says, to "hunt."

I watch you with a patient satisfaction, Well pleased to discount your predestined luck; The float that figures in your sly transaction Will carry back a goose, but not a duck.

Look! there's a young one, dreaming not of danger; Sees a flat log come floating down the stream; Stares undismayed upon the harmless stranger; Ah! were all strangers harmless as they seem!

Habet! a leaden shower his breast has shattered; Vainly he flutters, not again to rise; His soft white plumes along the waves are scattered; Helpless the wing that braved the tempest lies.

He sees his comrades high above him flying To seek their nests among the island reeds; Strong is their flight; all lonely he is lying Washed by the crimsoned water as he bleeds.

O Thou who carest for the falling sparrow, Canst Thou the sinless sufferer's pang forget? Or is thy dread account-book's page so narrow Its one long column scores thy creatures' debt?

Poor gentle guest, by nature kindly cherished, A world grows dark with thee in blinding death; One little gasp—thy universe has perished, Wrecked by the idle thief who stole thy breath!

Is this the whole sad story of creation, Lived by its breathing myriads o'er and o'er,— One glimpse of day, then black annihilation,— A sunlit passage to a sunless shore?

Give back our faith, ye mystery-solving lynxes! Robe us once more in heaven-aspiring creeds Happier was dreaming Egypt with her sphinxes, The stony convent with its cross and beads!

How often gazing where a bird reposes, Rocked on the wavelets, drifting with the tide, I lose myself in strange metempsychosis And float a sea-fowl at a sea-fowl's side;

From rain, hail, snow in feathery mantle muffled, Clear-eyed, strong-limbed, with keenest sense to hear My mate soft murmuring, who, with plumes unruffled, Where'er I wander still is nestling near;

The great blue hollow like a garment o'er me; Space all unmeasured, unrecorded time; While seen with inward eye moves on before me Thought's pictured train in wordless pantomime.

A voice recalls me.—From my window turning I find myself a plumeless biped still; No beak, no claws, no sign of wings discerning,— In fact with nothing bird-like but my quill.



ON THE THRESHOLD

INTRODUCTION TO A COLLECTION OF POEMS BYDIFFERENT AUTHORS

AN usher standing at the door I show my white rosette; A smile of welcome, nothing more, Will pay my trifling debt; Why should I bid you idly wait Like lovers at the swinging gate?

Can I forget the wedding guest? The veteran of the sea? In vain the listener smites his breast,— "There was a ship," cries he! Poor fasting victim, stunned and pale, He needs must listen to the tale.

He sees the gilded throng within, The sparkling goblets gleam, The music and the merry din Through every window stream, But there he shivers in the cold Till all the crazy dream is told.

Not mine the graybeard's glittering eye That held his captive still To hold my silent prisoners by And let me have my will; Nay, I were like the three-years' child, To think you could be so beguiled!

My verse is but the curtain's fold That hides the painted scene, The mist by morning's ray unrolled That veils the meadow's green, The cloud that needs must drift away To show the rose of opening day.

See, from the tinkling rill you hear In hollowed palm I bring These scanty drops, but ah, how near The founts that heavenward spring! Thus, open wide the gates are thrown And founts and flowers are all your own!



TO GEORGE PEABODY

DANVERS, 1866

BANKRUPT! our pockets inside out! Empty of words to speak his praises! Worcester and Webster up the spout! Dead broke of laudatory phrases! Yet why with flowery speeches tease, With vain superlatives distress him? Has language better words than these? THE FRIEND OF ALL HIS RACE, GOD BLESS HIM!

A simple prayer—but words more sweet By human lips were never uttered, Since Adam left the country seat Where angel wings around him fluttered. The old look on with tear-dimmed eyes, The children cluster to caress him, And every voice unbidden cries, THE FRIEND OF ALL HIS RACE, GOD BLESS HIM!



AT THE PAPYRUS CLUB

A LOVELY show for eyes to see I looked upon this morning,— A bright-hued, feathered company Of nature's own adorning; But ah! those minstrels would not sing A listening ear while I lent,— The lark sat still and preened his wing, The nightingale was silent; I longed for what they gave me not— Their warblings sweet and fluty, But grateful still for all I got I thanked them for their beauty.

