r)- 
 
CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
Cornell University Library 
 
 3 1924 031 166 261 
 
 olin,anx 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of this bool< is in 
 the Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924031166261 
 
ELM LEAVES 
 
 COLLECTIOl^ OF YEESES 
 
 YALE UNDERGRADUATE PUBLICATIONS 
 
 COLLECTED AND EDITED BY 
 H. S. DURAND AND ERNEST WHITNEY 
 
 NEW HAVEN 
 I 88i 
 
Tuttle, Morehouse & Taylor, Printers. 
 
This collection of versW compile&^Jfrom tES Yale Literary 
 Magaaine, Yale Record, and Yale CourantMas'hsen prompted by 
 the belief that it would prove Jin acceptable laadition to the mem- 
 orabilia of Yale men. 
 
 / 
 
 The pieces were, without ixception, as f^r as ^^'pan learn, 
 written by undergraduates of this college. 
 When itihas been possible tae author's name has feen given. 
 
 n itih: 
 
 but owing tOL the absence of in^xes to most of th|? volumes of 
 the periodicals drawn upon this co'^d not be done |^ all cases. 
 
 For the designVn the cover we \r6 indebted Jo Mr. E. H. 
 Barbour, '82. 
 
 S. IX.. 
 
 ir 
 
 Yale College, June, 1881. ' 
 
CO NTENTS. 
 
 PART I.— MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 Page 
 
 A Panel Picture Record, 21 
 
 An Afternoon of Tennyson, Lit., -'- 23 
 
 A Sea Tale, - Lit., 24 
 
 AToken, .Lit 26 
 
 And the Summer Wind was Blowing,. .^f<ro?-i/, - 28 
 
 A Recollection, Record, 32 
 
 A Summer Song, Record, . 37 
 
 A Memory of Lake George, Record, 38 
 
 A Song Lit., 40 
 
 At Lotos Camp, Record, 46 
 
 Album Lines, Record, 69 
 
 A Portrait, ._ Courant, 70 
 
 A Summer Storm, Lit., 71 
 
 A Lost Poem, .. ..Lit., 74 
 
 A Dead Faith, Lit., 76 
 
 Ad Illam, ..Lit., 78 
 
 At the Shore,. Lit., 86 
 
 At Twilight, .- ...Lit 92 
 
 A Toast Lit., 93 
 
 A Memory, Courant, 108 
 
 A Pen of Steel Lit. 134 
 
 Between Years, Lit., 25 
 
 Bonny Doon, Record, 65 
 
 Barkis is Willin', ...Lit. n8 
 
 Boat Song, Lit., 144 
 
 Cascade Brook. Lit., 73 
 
 Christmas Candy, Courant, 120 
 
 Daisy, Record, 39 
 
 Evening and Morning, Lit., 9 
 
 Fair Was the Maid,.. ..Record, 30 
 
 Farewell Ode, Lit., 150 
 
 Golden Hair, Lit., 48 
 
Page 
 
 Gertrude O' The Vale, Lit. 8i 
 
 God Guard the Lilies, Lit., 141 
 
 In Autumn Time, -Lit., 22 
 
 Into the Light, Record,. ., ... 62 
 
 In the Valley, Lit., 94 
 
 Insomnia Lit., 116 
 
 I Wait forThee, .Lit., 125 
 
 Je Langer Je Lieber, Record, 53 
 
 June and December, Lit., _ 82 
 
 Jeanne D' Arc, ..Lit., loi 
 
 Language of the Rose, Record, 41 
 
 Lake Saltonstall, Lit., 83 
 
 Lotus Eating, Courant, 107 
 
 Madelina, ..Record, 58 
 
 Matin Song, Lit., 72 
 
 May Dawn ...Lit., 80 
 
 May Whispers,.. Lit 131 
 
 On a Portrait, Lit., -.. 57 
 
 Only One Killed Lit 90 
 
 Ode to Pastoral Romance Lit., 136 
 
 Parting, Lit., 64 
 
 Roses and Lilies, Record, - 56 
 
 South Middle, ■-. Courant, 68 
 
 Smoking Song,. Lit 148 
 
 Transformation, Record, 33 
 
 To the River Housatonic, Lit., 34 
 
 To the Catskills, Lit., 42 
 
 The Fairies, Lit., 44 
 
 To Longfellow, Reeord, 47 
 
 The Whaler's Return, .Record, 50 
 
 The Power of Beauty Lit., 52 
 
 The Elf King, ...Record, 54 
 
 Two Sonnets, Record, 60 
 
 Thy Mercy, Lit., 89 
 
 The Skaters, Lit., 98 
 
 The Ivy and Myrtle, ..Courant, 105 
 
 The Old Boy, Courant, no 
 
 The Unsaid, Courant 112 
 
 The Answer, Lit.,. 113 
 
 The Youngling Year Courant, 124 
 
 The Old School House,... Lit. 126 
 
 The Palm Lit., 128 
 
 The Scholar'l Mate, .Lit., 146 
 
 Vacation, ..I ^.Record, 66 
 
 Who CanT^? Lit. 77 
 
 Waiting the Ijirn, Lit. 84 
 
PART II.— HUMOROUS. 
 
 Page 
 
 An Idle, .-. Record, 155 
 
 A Vacation Reminiscence, Record, 162 
 
 At the Reception, .Record, 185 
 
 A Coincidence, Record, 188 
 
 Around the Fire, Courant igS 
 
 A Fish Story Courant, 216 
 
 A Dream,.. Lit., 228 
 
 Appraisals, Courant, 237 
 
 Castles in the Air, Record, 156 
 
 Caught, Record, 183 
 
 Cupid, Lit.,. 202 
 
 Disappointment, Record, 182 
 
 Dropped Lit., 218 
 
 Fumes, Courant, 158 
 
 Fragments ..Lit. and Record, 180 
 
 Faculty March,. Lit., ig6 . 
 
 How Tim Carroll Did the Devil, Lit., 246 
 
 Invocation, Record, 160 
 
 My Chum, Record, 166 
 
 My Indian Pipe,.. Record, 170 
 
 Mathematical Love Song, Lit., 255 
 
 Nursery Rhymes, Record, 172 
 
 Old English MS ...Courant, 232 
 
 Objurgation Record, 184 
 
 Recipe for Chemical Lecture Lit., 244 
 
 Sandwiches, Record, 164 
 
 Sir John's Adventure, Lit., igo 
 
 Satire of Juvenile, Lit., 223 
 
 Symptoms Lit.,. 234 
 
 The Troubled Junior, Record, I5g 
 
 The Song of the Sophomore, ..Courant, i6i 
 
 The Freshman's Walk, Racord, 168 
 
 The Old Chapel,. Y\le Almanac, iga 
 
 The News at Rome, . i.L\, ig5 
 
 The Anthem, \^-v /..Col^ant, 200 
 
 TwoMoons, ..JV^i, ./...Zi/jL 213 
 
 TheSUeathen Passee, !N,i^Vy^.| Yal^^lmanac, 220 
 
 The Sweep's Defense, 
 
 The Coirase Ghost, 
 
 Yaleversicul 
 
 Ye Pale StudSh 
 
 Ye Laye of vp 'Vft^fJ f f rk«iu;p|ju,„i„..in--^' 
 
Mlk^ELLANEOU|S. 
 
EVENING AND MORNING. 
 
 BY H. S. DURAND, '8l. 
 
 The day was drawing near its close ; 
 
 The sun's departing glory lay 
 Across the meadows, whence arose 
 
 The perfume of the new-mown hay. 
 It was the hour when Nature seems 
 
 To revel in fantastic dreams; 
 When glows the west in gold and red, 
 And in the soft sky over-head 
 
 The evening star a diamond gleams; 
 And silence reigns, save when is heard 
 
 The tinkling of the cattle bells, 
 
 Within the shady, mossy dells. 
 Or else some mellow-throated bird 
 
 Pours forth, in liquid melody. 
 His evening lay, within the wood. 
 His heart o'er-bubbling in that flood 
 
 Of song he sings so merrily. 
 
 The rakers of the fragrant hay. 
 
 Their rakes upon their shoulders thrown. 
 Were slowly wending home their way 
 
 Across the meadows newly mown. 
 
lO 
 
 It was the hour to cease from toil ; 
 
 All Nature seemed in sweet repose ; 
 
 The bee forsook the sgented rose 
 And hied her hive-ward with her spoil. 
 
 Along the hay-strewn meadow's edge 
 Thefe came a line of lowing cows, 
 
 Some nibbling now and then the sedge, 
 Some stopping here and there to browse 
 
 A mouthful from the scattered hedge. 
 Behind them walked a slender maid ; 
 Her brown hair, in a single braid. 
 Was coiled about her pretty head ; 
 Her lips were, as the cherry, red. 
 Her hat was off and from her hand 
 It dangled by its crimson band; 
 And as the maiden tripped along 
 She sweetly sang a snatch of song. 
 She was the fairest thing, I ween, 
 In all that golden sunset scene ; 
 The cattle knew her voice so sweet, 
 
 And when she called them from afar. 
 They all would come with willing feet, 
 
 And wait till she let down the bar. 
 
 Beyond the meadows, on a hill. 
 
 Beneath which ran a laughing rill. 
 
 The farm-house stood, and by its side 
 
 An oak tree towered in all its pride ; 
 
 Upon its trunk the mosses grew. 
 
 And o'er the gambrel roof it threw 
 
 A huge limb, like some giant's arm. 
 
 As though 't would shield the house from harm. 
 
II 
 
 Upon the porch, with vines o'errun, 
 An old man sat ; his silver hair 
 Moved gently in the evening air ; 
 
 He seemed to watch the setting sun 
 Sink slowly in the gorgeous West. 
 Perhaps he thought of that behest 
 
 Which soon would summon him away ; 
 For evening shadows must be nigh 
 To one who, years ago, passed by 
 
 The morn and noon of life's brief day. 
 Perhaps he thought of her, who trod 
 
 With him this earthly vale of tears. 
 But who, beneath the church-yard sod, 
 
 Had lain asleep these many years. 
 Perhaps young manhood's happy hours 
 
 Came back like some forgotten dream ; 
 
 And through his mind a whirling stream 
 
 Of recollections of the past 
 
 Went by like leaves before the blast. 
 For thus it is that memory towers 
 
 Above the body's wreck and waste, 
 And to the senses wafts a taste 
 
 Of incense from our faded flowers. 
 
 But suddenly the old man's eyes 
 
 Lost all their vague, abstracted look. 
 
 As, from the glowing evening skies, 
 He glanced down at the crystal brook. 
 
 Upon whose (fool, inviting brink 
 
 The cattle bent their necks to drink ; 
 And there, upon a stepping-stone, 
 , He saw the rnaiden tall and fair ; 
 
12 
 
 The slanting, golden sunbeams shone 
 Upon her wealth of dark brown hair ; 
 And as he gazed he fondly smiled, 
 She seemed but yesterday a child, 
 To-day before his eyes she stood 
 In all her sweet young womanhood. 
 
 When of the water from the rill 
 The thirsty cows had drunk their fill, 
 And passed the barn-yard gateway wide. 
 The maiden climbed the sloping hill. 
 " Well, grandpa, here I am !" she cried ; 
 And running to the old man's side. 
 She cast herself and gypsy hat 
 Upon the bench on which he sat. 
 " I'm glad, dear child, for you're the light 
 Of these old eyes, whose fading sight 
 Has now so dim and feeble grown 
 They scarcely seem to be mine own. 
 
 You know, my girl, I'm very old ; 
 Sometimes I think I almost feel 
 Death's stealthy darkness on me steal, 
 
 As yonder, in that sky of gold. 
 Night marshals now her vast array 
 To march upon retreating day. 
 What says the Book, the Holy Word ? 
 ' When music shall no more be heard,\ 
 When those who keep the hou^e shall quake, 
 And grinders shall their mills Jbrsake, 
 
 When darkened is the gazing We, 
 Or when the grinding sound is Ic 
 By these, and other signs, then knirar 
 
 The ruin of the house is nigh. 
 
13 
 
 And when is loosed the silver seal, 
 Or broken at the well the wheel, 
 Or shattered at the fount the urn, 
 
 Or broken is the golden bowl, 
 Then dust shall unto dust return. 
 
 But unto God returns the soul.'". 
 Again the grandsire mused, the maid 
 Was silent, seeming half afraid 
 
 To interrupt his reverie. 
 Thus long they sat and neither spoke. 
 No sound the solemn silence broke, 
 Save, through the branches of the oak, 
 
 The breezes murmured languidly, 
 And in a droning, drowsy strain 
 The bee-hive hummed its low refrain. 
 
 Meanwhile, within, the good-dame spread 
 
 The table with its simple fare; 
 The sweet new milk, the snowy bread 
 
 Upon its plate of blue-edged ware. 
 And butter, yellow as the gold 
 King Croesus in his chambers told. 
 And honey,'which the delving bees 
 Had pilfered from the clover leas. 
 Curled snugly in the rocking chair. 
 The pouse-ca^ lay and sleeked with care, 
 Witli cornb-like tongue, her silken fur, 
 The vhile arose her gentle purr. 
 Above her, on the wall, a gun 
 With pouch and horn and ramrod hung. 
 An old "\ flint lock " whose voice had rung 
 At Concord and at Lexington. 
 
14 
 
 And almost to the musket's stock 
 Arose a large, old-fashioned clock, 
 Which always warned, before its chime 
 
 With solemn, deep, sonorous stroke. 
 Told off the hours of flying time; 
 
 And in its darkened cell of oak. 
 As throbs the heart within the breast 
 Unceasingly, nor stops to rest, 
 
 The pendulum swung to and fro, 
 And with a steady, measured beat 
 Divided into rhythmic feet 
 
 The minute's never-ceasing flow. 
 
 Just opposite the lofty clock. 
 Yawned the huge fire-place, deep and wide, 
 And in the chimney, at one side, 
 
 A crane was fastened to the rock ; 
 And from its arm the kettle hung. 
 
 And, as the flames beneath it glanced. 
 
 The iron cover whirred and danced 
 Unto the song the kettle sung. 
 
 The farmer on thp door-sill sat. 
 
 While his good wife prepared the tea, 
 Beguiling time in pleasant chat. 
 A merry, happy man was he ; 
 Although not rich in worldly wealth, 
 He had enough, and perfect health, 
 Which to the happiness of man 
 Contributes more than riches can. 
 And, as he from the door surveyed 
 His orchards in their leaves arrayed. 
 And felt the peace and sweet content 
 
IS 
 
 Which follow hours in labor spent, 
 A king, in crown and royal dress. 
 Might envy him his happiness. 
 
 At length appeared the hired man, 
 
 His broad, round face was brown with tan ; 
 
 A milk pail in each hand he bore 
 
 So full they seemed nigh running o'er ; 
 
 And when the milk was strained and poured 
 
 Into the shallow pans, and stored 
 
 Within the good-wife's buttery, 
 
 And when was made the steaming tea, 
 
 And plates upon the table laid. 
 
 The farmer stepped into the hall 
 And called the old man and the maid ; 
 
 But ere they ate, with reverence all 
 About the table bowed the head 
 Until the grandsire grace had said. 
 
 And when the simple meal was o'er, 
 The Bible from the shelf was brought. 
 
 The old man from its pages read 
 What Christ to his disciples taught ; 
 
 Then all upon the spotless floor 
 Knelt down, while on the listening air 
 Arose the solemn, earnest prayer. 
 
 The duties of the night were done ; 
 
 And on the porch the family 
 Together sat, while one by one 
 
 The stars peeped through the darkening sky. 
 And o'er the tree tops far and dim 
 The round moon raised her yellow rim. 
 
i6 
 
 Alas, how seldom do we think, 
 
 When friends are gathered all around, 
 Perhaps, when next we meet, a link 
 
 Shall missing from that chain be found. 
 Although the grim destroyer, Death, 
 
 May stand beside some loved one's chair, 
 We see him not, his icy breath 
 
 No chill sends through the Summer air! 
 
 Time moved apace, the orb of night 
 Climbed up the heaven's ethereal arch, 
 And like a spectral army's march 
 Appeared the groves of pine and larch 
 
 Beneath her pale, uncertain light. 
 
 How different is this landscape's phase 
 
 From sultry noontide's dazzling blaze ! 
 
 Its aspect now how serious. 
 
 How dreamful and mysterious ! 
 
 The clock struck nine, good-nights were said. 
 
 The daughter tripped upstairs to bed. 
 
 Not thus, I deem, the city girl. 
 
 Absorbed in fashion's giddy whirl, 
 
 Her pillow in good season seeks ; 
 
 Nor is the color on the cheeks 
 
 Of her who turns the day to night 
 
 So rosy, nor her eyes so bright. 
 
 The grandsire rose and silently 
 Went out into the open air ; 
 
 And kneeling 'neath the old oak tree 
 He offered up his secret prayer. 
 
 For many years beneath that oak. 
 In Summer, when the sky was clear, 
 
17 
 
 Where none but God himself could hear, 
 He'd knelt, his blessing to invoke. 
 Then to his room the old man crept. 
 And quietly the household slept. 
 Lulled by the song the katy-did 
 Sung in the leafy branches hid. 
 
 Bright in the East the morning broke. 
 The sweet voice of the rising lark 
 Proclaimed the exile of the dark. 
 And with the sun the farmer woke, 
 For where are many mouths to keep 
 The day is not the time to sleep. 
 Refreshed by hours of sweet repose, 
 The mother and the daughter rose. 
 The dewy flowers their perfumes blent, 
 And sense-bewildering fragrance lent 
 Unto the gently stirring air. 
 The maiden down the oaken stair 
 Ran, gaily singing as she went. 
 She sought the porch with vines embowered. 
 Where short-lived morning-glories flowered. 
 Oft sitting on the rustic seat 
 Her grandsire loved to feel the sweet. 
 Refreshing, early-morning breeze. 
 And hear it woo the nodding trees. 
 The bench was empty, and a thrill 
 Of fear swept o'er her, and a chill. 
 Foreboding sense of deep distress 
 Seemed rising from its emptiness. 
 
 She ran within, and gently knocked 
 Upon her grandsire's chamber door. 
 
i8 
 
 No answer came, and more and more 
 ■ Strange fears into her fancy flocked ; 
 
 She raised the latch, it was not locked ; 
 The sunlight streamed across the floor 
 
 And fell upon the sleeper's bed. 
 She touched his brow, 'twas icy cold, 
 The empty bench the truth had told, 
 
 Life's cord was loosed, the soul had fled. 
 White winged, it took its upward flight 
 Ere rose the lark at morning light. 
 
 ******* 
 Beside the old house on the hill 
 The lofty oak is towering still ; 
 
 Still o'er the roof its branches toss, 
 Still 'neath the hill the streamlet brawls 
 O'er mossy stones, with tiny falls. 
 Still from the grove the wood-thrush calls ; 
 But on all else a shadow palls, 
 
 A brooding sense of bitter loss. 
 Long closed has been the farm-house door. 
 Within the fireplace now, no more 
 The red flames up the chimney roar; 
 
 But in the flue, for many years. 
 The swallow's twig-built nest has hung. 
 
 And there the dusky mother rears. 
 All undisturbed, her callow young. 
 
 Unheeded now the whirling snow 
 Piles on the porch untrodden drifts ; 
 
 Unheeded Spring's soft breezes blow. 
 
 And start the ice-bound brooklet's flow 
 Through sheeny pools and shallow rifts ; 
 
 No longer now the garners hold 
 
19 
 
 The harvest's ripened, yellow sheaves; 
 And gorgeous Autumn's painted leaves 
 
 Unheeded shower their red and gold. 
 What matters it unto the dead 
 
 If silent snow lies white and deep, 
 
 Or falling showers in Summer weep. 
 Or thunder crashes overhead, 
 
 It can not break their dreamless sleep ! 
 Oh, Time ! is-it because thou art 
 
 Thyself so wrinkled, old and gray. 
 
 Thou enviest the young and gay. 
 
 And doom'st them to such swift decay ? 
 But yet thou bindest up the heart. 
 
 With cruel anguish rent and torn, 
 And hovering o'er us in the air. 
 
 Thou showest Hope on white wings borne, 
 Who comes to banish dark Despair. 
 
 Oh, Life, how strangely different look 
 The pages of thy mystic book ! 
 
 Some are as bright as sunny skies. 
 And calm as hill-sequestered lakes, 
 Whose gleam the spotted brook-trout breaks, 
 
 And where the wary dragon-flies. 
 Those gauze-winged rainbows, dance and shine 
 Or rest upon the angler's line. 
 
 In other's joy with sadness blends; 
 That twilight which we know so well. 
 So gradual we scarce can tell 
 
 Where night begins and daylight ends. 
 And some are dark as clouds that frown 
 Upon the gray sea looking down ; 
 
20 
 
 And stormy as the giddy waves 
 
 Which thunder from the Maelstrom's caves. 
 Dear Father, grant that we may read 
 
 Life's book with understanding eyes, 
 And comprehend, as we proceed, 
 
 The wisdom vast, which underlies 
 Each passage, whether dark or bright ; 
 And let faith be our guiding light 
 From infancy to hoary age. 
 From title to the final page. 
 
21 
 
 A PANEL PICTURE. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 A panel black, a faded fern, 
 
 And one bright green, a twisted vine 
 
 Whereon two checkerberries burn, 
 A five-leaved spray of princess-pine. 
 
 And that is all you see, perhaps. 
 But I look through it, and behold. 
 
 As one who peers through leafy gaps. 
 Their dear old forest home unfold. 
 
 An old road, long deserted now. 
 
 And cushioned deep with soft, brown leaves. 
 Where, intertwining bough with bough, 
 
 A shading arch the forest weaves. 
 
 And flickering through with every breeze. 
 The restless rays of sunlight glance 
 
 On gray old rocks, and fallen trees 
 
 Half hid in moss and wildwood plants. 
 
 I catch the scent of balmy fir, 
 
 Of withered leaves that long have lain. 
 
 And the sweet, dainty breath of myrrh, 
 That haunts a wood fresh-steeped with rain. 
 
 But O, the painter's cunning art ! 
 
 Where hemlocks o'er the pathway lean 
 The clustering branches bend apart, 
 
 And steps a maiden on the scene. 
 
 She gathers flowers — a faded fern. 
 And one bright green, a twisted vine 
 
 Whereon two checkerberries burn, 
 A five-leaved spray of princess-pine 
 
22 
 
 IN AUTUMN TIME. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 When, where late was Summer's green, 
 Autumn's gorgeous golden scene 
 In its richness is displayed 
 On the hills all bright arrayed. 
 And the rustling foliage falls. 
 Carpeting the forest halls. 
 Then remember one whose heart 
 Dreads the hour when we must part. 
 
 When the mellow-tinted haze 
 Of the soft October days. 
 Like a veil of mazy gauze 
 Nature o'er her painting draws. 
 Settles tremulously down 
 O'er the crimson, gold, and brown, 
 Then remember one whose heart 
 Dreads the hour when we must part. 
 
 When the wind of Autumn grieves 
 
 O'er the falling of the leaves. 
 
 And the desolate trees reply 
 
 To its melancholy sigh, 
 
 When each sound within the wood 
 
 Only deepens solitude. 
 
 Then remember one whose heart 
 
 Dreads the hour when we must part. 
 
 When again the time comes round 
 That I first thy friendship found. 
 And all lovely hues appear 
 In this sunset of the year. 
 As all heaven's beauteous dyes 
 Mingle in the evening skies, 
 Then remember one whose heart 
 Dreads the hour when we must part. 
 