A fairer vision meets my view Of Claras, Margarets, Marys, In silken robes of varied hue, Like bluebirds and canaries; The roses blush, the jewels gleam, The silks and satins glisten, The black eyes flash, the blue eyes beam, We look—and then we listen Behold the flock we cage to-night— Was ever such a capture? To see them is a pure delight; To hear them—ah! what rapture!

Methinks I hear Delilah's laugh At Samson bound in fetters; "We captured!" shrieks each lovelier half, "Men think themselves our betters! We push the bolt, we turn the key On warriors, poets, sages, Too happy, all of them, to be Locked in our golden cages!" Beware! the boy with bandaged eyes Has flung away his blinder;

He 's lost his mother—so he cries— And here he knows he'll find her: The rogue! 't is but a new device,— Look out for flying arrows Whene'er the birds of Paradise Are perched amid the sparrows!



FOR WHITTIER'S SEVENTIETH BIRTHDAY

DECEMBER 17, 1877

I BELIEVE that the copies of verses I've spun, Like Scheherezade's tales, are a thousand and one; You remember the story,—those mornings in bed,— 'T was the turn of a copper,—a tale or a head.

A doom like Scheherezade's falls upon me In a mandate as stern as the Sultan's decree I'm a florist in verse, and what would people say If I came to a banquet without my bouquet?

It is trying, no doubt, when the company knows Just the look and the smell of each lily and rose, The green of each leaf in the sprigs that I bring, And the shape of the bunch and the knot of the string.

Yes,—"the style is the man," and the nib of one's pen Makes the same mark at twenty, and threescore and ten; It is so in all matters, if truth may be told; Let one look at the cast he can tell you the mould.

How we all know each other! no use in disguise; Through the holes in the mask comes the flash of the eyes; We can tell by his—somewhat—each one of our tribe, As we know the old hat which we cannot describe.

Though in Hebrew, in Sanscrit, in Choctaw you write, Sweet singer who gave us the Voices of Night, Though in buskin or slipper your song may be shod; Or the velvety verse that Evangeline trod,

We shall say, "You can't cheat us,—we know it is you," There is one voice like that, but there cannot be two, Maestro, whose chant like the dulcimer rings And the woods will be hushed while the nightingale sings.

And he, so serene, so majestic, so true, Whose temple hypethral the planets shine through, Let us catch but five words from that mystical pen, We should know our one sage from all children of men.

And he whose bright image no distance can dim, Through a hundred disguises we can't mistake him, Whose play is all earnest, whose wit is the edge (With a beetle behind) of a sham-splitting wedge.

Do you know whom we send you, Hidalgos of Spain? Do you know your old friends when you see them again? Hosea was Sancho! you Dons of Madrid, But Sancho that wielded the lance of the Cid!

And the wood-thrush of Essex,—you know whom I mean, Whose song echoes round us while he sits unseen, Whose heart-throbs of verse through our memories thrill Like a breath from the wood, like a breeze from the hill,

So fervid, so simple, so loving, so pure, We hear but one strain and our verdict is sure,— Thee cannot elude us,—no further we search,— 'T is Holy George Herbert cut loose from his church!

We think it the voice of a seraph that sings,— Alas! we remember that angels have wings,— What story is this of the day of his birth? Let him live to a hundred! we want him on earth!

One life has been paid him (in gold) by the sun; One account has been squared and another begun; But he never will die if he lingers below Till we've paid him in love half the balance we owe!



TWO SONNETS: HARVARD

At the meeting of the New York Harvard Club, February 21, 1878.

"CHRISTO ET ECCLESLE." 1700

To GOD'S ANOINTED AND HIS CHOSEN FLOCK So ran the phrase the black-robed conclave chose To guard the sacred cloisters that arose Like David's altar on Moriah's rock. Unshaken still those ancient arches mock The ram's-horn summons of the windy foes Who stand like Joshua's army while it blows And wait to see them toppling with the shock. Christ and the Church. Their church, whose narrow door Shut out the many, who if overbold Like hunted wolves were driven from the fold, Bruised with the flails these godly zealots bore, Mindful that Israel's altar stood of old Where echoed once Araunah's threshing-floor.