23 
 
 AN AFTERNOON OF TENNYSON. 
 
 BY BARCLAY JOHNSON, '82. 
 
 Through avenues of leaves that arched 
 In softly rustling domes o'erhead, 
 
 The slowly drifting clouds I watched 
 While you aloud an Idyl read. 
 
 You thought I listened to your words; 
 
 You might perhaps have felt surprise 
 To know I listened to the birds, 
 
 And painted pictures in the skies. 
 
 In radiant white on background blue 
 
 Majestic palaces uprose, 
 And oft before my fancy grew 
 
 Tall castles made from drifting snows. 
 
 I watched these towards the sunset creep, 
 And saw white mists their to^ enfold, 
 
 I watched bright colors o'er them sweep. 
 And saw their marble turn to gold. 
 
 And while I made you still believe 
 I heard, I watched your color rise; 
 
 I saw your bosom gently heave. 
 And read the poem — from your eyes. 
 
 Be not provoked. Do you suppose 
 Geraint with Enid by his side. 
 
 Gave heed to any thoughts but those 
 Of her he longed to make his bride } 
 
24 
 
 A SEA TALE. 
 
 BY J. D. BURRELL, '8l. 
 
 The storm king ruled. The maddened seas 
 
 Ran up to meet the sky. 
 The ocean depths in boisterous mirth 
 
 Their pearls cast up on high. 
 
 Amid the revels of the storm 
 
 A rocket pierced the gloom, — 
 The chorus of the elements 
 
 Laughed at the vessel's doom. 
 
 The golden light of morning lit 
 
 The faces of the dead ; 
 Of all that sailed upon that ship 
 
 One babe survived they said. ^ 
 ***** 
 
 Month after month the tides ran out 
 
 Upon that rocky shore, 
 Until the days had counted years. 
 
 The years had reached a score. 
 
 On this dark night, the blackest night 
 That all those years had known, 
 
 A vessel brake upon the rocks 
 And, heeded not, went down. 
 
 To a mast in clinging death still hung 
 
 The babe, to manhood grown ; 
 A tar's rough hand carved on his tomb, 
 
 " The sea takes back its own." 
 
BETWEEN y^ARS. 
 
 BT^ E. T. MCLAUGHLIN, '8 
 
 NyW Year's eve,\ 
 And moonliglit cold on the sno,w, 
 Thou too, Om Year, must go ; \ 
 Like the nioon, thou too must setJv- 
 To shine intthe coronet \ 
 
 Of Eteriii/y,\n the West, 
 Where the centuries take their rest 
 
26 
 A TOKEN. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 April airs blow warm and gentle, 
 
 Merry summer birds salute us, 
 Spring now weaves her flowery mantle. 
 
 Twining in the first arbutus, 
 Star flowers white as maiden's bosom 
 
 Strew the fields like winter snow, 
 Violets of bluest blossom 
 
 In, among the grasses grow. 
 
 There's a woodland vista shaded 
 
 By da,rk pine and hemlock arches. 
 Steel-leaved boughs that ne'er have faded, 
 
 Tempered by a score of Marches, 
 There the Spring for Summer tarries. 
 
 There the Winter waits for May, 
 And within this home of fairies 
 
 Twilight broodeth all the day. 
 
 Once when we the fields were roaming, 
 
 Ere May roses were unrolling, 
 Thoughtlessly we pierced the gloaming, 
 
 And adown the aisle were strolling, 
 Then thy voice whose laugh ran riot 
 
 Ere we wandered to the wood. 
 Hushed to silence in the quiet 
 
 Of that mystic solitude. 
 
27 
 
 Then the love that ever dwelling 
 On my lips I dared not murmur, 
 
 Though in signs its passion telling, 
 Thrilled with hope and promise fir'mer, 
 
 And beneath the deeply shading 
 Branches interknit above. 
 
 Hand with hand together bfSiidrng,' 
 -""First we kissejd.the kiss of love."" 
 
 ^J^ve"^ knot of faded flowers,____._„ 
 
 Whose perfume and beauty perished 
 Ere their season filled its hours. 
 
 But their loveliness is cherished^ 
 In the buds that now I find thae^ 
 
 Where three years ago we aood, — 
 Buds that needlessly remind t^ee 
 
 Of our vows with them reneVed. 
 
28 
 
 AND THE SUMMER WIND WAS BLOWING. 
 
 Side by side on the hillside slope, 
 
 Where the ripening corn was growing, 
 
 We talked and called up many a hope. 
 And the summer wind was blowing. 
 
 Her face was fair as the blush of morn. 
 
 As she stood there in the tasseled corn, 
 When the summer wind was blowing. 
 
 Softly the wanton breezes played 
 
 With her golden tresses flowing ; ■—... 
 
 Many the tender words I said. 
 And the summer wind was blowing. 
 
 Never an answer she made to me. 
 
 But looked away to the shining sea, 
 Where the summer wind was blowing. 
 
 Nothing we know of a maiden's heart. 
 Nothing that's worth the knowing — ^y 
 
 Love she can cover with such an art ; 
 And the summer wind was blowing. 
 
 " What shall my answer, Ida, be.'" 
 
 " Guess if you can !" she said to me, 
 When the summer wind was "blowing. 
 
 Slowly the sun went down the West^ 
 To his couch with splendor glowing ; 
 
 Her head lay resting upon my breast^ 
 And the summer wind was blowing. 
 
 Softly I touched her red, ripe lips. 
 
 Still she looked out at the passing ships, 
 Where the summer wind was blowing. 
 
29 
 
 " Other men reap their harvests, sweet ! 
 
 Shall Love get less for his sowing?" 
 The shadows were lengthening at our feet 
 
 And the summer wind was blowing. 
 " Gather your grain," at last she said. 
 And the twilight ffell^-erjier sunny head. 
 
 When the summer wind walisiomng. 
 
30 
 
 FAIR WAS THE MAID. 
 
 Fair was the maid that I loved so well, 
 
 The light of my life to me ; 
 Her tresses of gold like the sunbeams fell, 
 
 Her eyes were as blue as the sea. 
 Her heart was as pure as the fathomless depths 
 
 Of the crystalline waves 
 
 By the coral caves, 
 Where the homes of the sea-nymphs be. 
 
 Red were her lips as the red, red rose 
 
 That blooms amid gardens rare ; 
 (No lovelier blossom the wide world knows. 
 
 Nor perfumes the July air.) 
 Her neck was as white as the lily that grows 
 
 In the sheltered shade 
 
 Of the woodland glade, 
 Where the warmth of the South wind blows. 
 
 Her voice was as soft as the murmuring breeze 
 
 That kisses the lips of June, 
 ■And tenderly toys with the old, old trees 
 
 In the light of the silver moon ; 
 And it came to my soul in a mystic way — 
 
 Yes ! it came to my breast 
 
 With a sense of rest, 
 Like a child at its mother's croon. 
 
 A storm uprose from the envious East, 
 A blast from the North wind blew. 
 
 The red rose was withered upon my breast, 
 And faded the eyes of blue. 
 
31 
 
 Yet I wear on my bosom a tress of bright gold, 
 
 Ay ! a tress of her gold, 
 
 That will not grow old. 
 That never will part from its luster nor mold, 
 From the love that mv life once knew. 
 
32 
 
 A RECOLLECTION. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITKEY, '82. 
 
 The river flowed with pleasant sound 
 O'er pebbly shallows, where the sun 
 
 An ever-changing mirror found, 
 
 And where the deep, strong current run 
 In dimpling, twisting whirlpools spun. 
 
 All through a summer afternoon. 
 
 Three idle fishers without will, 
 We listened to the dreamy tune, 
 
 We watched the river and the rill, 
 
 Till sunlight faded from the hill. 
 
 A bright leaf on the stiller stream 
 Floated until it caught the swirl. 
 
 Then dancing through each sunny gleam, 
 Was caught and waltzed down through the whirl, 
 And sailed beyond the current's curl. 
 
 And this is all I recollect 
 
 Of all we heard, or saw, or said — 
 The leaf that sailed the stream unwrecked. 
 
 No poet's line that e'er I read 
 
 Is half so firm to memory wed. 
 
33 
 
 TRANSFORMATION. 
 
 / 
 
 / BY A. P. FRENCH, '82. 
 
 A pleasant walk by a babbling^ook, 
 A quiet talk in a shady noolj 
 A promise asked and a piidmise given, 
 A spot of earth made Wight as heaven ; 
 Life, thou art^golden ! 
 
 Another season, another year. 
 The brook is dry and the leaves are sear; 
 A lonely wanderer standing there 
 Feels that, like nature, his life is bare ; 
 Death, thou art ruthless ! 
 
34 
 TO THE RIVER HOUSATONIC. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 How I love the wild, harmonic 
 
 Housatonic, 
 With its restless, tireless tide 
 Springing from the sparkling fountains 
 
 In the mountains 
 Where old Greylock towers in pride ; 
 
 Flowing through the pleasant valleys, 
 
 Where it rallies 
 Every rivulet in one ; 
 Winding through the daisied meadows. 
 
 And in shadows 
 Of o'erhanging mountains dun. 
 
 Plunging over precipices, 
 
 Down abysses, 
 Boiling, Phlegethonic caves. 
 Through deep-channeled cafions cleaving, 
 
 Crushing, heaving 
 On the crumbling cliffs its waves. 
 
 I have listened, awed with wonder, 
 
 To the thunder 
 Of its distant, sounding fall. 
 When in vast, profound, sonorous. 
 
 Echoing chorus 
 It gave forth its midnight call. 
 
35 
 
 I have stood beside its roaring 
 Torrent, pouring, 
 
 Vaulting o'er the marble rock, 
 
 And of its delirious leaping. 
 Downward sweeping, 
 
 I have felt the jarring shock. 
 
 The light, misty lace of morning 
 Drapes, adorning. 
 
 O'er its beauty stern and grand, 
 
 And the sunlight from the zenith 
 Downward leaneth. 
 
 Binds it with a rainbow band. 
 
 I have seen its angry, swelling 
 
 Tide compelling 
 All to yield before its might. 
 With its icebergs huge and jagged 
 
 Leaving ragged 
 All the valleys in its H'lg^t; 
 
 And, in contrast^to its raving. 
 
 Seen, it laving. 
 Murmuring music low and sweet, 
 Shining'beaches, snowy sanded. 
 
 Where expanded, ^ 
 Still it slept, a silvery sheet. 
 
 Rarely light-winged zephyr blurs it, 
 
 Nothing stirs it 
 Save some slowly-sailing skiff; 
 And within its clear and placid 
 
 Depths are glassed 
 Fir, and flower, and fro\vning cliff. 
 
36 
 
 It is beautiful by noonlight, 
 
 But by moonlight 
 Such a beauty there will dwell 
 That 't will all the feelings capture 
 
 With the rapture 
 Of its spirit-breathing spell; 
 
 Or when from the day the even 
 
 Veils the heaven, 
 And within its tranquil breast, 
 Where the watery depths are darkling, 
 
 Strangely sparkling. 
 Shine the stars in splendid rest. 
 
37 
 A SUMMER SONG. 
 
 BY H. S. DURAND, '8l. 
 
 Oh, which were best in summer heat — 
 To roam the city's crowded street, 
 
 Or seek some shady woodland nook, 
 }Vnere arching, green-leaved branches meet 
 
 Above a noisy, pebbled brook. 
 Which, prattling o'er the mossy stones. 
 Has cooling music in its tones : 
 
 Or else upon sp^me broader stream 
 To pull your skiBF with lazy oars 
 Between the reed-fringed, grassy shores, 
 
 Just catching now and then a gleam 
 Of sunlight gl'inting through the trees. 
 Among who^e branches sighs the breeze ; 
 While blending with its murmuring 
 Is heard the song the wild birds sing. 
 There are no notes of harp or lyre 
 So sweet as those of Nature's choir, 
 No discord ja,rs its harmony; 
 
 The wind-harp and the waterfall. 
 The river hastening to the sea, 
 The singing bird, the humming bee, 
 
 Join in the chorus, one and all, 
 And swell the witching melody. 
 Oh, happy, lazy summer/hours. 
 
 Too swiftly far ye take your flight. 
 Too soon upon your blooming flowers 
 
 The chill of Winter casts its blight. 
 
38 
 
 A MEMORY OF LAKE GEORGE. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 Underneath the branches oaken 
 
 Where the great rocks rise in shade, 
 
 And to each word, softly spoken, 
 Echoes answering are made, 
 
 I am floating, hardly seeming 
 
 To be moving o'er the lake. 
 Slowly drifting, idly dreaming, 
 
 Idly dreaming, yet awake. 
 
 Half unconscious, fondly gazing 
 
 On another dreamer nigh ; 
 Thy blue, wandering eyes upraising. 
 
 Watch the last, long sunbeams die. 
 
 Creamy lilies on thy bosom 
 
 Waft their fragrance faint to me. 
 
 For thy lips have touched a blossom, 
 And it whispers love to thee. 
 
 Meet our eyes — ah. Love discloses 
 Thus what words could ne'er presume. 
 
 And upon thy cheeks the roses 
 Burst from bud to perfect bloom. 
 
 Homeward through the twilight faring. 
 Moonlit waters meet our prow ; 
 
 Thou the roses still art wearing, 
 But I keep the lily now. 
 
39 
 
 DAISY. 
 
 BY A. P. FRENCH, '82. 
 
 "Rich man, poorlman, beggar-man, thief, 
 
 Doctor, lawyer 
 Murmuring this 
 Amid the daisies, 
 And plucked the 
 To see if I could 
 
 erchant, chief" 
 hildish formula, I lay 
 n a summer day, 
 nowy petals iri'despair, 
 ad my fortune there. 
 Then, turning totte DajiSy at my side : 
 ''They cannot tell, "ll said, " Ao you decide." 
 So softly came her whisper, that I fear 
 No other daisy could the ans.v(fer hear. 
 
40 
 
 A SONG. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 We ne'er have given token 
 
 The thought of love betraying, 
 
 No words have e'er been spoken 
 Love's messages conveying, 
 
 No sigh from lips has broken. 
 The heart's quick wish obeying, 
 
 To tell me that thou lovest none. 
 Only me — 
 
 To tell I love no other one, 
 Only thee. 
 
 But I see thy fair cheek height'ning 
 
 With pure and maiden flushes, 
 When like the morning bright'ning, 
 
 'Tis mant'ling o'er with blushes. 
 When like the summer lightning 
 
 Betraying color rushes, 
 And tells me that thou lovest none. 
 Only me. 
 And I, I love no other one. 
 Only thee. 
 
41 
 
 LANGUAGE OF THE ROSE. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 A stream that flows 
 
 From chilling snows 
 Gave beauty to this Alpine rose, 
 
 I bring the flower to^thee. 
 If in the cold 
 
 Of Jura's wold 
 This blossom could^its leaf unfold, 
 
 I bring my love to thee. 
 
42 
 
 TO THE CATSKILLS. 
 
 BY W. I. BRUCE, '82. 
 
 To you, my early friends, I turn again, 
 
 Like one who, in the fierce, hot strife with men, 
 
 Leaves strangers and returns at evening's fall 
 
 To some loved comrade in ancestral hall. 
 
 There to converse of scenes long past away. 
 
 To wake in sweet companionship till day. 
 
 So I : my early friends, the best and last. 
 
 My travels into stranger lands are past, 
 
 And seem but dreams ; you, only you are real. 
 
 Yes, on your forehead there is set the seal 
 
 Of truth, the blue of deep infinity. 
 
 Cold, pallid Blanc, feels no aflBnity 
 
 With warm and happy human life below.' 
 
 The Himalayas' wreathed peaks of snow 
 
 Smile not, but coldly gaze on squalid homes 
 
 And stagnant intellect ; on feeble gnomes 
 
 In knowledge, who abide beneath the slime 
 
 And refuse of this life in sloth and crime. 
 
 But you spread through a fair, luxuriant land 
 
 Your warm, bright, breezy nature; you command 
 
 The onward march of mind, the toiling hand, 
 
 The larger, nobler heart. Your dusky glens 
 
 Contain our nation's lore ; you guide the pens 
 
 Which tell her deeds; the limner's brush obeys 
 
 Your will, as in your changeful moods there plays, 
 
 Or seems to play, the working of a soul 
 
 Which sympathizes with our joy and dole. 
 
43 
 
 The morning sun darts through the purple air, 
 Above our heads, his earliest beams which bear 
 To you the new day's greeting ; and at eve, 
 When all his rays with shadows interweave. 
 He loves to linger ; on your brows to leave 
 A good-night kiss, and warm you with his fire. 
 The clouds, that wand'ring all day long do tire 
 At sunset, seek repose upon your breast. 
 And you and they fill fair the glowing west 
 With mild and mellow splendor, all our own. 
 And when that living light is faded — gone. 
 The same fair blue which met our eyes at dawn 
 Still robes your graceful forms. The frowning night 
 Mutters its blighting spells to dim your light ; 
 Yet only likens to God's azure dome 
 Till you and heaven blend within the gloom. 
 
44 
 THE FAIRIES. 
 
 BY H. S. DURAND, '8l. 
 
 When the harvest moonlight mellow shines upon the 
 grain fields yellow, 
 And the dew-drops on the grass blades gleam like 
 diamonds bright and fair, 
 And the distant bell's sad pealing, from the lofty 
 belfry stealing. 
 Tells the solemn hour of midnight to the hushed 
 and listening air. 
 Then it is the fairies meeting, while the wee small 
 hours are fleeting, 
 Hold their revels on the greensward, undisturbed 
 by earthly care. 
 
 Elf-king's crown is set with shining, precious jewels; 
 and the lining 
 Of his robe is fur, whose owner was the tiny 
 meadow-vole. 
 Elf-queen's crown is silver, gleaming 'neath the 
 moonlight on it streaming, 
 And the lining of her mantle is. the soft fur of the 
 mole. 
 What we mortals style as vermin, they are pleased to 
 call their ermine : 
 And their robes, like mortal monarchs', are the 
 symbols of control. 
 
 King and queen, together sitting, watch their happy 
 subjects, flitting 
 In the dances light and airy, unto strains of music 
 sweet. 
 
45 
 
 Fairy laughter gaily ringing, dulcet, bird-like voices 
 singing, 
 Mingle with the rhythmic measure of the little 
 waltzing feet. 
 And the pine tree's branch from under looks the owl 
 with round-eyed wonder, 
 Screened from elfin observation in his lonely, dark 
 retreat. 
 
 When the last chords softly blending, telling that the 
 dance is ending. 
 Die away; the merry dancers on the mossy turf 
 recline, 
 Feasting, talking, and proposing many toasts, before 
 the closing 
 Of the feast, in acorn goblets flowing o'er with 
 sparkling wine; 
 But the grapes, which yield their juices for the fairy 
 kingdom's uses. 
 Ne'er were grown by mortal vintners, ne'er were 
 plucked from mortal's vine. 
 
 Swiftly on the hours are speeding ; but the banquet- 
 ers, unheeding. 
 Laugh and toast until the moon-beams on the scene 
 no longer fall : 
 Til] the eastern streaks, at dawning, tell the coming 
 of the morning, 
 And the ruler of the barn-yard shrilly sounds his 
 matin call. 
 At this signal loud and tragic, in an instant, as by 
 magic, 
 From the grassy sward have vanished king and 
 queen and fairies all. 
 
46 
 
 AT LOTOS CAMP. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 We ate the lotos day by day, 
 
 Till not a care could weary us, 
 And time as lightly on us lay 
 
 As though life ne'er were serious. 
 O, happy days on shady shores, 
 
 Books, breezy waves, and laziness ! 
 O, happy nights, when dripping oars 
 
 Gleamed in the moonlit maziness! 
 Again I'm drifting through the night, 
 
 Far oflFthe camp flames wavering, 
 And shadowy forms move in their light, 
 
 With merry music favoring ; 
 Then note by note the music dies, 
 
 I watch the camp-light perishing. 
 And learn that in my heart there lies 
 
 No scene more worth its cherishing. 
 
47 
 
 TO LONGFELLOW. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 O master poet of earth's greatest land, 
 
 Though thy grand, harp has sounded with the surge 
 Of ocean, where the thundering billows scourge 
 
 Old Norway's barren rocks; — though thou didst stand 
 
 With that immortal two, and hand in hand 
 Wandered with them beyond the utmost verge 
 Of Death's dominions, and didst thence emerge 
 
 In heaven's light on heights by ages scanned ; 
 
 Yet hast thou stooped to things of common life. 
 Suiting thy strains to humble themes like ours, 
 
 Become our poet, sung the care and strife 
 Of low existence, with as wondrous powers ; 
 
 And since thou mak'st our days with blessings rife, 
 We give thy name still more immortal dowers. 
 
.48 
 
 GOLDEN-HAIR. 
 
 Wild, strange een of Golden Hair. — Lumaen. 
 
 What time the dawn the cloud had tipped, 
 
 The shades had tossed, 
 
 The skies had kissed. 
 From hill to hill had bridged the mist ; 
 What time the fleeting dews had slipped, 
 Silent from the roses' crypt, 
 
 She was lost. 
 Heaving hill and meadow bare 
 Echoed the name of Golden-Hair. 
 
 The lark stared from the long-tressed birk 
 
 In wonder down, 
 
 And song he dropped ; 
 His matin flow of music stopped. 
 The bells in towers dim and mirk 
 Shook the mosses from the kirk 
 
 Old and brown. 
 In shaded holt the shadows wear 
 Only the form of Golden-Hair. 
 
 Oh ! quickly by the streamlet's glint 
 
 I followed fleet. 
 
 Until the mere 
 Shadowed my heart with sudden fear ; 
 The odors of the scented mint 
 Rose beneath the heavy print 
 
 Of my feet. 
 Haunted trees in the hollow there 
 Breathed to me but of Golden-Hair. 
 
49 ' 
 
 The snake slid through the tangled fern 
 
 And matted weeds ; 
 
 The grasses rank 
 Nodded in breezes moist and dank ; 
 And in the tarn the booming hern 
 Stood like a hermit lone and stern, 
 
 In the reeds. 
 Ah ! the pool with its gloat and glare 
 Lighted the brow of Golden-Hair. 
 
 Go whisper in some other ear 
 
 Thy sympathy. 
 
 Alas ! the pond, 
 Far sadder than the sad beyond. 
 With holy lilies wreathed her bier 
 And seemed so strange beside the drear. 
 
 Black scenery. ^ 
 
 How heavy was that weighted air 
 On the white cheek of Golden-Hair ! 
 
 The sun lies dead beyond the hill ; 
 
 The shuddering 
 
 Of wan leaves stirs 
 The amber moon's pale gossamers ; 
 And over all my senses steal 
 Dark, solemn presences ; I feel 
 
 The brooding wing 
 Of her I wed now — dull Despair — 
 I cannot wed my Golden-Hair. 
 
so 
 ,THE WHALER'S RETURN. 
 
 BY H. S. DURAND, '8 1. 
 
 There is a story olden, 
 A story sad and sweet. 
 
 The western skies are golden, 
 At anchor rides the fleet. 
 
 The fishermen are hauling 
 Their nets o\xp 6n the sand. 
 
 The guilleniots'''Soft calling 
 Comes faintly to the land. 
 
 Who stands so sadly gazing 
 Across the sparkling sea ? 
 
 Marks she the colors blazing. 
 The sun paints gorgeously.? 
 
 Is it a sea-bird's pinion 
 Her tearful eyes behold. 
 
 White, on the vast dominion 
 Of gleaming, ruddy gold.? 
 