1643 "VERITAS." 1878

TRUTH: So the frontlet's older legend ran, On the brief record's opening page displayed; Not yet those clear-eyed scholars were afraid Lest the fair fruit that wrought the woe of man By far Euphrates—where our sire began His search for truth, and, seeking, was betrayed— Might work new treason in their forest shade, Doubling the curse that brought life's shortened span. Nurse of the future, daughter of the past, That stern phylactery best becomes thee now Lift to the morning star thy marble brow Cast thy brave truth on every warring blast! Stretch thy white hand to that forbidden bough, And let thine earliest symbol be thy last!



THE COMING ERA

THEY tell us that the Muse is soon to fly hence, Leaving the bowers of song that once were dear, Her robes bequeathing to her sister, Science, The groves of Pindus for the axe to clear.

Optics will claim the wandering eye of fancy, Physics will grasp imagination's wings, Plain fact exorcise fiction's necromancy, The workshop hammer where the minstrel sings,

No more with laugher at Thalia's frolics Our eyes shall twinkle till the tears run down, But in her place the lecturer on hydraulics Spout forth his watery science to the town.

No more our foolish passions and affections The tragic Muse with mimic grief shall try, But, nobler far, a course of vivisections Teach what it costs a tortured brute to die.

The unearthed monad, long in buried rocks hid, Shall tell the secret whence our being came; The chemist show us death is life's black oxide, Left when the breath no longer fans its flame.

Instead of crack-brained poets in their attics Filling thin volumes with their flowery talk, There shall be books of wholesome mathematics; The tutor with his blackboard and his chalk.

No longer bards with madrigal and sonnet Shall woo to moonlight walks the ribboned sex, But side by side the beaver and the bonnet Stroll, calmly pondering on some problem's x.

The sober bliss of serious calculation Shall mock the trivial joys that fancy drew, And, oh, the rapture of a solved equation,— One self-same answer on the lips of two!

So speak in solemn tones our youthful sages, Patient, severe, laborious, slow, exact, As o'er creation's protoplasmic pages They browse and munch the thistle crops of fact.

And yet we 've sometimes found it rather pleasant To dream again the scenes that Shakespeare drew,— To walk the hill-side with the Scottish peasant Among the daisies wet with morning's dew;

To leave awhile the daylight of the real, Led by the guidance of the master's hand, For the strange radiance of the far ideal,— "The light that never was on sea or land."

Well, Time alone can lift the future's curtain,— Science may teach our children all she knows, But Love will kindle fresh young hearts, 't is certain, And June will not forget her blushing rose.

And so, in spite of all that Time is bringing,— Treasures of truth and miracles of art, Beauty and Love will keep the poet singing, And song still live, the science of the heart.



IN RESPONSE

Breakfast at the Century Club, New York, May, 1879.

SUCH kindness! the scowl of a cynic would soften, His pulse beat its way to some eloquent words, Alas! my poor accents have echoed too often, Like that Pinafore music you've some of you heard.

Do you know me, dear strangers—the hundredth time comer At banquets and feasts since the days of my Spring? Ah! would I could borrow one rose of my Summer, But this is a leaf of my Autumn I bring.

I look at your faces,—I'm sure there are some from The three-breasted mother I count as my own; You think you remember the place you have come from, But how it has changed in the years that have flown!

Unaltered, 't is true, is the hall we call "Funnel," Still fights the "Old South" in the battle for life, But we've opened our door to the West through the tunnel, And we've cut off Fort Hill with our Amazon knife.

You should see the new Westminster Boston has builded,— Its mansions, its spires, its museums of arts,— You should see the great dome we have gorgeously gilded,— 'T is the light of our eyes, 't is the joy of our hearts.