 Or is a ship's sail nearing 
 The far horizon's rim ? 
 
 A sail fast disappearing 
 Into the distance dim. 
 
 The sun-set light is fading. 
 The snowy speck has flown ; 
 
 But still, her blue eyes shading. 
 The maiden stands alone. 
 
51 
 
 Two years have past; a "whaler 
 Casts anchor in the tide ; 
 
 A stalwart, bearded sailor 
 Comes down the vessel's side. 
 
 The oars are flashing brightly, 
 The boat strikes on th^ sand 
 
 He leaps ashore full lightly, 
 The fishers grasp his hand : 
 
 But who-shall break the sorrow, 
 Uqto thfs heart so gay ? 
 
 Sailor, a sad to-morrow 
 Follows the glad to-day. 
 
52 
 
 THE POWER OF BEAUTY. 
 
 [an incident at the sacking of ROME, 390 B. c] 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 Fair stood the statue of Modestia, 
 
 The sculptor's triumph, the proud city's pride, 
 
 In all the temples not another vied. 
 Who gazed the purer grew for what they saw. 
 And its sweet influence was more than law. 
 
 The Roman lover prayed for such a bride; 
 
 "Oh, keep me thus!" the Roman maiden cried; 
 And some looked not, but turned away for awe. 
 
 The wild barbarians, with lustful hand. 
 
 Raged through deserted Rome, and one of rank 
 
 Before the goddess drew his horde to stand, 
 And aimed a shattering blow. But ere it sank 
 
 He cowering turned amid his hooting band. 
 And Beauty triumphed while fierce Boldness shrank. 
 
S3 
 
 JE LANGER, JE LIEBER. 
 
 BY BURNSIDE FOSTER, '82. 
 
 " Je langer, je lieber," whispered the dew, 
 
 As it clung to the pansy, bright ; 
 And the night wind smiled at their love so true. 
 
 As it kissed them both good night. 
 
 " Je langer, je lieber," warble the birds, 
 
 As they fly by the pansy's bed. 
 And even the sun gives a loving nod, 
 
 As he raises his fiery head. 
 
 For the modest pansy is loved by all. 
 
 With its beautiful velvet dress, 
 And it blushingly smiles at each tender call, 
 
 And each lover-like caress. 
 
 But the pansy is picked by a sunburnt youth, 
 From its bed 'mid the grass and the creeper. 
 
 And the blushing maiden tells him the truth 
 When she murmurs " Je langer, je lieber." 
 
54 
 THE ELF-KING. 
 
 [translated from the GERMAN.] 
 BY H. S. DURAND, '8 1. 
 
 Who rideth so late through the night wind wild.? 
 
 It is the father with his child ; 
 
 Around the boy he throws his arm, 
 
 He grasps him securely, he keeps him warm. 
 
 "My son, my dear son, what troubleth thee?" 
 "Dost thou not, father, the Elf-king see? 
 The Elf-king with his crown and train ?" 
 " My son, 'tis but the mist and rain." 
 
 " Thou lovely child, come go with me ! 
 Beautiful games I'll play with thee ! 
 Many sweet flowers are in the wold; 
 My mother hath many robes of gold." 
 
 " My father, my father, and hearest thou not 
 What Elfenking sayeth shall fall to my lot?" 
 " Be quiet, my darling, be quiet, my own ! 
 Thou hearest the wind through the withered leaves 
 
 "Beautiful boy, wilt thou go with me? 
 
 My daughters thy waiting maids shall be ; 
 
 My daughters each evening the dances shall keep, 
 
 And rock thee, and dance thee, and sing thee to sleep." 
 
55 
 
 " My father, my father, and dost thou not mark 
 The Elfenking's daughters out there in the dark ?" 
 " My son, my dear son, very plainly I see 
 How gleams in the darkness the old willow tree." 
 
 " I love thee, for me thy sweet face hath a charm, 
 And if thou'rt not willing, I'll do thee a harm." 
 " My father, my father, he calls me again — 
 The Elfenking, father, is giving me pain." 
 
 The horrified father in haste rideth on. 
 
 He holds in his arms his agonized son. 
 
 He reaches the court-yard in terror and dread; — 
 
 The child in his arms was pallid and dead. 
 
56 
 
 ROSES AND LILIES. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 Roses and lilies growing together, 
 
 All in a garden a-blooming with posies; 
 
 But who is there can tell me whether 
 
 The lilies are fairer, or whether the roses. 
 
 The lilies are Rose's, the roses are Lilly's, 
 Rose planted the lilies, and Lilly the roses; 
 
 But there's not so lovely a rose in the trellis 
 As Lilly, no lily so fair as fair Rose is. 
 
 I love them both, and can I choose illy ? 
 
 One I must choose, which, no one discloses ; 
 If I choose Rose my rose is a lily, 
 
 If I choose Lilly my lily a rose is. 
 
 Roses and lilies growing together. 
 
 All in a garden a-blooming with posies ; 
 
 Love, O, Love, will you tell me whether 
 
 Bright Lilly is dearer, or whether fair Rose is. 
 
57 
 
 ON A PORTRAIT. 
 
 BY BARCLAY JOHNSON, '82. 
 
 A shapely head — a quiet face — 
 Expression serious, sweet; 
 
 A picture rich in many a grace, 
 But yet 't is incomplete. 
 
 For here is but the faintest trace 
 Of that sweet depth of feeling 
 
 Which, into thy living face, 
 Is ever softly stealing. 
 
 A perfect outline well defined 
 Is what I see before me ; 
 
 But wanting from it is the mind 
 Which casts its magic o'er me. 
 
58 
 
 MADELINA. 
 
 Tell me, tell me have you seen her? 
 Seen my blue-eyed Madelina, 
 With her wealth of yellow tresses, 
 And the love-light in her eye? 
 None have beauty richer, rarer — 
 None in all the world are fairer, 
 Tell me, prythee, have you seen her 
 In the gloaming passing by ? 
 
 She has cheeks like summer roses 
 Where the golden bee reposes. 
 Or the humming-bird just touches 
 For the honey that he sips ; 
 And around her young Love lingers. 
 As he leaves with dainty fingers 
 All the freshness of the morning 
 On the coral of her lips. 
 
 She is graceful as the fawn is — 
 She is pure as early dawri is — 
 Far more perfect than was Venus 
 Rising from the Paphian sea ; 
 And the ancient, antique Graces 
 Seem but fabled commonplaces. 
 As I, like Thracian Orpheus, 
 Seek my lost Eurydice. 
 
S9 
 
 Tell me, pray then, have you seen her ? 
 Seen my red-lipped Madelina, 
 Stepping lightly in the gloaming, 
 With the love-light in her eye ? 
 She is neither nymph nor goddess, 
 But beneath her snowy boddice 
 Beats a heart as bright as starlight, 
 And as soft as yonder sky. 
 
6o 
 
 TWO SONNETS 
 
 TO A PORTRAIT. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 I. 
 
 " Music, awake her, strike !" Ah, vain ! the spell 
 Of the Orphean lyre died with the touch 
 That gave it birth ; and thou, thou art not such 
 
 As fair Hermione. The last low swell 
 
 Of music from a distant evening bell 
 
 Has made my senses vibrate with its much 
 Of sweetness ; yet still thou, as on the couch 
 
 Pygmalion's wonder lay, that could compel 
 
 The gods to grant it life, dost senseless sleep ; 
 And whisper, wish, or kiss awakes thee not. 
 
 Perchance, with Orpheus' fate, save as a shade 
 
 I ne'er shall know thee, nor what charm can keep 
 My gaze fike Clytie's ever on one spot. 
 
 Thus longing did Selene fail and fade. 
 
6i 
 
 II. 
 
 The spell is nameless that doth win my gaze ; 
 
 Thou art my eyes' own Cynosure, but why 
 
 I can not tell. Narcissus did espy 
 No fault of loveliness upon the face 
 That eyed him even till death, but the soft rays 
 
 Of Beauty's star were wanting in the sky 
 
 When thou wert born ; yet never would I sigh 
 For other charm than the e'er-pleasing grace 
 So wholly thine. Let others wear the zone 
 
 Of Aphrodite while thy brow is bound 
 With the euplea,* for the magic flower 
 Of Oberon, and the fountain playing lone 
 
 In Ardennes, by the wandering lovers found, 
 Before thy nameless spells would lose their power. 
 
 * A plant which was said to make those beloved who anointed 
 themselves with it. 
 
62 
 
 INTO THE LIGHT. 
 
 BY W. C. CAMP, '80. 
 
 'Twas an August night, and the moon's clear light 
 Gilded each wave with a glittering gleam, 
 
 And the ripples' dash and the wavelets' splash 
 Made music soothing and sweet as a dream. 
 
 My beautiful boat did fairy-like float, 
 
 Bearing a burden far dearer to me 
 Than boat ever bore between shore and shore. 
 
 For it carried my true love over the sea. 
 
 With her brow so fair, and her bright brown hair, 
 
 A lovelier maiden I never shall find, 
 With her eyes so blue, and her heart so true. 
 
 Never was angel so gentle and kind — 
 
 You know how strange the moonlight doth change — 
 Sail never so far, you're just ent'ring it now. 
 
 But you ne'er can sail in the weird light pale. 
 For it always ends just under the bow. 
 
 To enter that fire was my love's desire — 
 That fire by the moon cast over the sea — 
 
 But 'tis Neptune's throne, and his nymphs alone 
 Mount its steps of gold through the sparkling sea. 
 
63 
 
 Yet we sailed, and sailed, till the moonlight paled, 
 With that fairy light still under the bow, 
 
 Then my darling spoke sweet thoughts that awoke, 
 And my heart is thrilled with their memory now : 
 
 "'Tis just like our life, so full of vain strifej 
 Longing for blessings we here cannot win. 
 
 But oiir sails we may furl at the ' Gates of Pearl,' 
 And that perfect light we may enter in." 
 
 ******* 
 
 Now the breeze blows sad, and the ripples glad 
 With the waves forever make mournful moan. 
 
 While my boat still sails, tossed by winds and gales— 
 She has entered the light — I sail alone ! 
 
64 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 BY E. F. GREEN, '8o. 
 
 There were tears in your eyes as you turned them 
 from mine, 
 
 While we stood the last time by the wicket tog;ether, 
 And I said to myself, " Pretty jewels, they shine 
 
 For our parting to-morrow that may be forever." 
 
 Down through the long walk by the meadows of clover 
 We passed once again ere I bade you good-bye. 
 
 The dark, silent shade of the elm trees hung over. 
 And sorrowed with us who in sorrow passed by. 
 
 Ah ! bright was the day and the hour when we parted ; 
 
 The soft, dewy grasses, the sunshine, the flowers 
 Were symbols of joy, — but we two, broken hearted, 
 
 Turned sadly away, for it could not be ours. 
 
 The rosebud you charged me to keep as a token. 
 Recalling the brief life of pleasure we led. 
 
 With perfume all vanished and dead petals broken 
 Now lies but the symbol of hopes that are fled. 
 
65 
 
 BONNY BOON. 
 
 [after burns.] 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 Ye banks and braes o' Bonny Boon, 
 How can ye bloom and look so gay.' 
 
 Since last the sun looked down at noon 
 My light, my life has passed away. 
 
 Fade, fade, ye flowers, o'er hill and plain, 
 The fairest flower of all has died. 
 
 And never show your bloom again 
 
 Where Bonny Boon's sad waters glide. 
 
 How can ye dance, O daffodils, 
 With every fair and fickle breeze. 
 
 When she who loved you on the hills 
 Now sleeps beneath the lilied leas ? 
 
 Ye bonny birds, how can ye call 
 
 In careless song from bough to bough ? 
 
 The sweetest singer of you all 
 Is only heard in heaven now. 
 
 How can you, cold and silent moon, 
 Look down so fair from heaven above, 
 
 Since never more by Bonny Boon 
 I'll wander with my plighted love ? 
 