When first in his path a young asteroid found it, As he sailed through the skies with the stars in his wake, He thought 't was the sun, and kept circling around it Till Edison signalled, "You've made a mistake."

We are proud of our city,—her fast-growing figure, The warp and the woof of her brain and her hands,— But we're proudest of all that her heart has grown bigger, And warms with fresh blood as her girdle expands.

One lesson the rubric of conflict has taught her Though parted awhile by war's earth-rending shock, The lines that divide us are written in water, The love that unites us cut deep in the rock.

As well might the Judas of treason endeavor To write his black name on the disk of the sun As try the bright star-wreath that binds us to sever And blot the fair legend of "Many in One."

We love You, tall sister, the stately, the splendid,— The banner of empire floats high on your towers, Yet ever in welcome your arms are extended,— We share in your splendors, your glory is ours.

Yes, Queen of the Continent! All of us own thee,— The gold-freighted argosies flock at thy call, The naiads, the sea-nymphs have met to enthrone thee, But the Broadway of one is the Highway of all!

I thank you. Three words that can hardly be mended, Though phrases on phrases their eloquence pile, If you hear the heart's throb with their eloquence blended, And read all they mean in a sunshiny smile.



FOR THE MOORE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

MAY 28, 1879.

ENCHANTER of Erin, whose magic has bound us, Thy wand for one moment we fondly would claim, Entranced while it summons the phantoms around us That blush into life at the sound of thy name.

The tell-tales of memory wake from their slumbers,— I hear the old song with its tender refrain,— What passion lies hid in those honey-voiced numbers What perfume of youth in each exquisite strain!

The home of my childhood comes back as a vision,— Hark! Hark! A soft chord from its song-haunted room,— 'T is a morning of May, when the air is Elysian,— The syringa in bud and the lilac in bloom,—

We are clustered around the "Clementi" piano,— There were six of us then,—there are two of us now,— She is singing—the girl with the silver soprano— How "The Lord of the Valley" was false to his vow;

"Let Erin remember" the echoes are calling; Through "The Vale of Avoca" the waters are rolled; "The Exile" laments while the night-dews falling; "The Morning of Life" dawns again as of old.

But ah! those warm love-songs of fresh adolescence! Around us such raptures celestial they flung That it seemed as if Paradise breathed its quintessence Through the seraph-toned lips of the maiden that sung!

Long hushed are the chords that my boyhood enchanted As when the smooth wave by the angel was stirred, Yet still with their music is memory haunted, And oft in my dreams are their melodies heard.

I feel like the priest to his altar returning,— The crowd that was kneeling no longer is there, The flame has died down, but the brands are still burning, And sandal and cinnamon sweeten the air.

II. The veil for her bridal young Summer is weaving In her azure-domed hall with its tapestried floor, And Spring the last tear-drop of May-dew is leaving On the daisy of Burns and the shamrock of Moore.

How like, how unlike, as we view them together, The song of the minstrels whose record we scan,— One fresh as the breeze blowing over the heather, One sweet as the breath from an odalisque's fan!

Ah, passion can glow mid a palace's splendor; The cage does not alter the song of the bird; And the curtain of silk has known whispers as tender As ever the blossoming hawthorn has heard.

No fear lest the step of the soft-slippered Graces Should fright the young Loves from their warm little nest, For the heart of a queen, under jewels and laces, Beats time with the pulse in the peasant girl's breast!

Thrice welcome each gift of kind Nature's bestowing! Her fountain heeds little the goblet we hold; Alike, when its musical waters are flowing, The shell from the seaside, the chalice of gold.

The twins of the lyre to her voices had listened; Both laid their best gifts upon Liberty's shrine; For Coila's loved minstrel the holly-wreath glistened; For Erin's the rose and the myrtle entwine.

And while the fresh blossoms of summer are braided For the sea-girdled, stream-silvered, lake-jewelled isle, While her mantle of verdure is woven unfaded, While Shannon and Liffey shall dimple and smile,

The land where the staff of Saint Patrick was planted, Where the shamrock grows green from the cliffs to the shore, The land of fair maidens and heroes undaunted, Shall wreathe her bright harp with the garlands of Moore!