66 
 VACATION. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 Along the pathway through the wood, 
 By gothic hemlock arched and shaded, 
 
 We walked, and by the gateway stood 
 To watch the sunset as it faded. 
 
 'Twas your first year at Holyoke, 
 And I was very fresh from college, 
 
 And so of course whene'er we spoke 
 
 Each wondered at the other's knowledge. 
 
 We raved about the sunset sky 
 
 In gorgeous golden light appareled. 
 
 And marked each soft and transient dye ; 
 You quoted Ruskin, I, Childe Harold. 
 
 The scene suggested to your mind 
 
 A landscape at the Exposition ; 
 And I, not to be left behind, 
 
 Thought it "quite in the mode of Titian." 
 
 You wove wreaths of — botanic names, 
 
 You coughed, and I discoursed of phthisics ; 
 
 We laughed at " our old silly games," 
 And then dropped into metaphysics. 
 
 Till, wearied with the task absurd. 
 
 We made an effort to be merry ; 
 I thought you — I forget the word. 
 
 You thought Yale "a good phrontistery." 
 
67 
 
 We knew it was a foolish way, 
 
 And yet, for fear our tongues, unguarded, 
 Would say what most we wished to say, 
 
 Our old-time manners we discarded. 
 
 But when the sunlight left the hills. 
 And Summer's quiet night was sinking, 
 
 We yielded to that power which stills 
 The idlest babbler into thinking. 
 
 We felt old memories in us glow. 
 
 Old childhood's flames within us burning; 
 
 And when at last we turned to go 
 
 Our eyes met with the sweet, old yearning. 
 
 Too near our lips, half-pursing, drew 
 For aught but lover or fond brother. 
 
 But the sweetest kiss I ever knew 
 
 Was when in thought we kissed each other. 
 
68 
 SOUTH MIDDLE. 
 
 BY D. H. BUELL, '83. 
 
 The moon shineth on thee, South Middle, 
 With a quivering, tremulous light, 
 
 And striveth in vain to unriddle 
 
 The lore with which thou art bedight. 
 
 Thou hast sheltered our fathers before us. 
 Our sons thou wilt shelter and shield ; 
 
 Thou wilt ring with their voices sonorous. 
 And ne'er to Tinje's ravages yield. 
 
 The towering elm trees caress thee, 
 
 Their shadows fall on thy walls. 
 They ever in low murmurs bless thee 
 
 And thy boisterous resonant halls. 
 
 Aula Connecticutensis, 
 
 First leaflet of Yale's sturdy tree. 
 More dear to our hearts than the fence is. 
 
 Our thoughts will be ever of thee. 
 
 When Time with his rude hand has sprinkled 
 Our thick locks with flurries of snow, 
 
 When the faces are withered and wrinkled 
 That now with young life are aglow ; 
 
 When Life's faintly flickering ember 
 
 In Oblivion's ashes grows pale, 
 Thee, thee will we ever remember. 
 
 Brightest gem in our life at old Yale. 
 
69 
 
 ALBUM LINES. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 Though France should bleed her choicest vine, 
 
 I would not drink to thee in wine ; 
 
 More rare, more pure must be the draught 
 Whene'er to thee a cup is quaffed. 
 
 But the drop of honied dew Til sip, 
 
 That trembles on the lily's lip. 
 Then every fairy, bird, or bee 
 That drinks from it shall drink to thee. 
 
70 
 
 A PORTRAIT. 
 
 BY A. B. LINCOLN, '8 1. 
 
 A modest little photograph 
 
 Adorns my mantel-shelf, 
 But slyly hides among the rest, 
 
 Unseen save by myself. 
 
 It is the surest talisman 
 To drive away the " blues." 
 
 'T is never sad, nor will it e'er 
 To me a smile refuse. 
 
 Yet others always pass it by 
 
 For more pretentious faces 
 Whose beauties grace my mantel-shelf- 
 
 Fair maids with queenly graces. 
 
 To me alone a secret charm 
 
 Makes this one face so fair; 
 I know the meaning in those eyes, 
 
 I know the heart that's there. 
 
71 
 
 A SUMMER STORM. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 Bright-bosomed Bantam spreads her silver sheet 
 
 Before me in an amphitheatre 
 Of green and sloping sides that gently meet 
 
 The water's edge. Its ripples scarcely stir 
 To-day, btit 't is as motionless as 't were 
 
 A crystal sea ; and groves and hills and skies 
 Are mirrored in its depths without a blur, 
 
 Save where S9me tremulous breeze may o'er it rise. 
 
 But ere it ruffles o'er the lake the zephyr dies. 
 
 'T is like the fitful calm that comes before 
 The battle, telling of impending doom. 
 
 But it hath ceased, and coolly blowing o'er [gloom 
 The lake, a quick breeze sweeps, and gathering 
 
 Lowers on the changing scene. Now the dull boom 
 And rumble of the distant thunder storm 
 
 Burdens the air; dark, heavy masses loom 
 From out the west, and black battalions form 
 Above the frowning hills, and sweep on in a swarm. 
 
72 
 
 MATIN SONG. 
 
 BY L. D. SYLE, '79. 
 
 When the dew is on the roses, 
 When the mist is on the sea, 
 When the western wind reposes 
 
 Midst the leaves of yon oak tree ; 
 Through the August-blooming heather. 
 We will roam, my love, together, 
 To the land where aye is Dawning, 
 Golden Light and constant Morning. 
 
 NOCTURNE. 
 
 When bright Venus caps the mountains, 
 
 When the moon is sinking low. 
 When, as sound of many fountains, 
 
 Murmurs from the ocean blow. 
 When the breeze of night is sighing, 
 And the birds of night replying, 
 O'er the white and glistening sand — 
 We will wander hand in hand. 
 To the land where dwells the Twilight, 
 Silvery Gloaming, shimmering Starlight. 
 
73 
 
 CASCADE BROOK. 
 
 BY L. D. SYLE, '79. 
 
 O maiden silver-sandaled, mountain-born, 
 Outstepping lightly from the cool ravine 
 Where, hidden from gaze profane, and all unseen 
 
 Save by thine own pure self, thou dost adorn 
 Thine amber tresses with pink columbine. 
 
 Soft-drooping over violets white and blue. 
 
 Wake-robins, and anemones for you 
 Aurora-blown, sweet-scented with wild pine — 
 
 O maiden crowned with springtime, silver-voiced, 
 Step lightly on for aye, and on thy face 
 
 Be sunshine, since thy heart with ours rejoiced 
 When, wandering through the woods with lazy 
 pace. 
 
 We met thee, joyous brook, that pleasant day 
 
 To be remembered long, the Ides of May. 
 
74 
 A LOST POEM. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 One afternoon, 'twas weeks ago, 
 
 We rode to Echo Lake a-boating, 
 And while you sailed the lake below 
 
 I lay upon the hillside noting 
 The melancholy sunset glow, 
 The twilight dimness falling slow, 
 And creeping mists that 'gan to show 
 Where you were idly floating. 
 
 You woke the echoes with your crieS, 
 And when, from hill and forest flying, 
 
 I caught the swell of their replies. 
 
 Now mocking clear, now softly dying 
 
 In silence that all life denies, 
 
 I felt a sudden, sweet surprise 
 
 At the fair scene before my eyes 
 In holy beauty lying. 
 
 And half believing I was shown 
 A painter's pr a poet's treasure. 
 
 Because my heart had seldom known 
 So pure, so deep, so wild a pleasure, 
 
 I strove to make it all thine own 
 
 In picturing rhymes. And but one lone, 
 
 Befettered stanza, cold in tone. 
 Would meet my empty measure. 
 
75 
 
 And so, thought I, a joy is lost 
 
 To you and me, perhaps forever. 
 Then in the lake my rhymes I tossed, 
 
 And with them perished my endeavor. 
 But often mockingly have crossed 
 My thoughts the lesson and its cost, 
 How oft for what we seek it most 
 Expression cometh never. 
 
76 
 
 A DEAD FAITH. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 We have lost faith in love, its kiss hath burned 
 
 Upon our lips and left the bitter taste 
 
 Of ashes. Yet our love was sweet and chaste 
 And true, we thought, till Fate a-sudden turned 
 Our life's old course. Ah, vainly then we yearned 
 
 For what our hearts had lost, and naught replaced; 
 
 And harder grows our loss, for unefiFaced 
 Upon our hearts, as on Death's ashes urned, 
 Is written deep that saddening word of woe, — 
 
 The name of Love, that daily must be read. 
 Over his altar the dark veil we throw, 
 
 And close the shrine now its high priest is fled. 
 We have lost faith in love, we can but show 
 
 In every act our faith in love is dead. 
 
77 
 
 WHO CAN TELL? 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 Who can tell when the Winter is coming ? 
 
 Who can tell when the Summer is going? 
 We go to sleep when the roses are blooming, 
 
 We wake and we find it snowing. 
 
 Who can tell when the Winter is going? 
 
 Who can tell when the Summer is coming? 
 We go to sleep when the tempests are blowing, 
 
 We wake and the bees are humming. 
 
78 
 AD ILLAM. 
 
 BY E. W. SOUTHWORTH, '75. 
 
 Not mine the power to sound thy name 
 
 In stately song or moving story, 
 To gild it with the poet's fame, 
 
 To crown it with the singer's glory ; 
 It is not mine with honied phrase 
 
 Of longing, or of love, to move thee, — 
 My heart it's all before thee lays : 
 
 Alas ! it can but love thee. 
 
 Not mine the warrior's fadeless wreath 
 
 Of laurels plucked in Death's grim valley, 
 Nor sword, still dreaming in its sheath 
 
 Of its last, wild, victorious sally ; 
 Poor are the offerings that I bring ; 
 
 I have no crown to set above thee. 
 No laurels at thy feet to fling, — 
 
 Alas ! I can but love thee. 
 
 To feel the songs I cannot sing. 
 
 To strive for fame beyond my gaining, 
 To miss the joy, to find the sting. 
 
 Yet smile, unmoved and uncomplaining. 
 Forever helpless hands to strain. 
 
 With useless clutch, at heights above me, — 
 Such is my lot, yet sweet its pain. 
 
 If thou wouldst deign to love me. 
 
79 
 
 The song of birds, the sigh of trees, 
 
 The last, faint flush of evening tender. 
 The soft caresses of the breeze, 
 
 The ocean's smile, the sunrise-splendor — 
 With all I knew of sweet or fair, 
 
 In sky or earth, my thoughts enwove thee ; 
 Thy smile was heaven, thy name a prayer ; 
 
 How could I choose but love thee ? 
 
 I love thee. In that word alone 
 
 Lies all my claim to love returning ; 
 And still must live, though hope be flown, 
 
 A deathless love, a deathless yearning. 
 Ah, couldst thou bend thy radiant face. 
 
 Lit with an answering love, above me, 
 What joy would gild my darkened days, — 
 
 If thou wouldst only love me. 
 
8o 
 
 MAY-DAWN. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 A tender beauty of the early day, 
 
 A morning's blush ; 
 A phebe and a linnet singing gay 
 
 Aniong the brush, 
 A lark up-soaring, trilling forth her lay 
 
 In one wild gush 
 Of song, a robin on a maple spray, 
 
 A wren and thrush ; 
 Then on the choir that greets the sun's first ray 
 
 There falls a hush ; 
 And all that makes dawn lovely fades away 
 
 In noonday's flush. 
 
8i 
 GERTRUDE O' THE VALE. 
 
 BY. W. H. UPTON, '77. 
 
 Wi' mellow ray the moon shone bright 
 
 Upon a scene o' beauty rare ; 
 
 The flowery braes, half shade, half light, 
 
 The arbor, rose-entwined wi' care. 
 
 Saft zephyrs whispered thro' the trees, 
 
 The night bird's song enriched the breeze. 
 