TO JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE

APRIL 4, 1880

I BRING the simplest pledge of love, Friend of my earlier days; Mine is the hand without the glove, The heart-beat, not the phrase.

How few still breathe this mortal air We called by school-boy names! You still, whatever robe you wear, To me are always James.

That name the kind apostle bore Who shames the sullen creeds, Not trusting less, but loving more, And showing faith by deeds.

What blending thoughts our memories share! What visions yours and mine Of May-days in whose morning air The dews were golden wine,

Of vistas bright with opening day, Whose all-awakening sun Showed in life's landscape, far away, The summits to be won!

The heights are gained. Ah, say not so For him who smiles at time, Leaves his tired comrades down below, And only lives to climb!

His labors,—will they ever cease,— With hand and tongue and pen? Shall wearied Nature ask release At threescore years and ten?

Our strength the clustered seasons tax,— For him new life they mean; Like rods around the lictor's axe They keep him bright and keen.

The wise, the brave, the strong, we know,— We mark them here or there, But he,—we roll our eyes, and lo! We find him everywhere!

With truth's bold cohorts, or alone, He strides through error's field; His lance is ever manhood's own, His breast is woman's shield.

Count not his years while earth has need Of souls that Heaven inflames With sacred zeal to save, to lead,— Long live our dear Saint James!



WELCOME TO THE CHICAGO COMMERCIAL CLUB

January 14, 1880

CHICAGO sounds rough to the maker of verse; One comfort we have—Cincinnati sounds worse; If we only were licensed to say Chicago! But Worcester and Webster won't let us, you know.

No matter, we songsters must sing as we can; We can make some nice couplets with Lake Michigan, And what more resembles a nightingale's voice, Than the oily trisyllable, sweet Illinois?

Your waters are fresh, while our harbor is salt, But we know you can't help it—it is n't your fault; Our city is old and your city is new, But the railroad men tell us we're greener than you.

You have seen our gilt dome, and no doubt you've been told That the orbs of the universe round it are rolled; But I'll own it to you, and I ought to know best, That this is n't quite true of all stars of the West.

You'll go to Mount Auburn,—we'll show you the track,— And can stay there,—unless you prefer to come back; And Bunker's tall shaft you can climb if you will, But you'll puff like a paragraph praising a pill.

You must see—but you have seen—our old Faneuil Hall, Our churches, our school-rooms, our sample-rooms, all; And, perhaps, though the idiots must have their jokes, You have found our good people much like other folks.

There are cities by rivers, by lakes, and by seas, Each as full of itself as a cheese-mite of cheese; And a city will brag as a game-cock will crow Don't your cockerels at home—just a little, you know?

But we'll crow for you now—here's a health to the boys, Men, maidens, and matrons of fair Illinois, And the rainbow of friendship that arches its span From the green of the sea to the blue Michigan!



AMERICAN ACADEMY CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION

MAY 26, 1880

SIRE, son, and grandson; so the century glides; Three lives, three strides, three foot-prints in the sand; Silent as midnight's falling meteor slides Into the stillness of the far-off land; How dim the space its little arc has spanned!

See on this opening page the names renowned Tombed in these records on our dusty shelves, Scarce on the scroll of living memory found, Save where the wan-eyed antiquarian delves; Shadows they seem; ab, what are we ourselves?

Pale ghosts of Bowdoin, Winthrop, Willard, West, Sages of busy brain and wrinkled brow, Searchers of Nature's secrets unconfessed, Asking of all things Whence and Why and How— What problems meet your larger vision now?

Has Gannett tracked the wild Aurora's path? Has Bowdoin found his all-surrounding sphere? What question puzzles ciphering Philomath? Could Williams make the hidden causes clear Of the Dark Day that filled the land with fear?