 The vauntie brook wi' amorous tones 
 
 Spoke love and kissed the embracing stones. 
 
 Whiles Gertie, sitting by my side, 
 
 Wi' pleasure listened to my tale ; 
 
 Whiles Gertie vowed to be my bride. 
 
 My own sweet Gertrude o' the Vale. 
 
 ****** 
 
 The moon wi' clouded face glints down 1 
 
 Upon a scene whence joy has fled ; 
 
 The arbor stands, but lone and brown ; 
 
 The ourie vine hangs sere and dead. 
 
 The owl sits whingin' to her brood. 
 
 The bat flits by in search of food, 
 
 A crow caws mournfully on high, 
 
 A bittern craiks his eldritch cry; 
 
 The fir trees mutter in the dark. 
 
 An' from the hills aboon the dale 
 
 Point out wi' fingers lang and stark 
 
 The grave o' Gertrude o' the Vale. 
 
82 
 JUNE AND DECEMBER. 
 
 BY C. F. CHAPIN, '^^. 
 
 JUNE. 
 
 A simple tale I have to tell, 
 While lost within the mazes 
 
 Of violet and heather-bell, 
 Of buttercups and daisies. 
 
 She turns aside; a joyous tear 
 
 Is on the face she raises. 
 A word she says — I sadly fear 
 
 'Tis lost amid the daisies. 
 
 And now we plight eternal love, 
 Whate'er the Future's phases — 
 
 The sapphire sky so pure above. 
 Beneath our feet the daisies. 
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 To-night I've seen my love once more ; 
 
 A city sang her praises, 
 Mad with the heliotropes she wore, — 
 
 Ah, once I offered daisies. 
 
 " Oh, love, so soon can you forget 
 (Now in my eyes she gazes) 
 
 The words you said when once we met. 
 Last Summer midst the daisies }" 
 
 " That summer day is past," she said ; 
 
 " The winter snow effaces 
 The memory of the love. 'Tis dead ; 
 
 And dead are all the daisies." 
 
83 
 LAKE SALTONSTALL. 
 
 AFTER THE RACE. 
 BY J. H. VAN BUREN, '73. 
 
 The last, faint, lingering foot-fall dies away; 
 
 The echoing shout is heard no more ; 
 The ripples that around the keel did play. 
 
 Have told their story on the shore. 
 And now the hill, that from its woody throat 
 
 Gave back to-day the eager call 
 And shout to winning and to vanquished boat, 
 
 Smiles grimly down on Saltonstall. 
 
 Thee, gentle lake, whose seldom troubled breast 
 
 Seems heaving as with sorrow now. 
 To-day a hundred feathery oars caressed, 
 
 And wreathed with rippling smiles thy bi^ow. 
 To-day a thousand friends stood on yon shore, 
 
 To-night departed one and all ; 
 They think, deserted lake, of thee no more. 
 
 Nor care for lonely Saltonstall. 
 
 What secrets in thy silent breast are locked ! 
 
 Couldst thou but speak in accents clear, 
 What sight of manly grief by triumph mocked. 
 
 What purposes that knew no fear, 
 What hopes, despairs, and wild victorious glee 
 
 Would on the slumbering echoes call. 
 Till night swift chased by rosy morn should flee, 
 
 And leave thee, fairest Saltonstall. 
 
84 
 WAITING THE TURN. 
 
 BY L. D. BRADLEY, '77. 
 
 With scarce a ripple at our bow, 
 
 Slow dropping with the tide we rest, 
 
 Brushing the low o'erhanging bough. 
 And shaded from the glowing west, 
 
 That draws its orange mantle now 
 Across the soft brown river's breast. 
 
 She, slightly wearied at the oar. 
 Now has the after-thwart, and I, 
 
 Being weary too, the other four : 
 The trailing weeds move slowly by, 
 
 And dimmer grows the distant shore 
 Off where the purpling vapors lie. 
 
 And I am thinking, as I gaze 
 
 Towards that after-thwart, how we 
 
 Have drifted through these summer days : 
 And vainly, too, it seems to me. 
 
 For even in this golden haze 
 The river lengthens endlessly. 
 
 Lengthens and winds, until I fear 
 That I am sadly wiser grown, 
 
 Finding what seemed at first so near 
 Drifts as I drift ; and, faintly blown, 
 
 A far off murmur thrills my ear, — 
 May be the distant breakers' moan. 
 
85 
 
 Enough of this ; so I propose 
 
 We row for home. No, she demurs : 
 
 Likes drifting well enough, and knows 
 The tide soon turns, and much prefers 
 
 Ebbing along until it flows ; 
 
 " See there — the shore line hardly stirs. "^ 
 
 Pause. " Now will you ever learn 
 
 The ways of tide and wind and weather ?' 
 
 Just keep your seats, leave me the stern. 
 Don't bother me about my ' feather,' 
 
 But wait until the tide comes in 
 
 And then we two'll drift back together."' 
 
86 
 
 AT THE SHORE. 
 
 Where slope the stern New England hills 
 To meet the belt of shining sand 
 That forms the threshold of the land, 
 Where the old ocean foams, and fills 
 Each inlet with its breakers white, 
 That dash and roar in fierce delight. 
 
 Standing alone in stately pride, 
 The monarchs of the forest race. 
 Perfect in grandeur and in grace. 
 Four elm trees on the green hill side, 
 With waving, wind-tossed branches spread 
 A rustling canopy o'erhead. 
 
 Here, when the summer zephyrs sang 
 Of health and peace and happiness. 
 And Nature, in her fond caress. 
 Enfolded all, while joyous rang 
 The heart's short echo of content, 
 A few bright weeks we quickly spent. 
 
 By day, we watched the billows break. 
 And saw the white sails pass from view 
 Across the margin of the blue 
 That seemed the boundary to make 
 Of all things that we call our own, 
 A death's door to the vast unknown. 
 
 By night, we watched the firelight gleam 
 
 Upon the foliage of the trees. 
 
 Or listened to the rustling breeze. 
 
87 
 
 And fancied, as it were in dream, 
 The breakers dashing on the land, 
 A choir of some cathedral grand ; 
 
 Or, tired of silence, some one told 
 
 A legend of forgotten days, 
 
 Filled with the curious thoughts and ways 
 
 That ages past have loved to hold, 
 
 Or sought the mystery to trace 
 
 That clung around our resting place. 
 
 Here, in the old colonial times, 
 
 The witches met on many a night. 
 
 And, dancing in the firelight, 
 
 Sang with a laugh their mystic rhymes ; 
 
 And, in the moonbeam's doubtful sheen. 
 
 Full many a gliding ghost was seen. 
 
 Here had the war-whoop fiercely rung ; 
 And here the peace pipe's smoke had curled 
 Toward heaven, asking on the world 
 A blessing; and the dirge was sung 
 For many a warrior here, where, save 
 The mound that marked an Indian grave. 
 
 All spake of peace and happy rest, 
 Not in the grave, but joyous, light. 
 Careless, untrammeled as a spright ; 
 Except when the tossing breaker's crest. 
 Stopped in its course, with sullen roar 
 Growled out its spite along the shore. 
 
 Yet round the place a spell was cast. 
 Or seemed to be; an undertone 
 
88 
 
 Of sadness, like a low, soft moan. 
 Was sometimes heard, as when, in th' last 
 Of Indian-Summer's sad, sweet days. 
 Through barren boughs the wild wind plays. 
 
 But still, the mystery unknown 
 
 To all remained, as day by day ' 
 
 With hurrying footsteps fled away. 
 
 Leaving with us this gift alone. 
 
 The memory of happy hours, 
 
 A wreath of Time's fast fading flowers. 
 
 But when the one last evening came, 
 We heard a gently murmured strain 
 That, echoing from each heart again. 
 Gave back the burden still the same, 
 " When the future turns to past. 
 Say, O say ! will friendship last .'' 
 
 " Fades the Springtide's freshest green, 
 Summer days to Autumn turn, 
 And the frost-touched forests burn 
 Scarcely ere the snows are seen ; 
 When the flowers withered lie, 
 Will not, too, our friendships die.' 
 
 " Flows the river to the sea. 
 And, as constant as the tide, 
 Stands the mountain at its side ; 
 Shall we find our friends to be. 
 When to-morrow fleets away, 
 Just as true as yesterday.'" 
 
89 
 THY MERCY. 
 
 [after SWINBURNE.] 
 BY F. D. ROOT, '72. 
 
 Thou hast covered thy people with sorrow ; 
 Thou hast tainted our joy and our mirth 
 With the fear of a fateful to-morrow ; 
 Thou hast cursed us from birth. 
 
 Thou hast given us love, but the treasure 
 
 Is tarnished with rust and with stain. 
 Thou hast fed us with promise of pleasure ; 
 Thou hast given us pain. 
 
 Thou hast filled us with passionate yearning, 
 
 With desires that unceasingly war ; 
 Thou hast showed us a freedom worth earning ; 
 Thou hast bound us with law. 
 
 Thou hast given us life, but our sleeping 
 
 Is poisoned with waking; our breath 
 Is freighted with sighing and weeping. 
 Thou hast given us death. 
 
 Rich gift to thy children who languish ! 
 
 Sweet rest for them under the sod ! 
 Thou hast granted release from our anguish, 
 Most merciful God ! 
 
90 
 "ONLY ONE KILLED." 
 
 BY J. A. BURR, '71. 
 
 " Only one killed," raise to heaven the shout, 
 Carried the enemy's frowning redoubt. 
 Back rolls the smoke ; the struggle is o'er ; 
 Waves the old banner triumphant once more. 
 Tell, through the land, there's a victory won, 
 Tell of the valorous deeds that were done. 
 Bid each true heart with rejoicing be filled ; 
 Conquered the traitor, and " Only one killed." 
 
 " Only one killed," so the message sped on, 
 Thought not of rest while its work was undone. 
 Far in the North, where the mid-summer rills 
 Dash, in mad frolic, down granite-ribbed hills. 
 It stopped at the gate of a farm-house old. 
 To the gray-haired inmates its tidings told, 
 But how quickly their joyous emotions are stilled. 
 'Twas their darling boy, the " Only one killed." 
 
 " Only one killed," but that one was their joy, 
 A fond mother's idol, her first-born boy, 
 And a mother's tears, and a mother's sighs. 
 Told how costly had been the sacrifice. 
 But the gray-haired father, with breaking heart. 
 Thanked God that his boy played no coward's part, 
 And meekly bore what stern Providence willed. 
 Yet secretly wept o'er the " Only one killed." 
 
91 
 
 " Only one killed;" To a cottage so small 
 
 That it scarcely was seen through the elm trees tall, 
 
 At whose old-fashioned door a white rose bush stands, 
 
 That is taught to climb by yet whiter hands, — 
 
 To a fair-haired girl, on whose cheek the tint 
 
 Of the rosy morn left its soft imprint, 
 
 Whose bright, blue eye seemed with sunlight filled. 
 
 Came the sad, sad story of " Only one killed." 
 
 " Only one killed !" See the rich color fly 
 Back from her cheek ; — in that gentle blue eye 
 Tears find no place, but a cold, stony stare 
 Tells of a wound that the heart cannot bear. 
 What careth she though a hundred remain .' 
 They cannot bring back her lover again. 
 Gone from a lifetime its brightness — all gone, 
 Buried down deep when they buried that "one." 
 
92 
 
 AT TWILIGHT. 
 
 BY HENRY BALDWIN, '7I. 
 
 Soft shadows gather in the clefts 
 That scar the mountain's sloping side, 
 Among whose breezy, storm-rent pines 
 The mists of evening creep and hide. 
 
 And swung within the fading blue 
 Burns one great star with steady glow. 
 Its fainter image glimmering 
 Deep in the rippled lake below. 
 