Dear ancient school-boys! Nature taught to them The simple lessons of the star and flower, Showed them strange sights; how on a single stem,— Admire the marvels of Creative Power!— Twin apples grew, one sweet, the other sour;

How from the hill-top where our eyes beheld In even ranks the plumed and bannered maize Range its long columns, in the days of old The live volcano shot its angry blaze,— Dead since the showers of Noah's watery days;

How, when the lightning split the mighty rock, The spreading fury of the shaft was spent! How the young scion joined the alien stock, And when and where the homeless swallows went To pass the winter of their discontent.

Scant were the gleanings in those years of dearth; No Cuvier yet had clothed the fossil bones That slumbered, waiting for their second birth; No Lyell read the legend of the stones; Science still pointed to her empty thrones.

Dreaming of orbs to eyes of earth unknown, Herschel looked heavenwards in the starlight pale; Lost in those awful depths he trod alone, Laplace stood mute before the lifted veil; While home-bred Humboldt trimmed his toy ship's sail.

No mortal feet these loftier heights had gained Whence the wide realms of Nature we descry; In vain their eyes our longing fathers strained To scan with wondering gaze the summits high That far beneath their children's footpaths lie.

Smile at their first small ventures as we may, The school-boy's copy shapes the scholar's hand, Their grateful memory fills our hearts to-day; Brave, hopeful, wise, this bower of peace they planned, While war's dread ploughshare scarred the suffering land.

Child of our children's children yet unborn, When on this yellow page you turn your eyes, Where the brief record of this May-day morn In phrase antique and faded letters lies, How vague, how pale our flitting ghosts will rise!

Yet in our veins the blood ran warm and red, For us the fields were green, the skies were blue, Though from our dust the spirit long has fled, We lived, we loved, we toiled, we dreamed like you, Smiled at our sires and thought how much we knew.

Oh might our spirits for one hour return, When the next century rounds its hundredth ring, All the strange secrets it shall teach to learn, To hear the larger truths its years shall bring, Its wiser sages talk, its sweeter minstrels sing!



THE SCHOOL-BOY

Read at the Centennial Celebration of the foundation of Phillips Academy, Andover.

1778-1878

THESE hallowed precincts, long to memory dear, Smile with fresh welcome as our feet draw near; With softer gales the opening leaves are fanned, With fairer hues the kindling flowers expand, The rose-bush reddens with the blush of June, The groves are vocal with their minstrels' tune, The mighty elm, beneath whose arching shade The wandering children of the forest strayed, Greets the bright morning in its bridal dress, And spreads its arms the gladsome dawn to bless. Is it an idle dream that nature shares Our joys, our griefs, our pastimes, and our cares? Is there no summons when, at morning's call, The sable vestments of the darkness fall? Does not meek evening's low-voiced Ave blend With the soft vesper as its notes ascend? Is there no whisper in the perfumed air When the sweet bosom of the rose is bare? Does not the sunshine call us to rejoice? Is there no meaning in the storm-cloud's voice? No silent message when from midnight skies Heaven looks upon us with its myriad eyes?

Or shift the mirror; say our dreams diffuse O'er life's pale landscape their celestial hues, Lend heaven the rainbow it has never known, And robe the earth in glories not its own, Sing their own music in the summer breeze, With fresher foliage clothe the stately trees, Stain the June blossoms with a livelier dye And spread a bluer azure on the sky,— Blest be the power that works its lawless will And finds the weediest patch an Eden still; No walls so fair as those our fancies build,— No views so bright as those our visions gild!

So ran my lines, as pen and paper met, The truant goose-quill travelling like Planchette; Too ready servant, whose deceitful ways Full many a slipshod line, alas! betrays; Hence of the rhyming thousand not a few Have builded worse—a great deal—than they knew.

What need of idle fancy to adorn Our mother's birthplace on her birthday morn? Hers are the blossoms of eternal spring, From these green boughs her new-fledged birds take wing, These echoes hear their earliest carols sung, In this old nest the brood is ever young. If some tired wanderer, resting from his flight, Amid the gay young choristers alight, These gather round him, mark his faded plumes That faintly still the far-off grove perfumes, And listen, wondering if some feeble note Yet lingers, quavering in his weary throat:— I, whose fresh voice yon red-faced temple knew, What tune is left me, fit to sing to you? Ask not the grandeurs of a labored song, But let my easy couplets slide along; Much could I tell you that you know too well; Much I remember, but I will not tell; Age brings experience; graybeards oft are wise, But oh! how sharp a youngster's ears and eyes!

My cheek was bare of adolescent down When first I sought the academic town; Slow rolls the coach along the dusty road, Big with its filial and parental load; The frequent hills, the lonely woods are past, The school-boy's chosen home is reached at last. I see it now, the same unchanging spot, The swinging gate, the little garden plot, The narrow yard, the rock that made its floor, The flat, pale house, the knocker-garnished door, The small, trim parlor, neat, decorous, chill, The strange, new faces, kind, but grave and still; Two, creased with age,—or what I then called age,— Life's volume open at its fiftieth page; One, a shy maiden's, pallid, placid, sweet As the first snow-drop, which the sunbeams greet; One, the last nursling's; slight she was, and fair, Her smooth white forehead warmed with auburn hair; Last came the virgin Hymen long had spared, Whose daily cares the grateful household shared, Strong, patient, humble; her substantial frame Stretched the chaste draperies I forbear to name. Brave, but with effort, had the school-boy come To the cold comfort of a stranger's home; How like a dagger to my sinking heart Came the dry summons, "It is time to part; Good-by!" "Goo-ood-by!" one fond maternal kiss. . . . Homesick as death! Was ever pang like this? Too young as yet with willing feet to stray From the tame fireside, glad to get away,— Too old to let my watery grief appear,— And what so bitter as a swallowed tear! One figure still my vagrant thoughts pursue; First boy to greet me, Ariel, where are you? Imp of all mischief, heaven alone knows how You learned it all,—are you an angel now, Or tottering gently down the slope of years, Your face grown sober in the vale of tears? Forgive my freedom if you are breathing still;

If in a happier world, I know you will. You were a school-boy—what beneath the sun So like a monkey? I was also one. Strange, sure enough, to see what curious shoots The nursery raises from the study's roots! In those old days the very, very good Took up more room—a little—than they should; Something too much one's eyes encountered then Of serious youth and funeral-visaged men; The solemn elders saw life's mournful half,— Heaven sent this boy, whose mission was to laugh, Drollest of buffos, Nature's odd protest, A catbird squealing in a blackbird's nest. Kind, faithful Nature! While the sour-eyed Scot— Her cheerful smiles forbidden or forgot— Talks only of his preacher and his kirk,— Hears five-hour sermons for his Sunday work,— Praying and fasting till his meagre face Gains its due length, the genuine sign of grace,— An Ayrshire mother in the land of Knox Her embryo poet in his cradle rocks;— Nature, long shivering in her dim eclipse, Steals in a sunbeam to those baby lips; So to its home her banished smile returns, And Scotland sweetens with the song of Burns!

The morning came; I reached the classic hall; A clock-face eyed me, staring from the wall; Beneath its hands a printed line I read YOUTH IS LIFE'S SEED-TIME: so the clock-face said: Some took its counsel, as the sequel showed,— Sowed,—their wild oats,—and reaped as they had sowed. How all comes back! the upward slanting floor,— The masters' thrones that flank the central door,— The long, outstretching alleys that divide The rows of desks that stand on either side,— The staring boys, a face to every desk, Bright, dull, pale, blooming, common, picturesque. Grave is the Master's look; his forehead wears Thick rows of wrinkles, prints of worrying cares; Uneasy lie the heads of all that rule, His most of all whose kingdom is a school. Supreme he sits; before the awful frown That bends his brows the boldest eye goes down; Not more submissive Israel heard and saw At Sinai's foot the Giver of the Law. Less stern he seems, who sits in equal Mate On the twin throne and shares the empire's weight; Around his lips the subtle life that plays Steals quaintly forth in many a jesting phrase; A lightsome nature, not so hard to chafe, Pleasant when pleased; rough-handled, not so safe; Some tingling memories vaguely I recall, But to forgive him. God forgive us all!