 Here in the tangled thicket's gloom 
 A wood-thrush warbles. Hark ! how faint 
 The answer from some dell remote, 
 Where his lost mate makes sad complaint I 
 
 A boat draws near, a laughing girl 
 With light stroke turns it to the land. 
 The waves, with snowy bubbles flecked. 
 Leap up to kiss each toiling hand. 
 
 She sings a merry air that floats 
 And dies along the dewy shores. 
 Now listening sits; the sliding drops 
 Drip tinkling from her lifted oars. 
 
 Still glow the stars, the birds sing on. 
 But I am dumb, I know not why ; 
 Oh, quick voiced echo of the hills. 
 Must you be first to make reply.'' 
 
93 
 
 A TOAST. 
 
 BY W. R. BEACH, '70. 
 
 Landlord, fill up once more each cup, 
 One toast while day is dawning ! 
 
 We drink to Death, whose icy breath 
 May chill us ere the morning. 
 
 We pledge not Life ; 'tis ever rife 
 With toil, and pain, and sorrow, 
 
 And though to-day be ne'er so gay . 
 There may be grief to-morrow. 
 
 For storms arise in fairest skies. 
 And clouds the heavens curtain, 
 
 There is no joy without alloy. 
 And naught but Death is certain. 
 
 Then drink to him, that monarch grim, 
 King Death, who o'er us reigneth ; 
 
 Thy life and mine, like this bright wine, 
 E'en now perchance he draineth. 
 
94 
 IN THE VALLEY. 
 
 BY HENRY BALDWIN, '7I. 
 
 Here 's the foot-path through the meadow, turning 
 as it nears the hill ; 
 
 Down below I hear the water hurrying by the an- 
 cient mill. 
 
 Elm trees arch their branches o'er it, and at every 
 
 breeze they toss 
 Golden leaves upon the shingles, weather stained 
 
 and green with moss. 
 
 Peering through the narrow window, I can see the 
 
 toil within, 
 Ghostly forms that rise and vanish 'mid the darkness 
 
 and the din. 
 
 If a sunbeam chance to enter, deeper yet the gloom 
 
 becomes. 
 Deeper yet the shadows gather where the great 
 
 wheel creaks and hums. 
 
 At the door the farmers gossip, waiting for their 
 
 loads of grain ; 
 Overhead the pigeons hover, circling down the dusty 
 
 lane. 
 
 Here 's the mill-pond, black and sluggish, where the 
 
 timid herons hide, 
 Forests climb the banks above it, shutting in on 
 
 either side. 
 
95 
 
 Breezy birches fringe its borders, sturdy oak trees 
 
 o'er it lean ; 
 Through the leaves, when quick winds stir them, 
 
 now and then, blue hills are seen. 
 
 Here 's the race, whose dusky waters gurgle softly as 
 
 they flow, 
 Scarcely are th' o'erhanging flowers mirrored in the 
 
 depths below. 
 
 How the bubbles dance and shimmer, breaking as 
 
 the slow wheel turns, 
 How the spray gleams in the sunlight, falling on the 
 
 waving ferns ! 
 
 There, across the green embankment, noisily the 
 
 brook comes down, 
 Winding swiftly through the rushes and the alder 
 
 copses brown. 
 
 Well I know that in its courses, underneath the 
 
 branches cool. 
 There is many a sandy basin, many a broad and quiet 
 
 pool. 
 
 There we bathed, do you remember ? set our mimic 
 
 fleets a-sail. 
 Every change to us eventful, every turn of tide and 
 
 gale. 
 
 Saw them meet the surges bravely, safely pass the 
 
 marshy bend. 
 And at last among the eddies come to an untimely 
 
 end. 
 
96 
 
 There the minnows led their armies, bright of eye 
 
 and swift of fin, 
 Wary of the tempting dainties dropped them on each 
 
 crooked pin. 
 
 From those rocky ledges yonder, patiently we fished 
 
 for trout, 
 Doomed to wait and hope and sorrow, faith soon 
 
 giving place to doubt. 
 
 Here, at noon, we urchins rested, 'neath the bending 
 
 apple trees ; 
 Rarer fruit, we thought, was never ripened by the 
 
 tropic seas. 
 
 And the berries on the hill-side ; ne'er were berries 
 
 sweet as those. 
 Where we lingered in the twilight, staining hands 
 
 and tearing clothes. 
 
 Will it seem as fair, I wonder, as it did in days of 
 
 yore. 
 When the old mill falls in ruins, and the brook is 
 
 free once more. 
 
 Drifting snows will fill the doorway, through the 
 
 shattered windows steal ; 
 Tangled vines creep o'er the threshold, mosses clog 
 
 the useless wheel. 
 
 We shall miss the honest miller, joking o'er the tardy 
 
 grain. 
 And the flock of eager pigeons fluttering down the 
 
 dusty lane. 
 
97 
 
 Yet the winds of Spring will rustle in the leaves, as 
 
 soft and low, 
 Sweet as ever in the thickets will the summer roses 
 
 blow. 
 
 And the voices of the waters still will call us as they 
 
 run. 
 Still the waves will flash and glitter, hurrying onward 
 
 in the sun. 
 
98 
 THE SKATERS. 
 
 BY F. A. SCOTT, '69. 
 
 A winter morning ! Rose the winter sun 
 
 With eager rays, that sought the glooms of night 
 
 And routed them. Then broke day halcyon. 
 Ah ! will its gloaming gladden as its light ? 
 
 Down a river, sinuous, broad, 
 Streams, in joyous health, a crowd 
 Skating on the icy glare 
 
 In youth's ecstacy ; 
 Pirouetting hither, there — 
 
 Incarnated glee ! 
 
 'Midst the motly and the rude 
 Glide the graceful and the good. 
 On ! the throng, and little heeds 
 
 One fallen, heavy-laden ; 
 Kindlier, to the rescue speeds 
 
 A youth — and here, a maiden. 
 
 Each with other's act of grace 
 Pleased, each seeks the other face ; 
 Manly daring, frankness, truth — 
 
 Woman's eyes of beauty 
 Light with hope and moist with ruth — 
 
 Calm and clear with duty. 
 
 " Tender, slender maiden-feet, 
 
 Will they not, though brave and fleet, 
 
 Falter 'mid the merry noise, 
 
99 
 
 The stress, the rugged places ? 
 Linked arms and steadier poise; 
 Surer, mated paces." 
 
 Irksome check such feet would keep 
 On the bounding manhood's sweep. 
 Yet — who knows? A woman's eye 
 
 Quicklier may discover 
 Where the greedy ice-flaws lie 
 
 Lurking for her lover. 
 
 " To yon City on the hill 
 
 Lies my journey." 
 
 " Thou shalt still 
 
 Keep thy journeying. So thou please, 
 
 We will go together 
 Through mischances, through sweet ease, 
 
 Rough or pleasant weather." 
 
 Steel-blades strike in harmony 
 Ringing tunes. In love's great glee 
 Wildly glad, they onward wend. 
 
 Hand tight clasping hand, 
 Down the river's crystal trend 
 
 To the Shining Strand. 
 
 Sped and fled, the laughing sun ! — 
 Ere the day is half-way done 
 Burst the heavens in vialed wrath. 
 
 Faint through storm-racked skies. 
 While they grope their darkling path, 
 
 Hope's fair turrets rise. 
 
lOO 
 
 Hard bestead they cleave the wind ; 
 Fainting, wrestling, tempest-blind, 
 Scarce they breast the awful blast. 
 
 Her in tender pity 
 Love puissant shields. At last 
 
 From out the gloom — the City ! 
 
 Lures them now no wayside rest. 
 Daunts no more the dangerous quest. 
 On the rocking, crumbling crust 
 
 Scarce their footsteps print ; 
 From the Beacon of their trust 
 
 Cloudy splendors glint. 
 
 Skating still at evening's gray 
 
 On their darkening, brightening way, 
 
 Home-lights beckon o'er the Wall ; 
 
 While through the chilling air 
 Silently the snow-flakes fall. 
 
 Making white their hair. 
 
 Underneath the City's height, 
 
 Skates unloosed ; through gathering night, 
 
 From the river up the steep 
 
 Each to other clings. 
 Tender, mutual memories keep 
 
 Love's long wanderings. 
 
 Forever ended ! Rest for utmost need 
 
 Waits but to welcome. Lo! with jubilant speed 
 
 The opening portals flash a glory bright. 
 
 For them, "At evening time it shall.be light." 
 
lOI 
 
 JEANNE D'ARC. 
 
 BY H. A. BEERS, '6g. 
 
 Past midnight long ! The moon hath set ; 
 
 I heard the cock an hour ago. 
 Still dark ! no glimpse of dawn as yet, 
 
 Though morning winds begin to blow. 
 Dear Lord, how swift the time goes by ! 
 There's something in the air that rings — 
 Listen ! — a whirring as of wings — 
 The myriad moments as they fly. 
 O fold me in thine arms, sweet night; 
 
 Sweet pitying darkness, longer stay, 
 And veil me from the cruel light 
 
 That creeps to steal my life away. 
 
 Lo ! even now the waning stars 
 
 Grow pale. The matin bell doth toll : 
 Prisoned like me by casement bars. 
 
 It wakes sad echoes in my soul. 
 For memories woven in the braid 
 Of sound, bring back the abbey bell 
 That wont to ring when twilight fell. 
 Through pastur.es where my childhood strayed. 
 
 What time, when flocks were in the fold. 
 Saint Agnes and Saint Catharine 
 
 Looked from the darkening heavens cold. 
 And wondrous Voices spake with mine. 
 
 Slow-winding Meuse, I would that still. 
 
 Along thy grassy valleys deep, 
 Or half-way up some neighboring hill, 
 
 I heard the bleat of simple sheep. 
 
I02 
 
 It might not be : Cassandra-wise 
 
 I caught in dreams the din of shields; 
 
 Far trumpets blown on tented fields 
 Summoned to deeds of high emprise. 
 
 Sweet household cheer was not for me ; 
 The pleasant hum of spinning-wheel, 
 
 And children's prattle at my knee — 
 The bliss that lowly mothers feel. 
 
 My spirit winged to bolder flights, 
 Drawn skyward in ecstatic dreams — 
 An eagle on the lonely heights. 
 
 No ringdove haunting woodland streams. 
 O solemn joy! O blessed trance. 
 That seized me when the drums did roll, 
 And chanting priests in hood and stole 
 Led on the bannered hosts of France ! 
 
 In battle winds above me blown 
 Fit sign for maiden chevalier — 
 
 White lilies streamed, and round me shone 
 Strange lights, and Voices filled my ear 
 
 Foretelling victory, saying " Ride ! 
 
 Ride onward, mailed in conquering, might. 
 God's legions muster on thy side 
 
 To stead thee in the coming fight.'' 
 When swords were sheathed and bows unstrung. 
 What visions awed me as I kneeled, 
 While down long aisles Te Deums pealed. 
 And such triumphant anthems rung. 
 
 As Miriam, on the Red Sea shore, 
 Exulting to the timbrel's sound. 
 
 Sung, when amid the loud waves' roar 
 Chariot and horse and rider drowned ! 
 
I03 
 
 Ay me ! 'Tis past ; the battle's won ; 
 
 The Warrior breaks His useless brand. 
 Yet even so : His will be done 
 
 Who holdeth victory in His hand. 
 I know that ere the sun is high, 
 On housetop, wall, and balcony, 
 Children will clap their hands with glee, 
 To see the " Witch of Orlea.ns" die; 
 
 And women flout me in the face 
 Who erst have crossed them at my name, 
 
 When in the gazing market-place 
 My flesh shall feed the hungry flame. 
 
 'Twere fit that guns should boom my knell. 
 
 Flags droop and funeral music roll; 
 And through high minster vaults should swell 
 
 Sad requiems for my parted soul. 
 Crowned kings should kneel beside me dead ; 
 Cathedral saints on storied panes. 
 Where daylight turns to ruby stains, 
 Should shed their halos round my head. 
 
 From nooks in arches twilight-dim'. 
 And niches in the pictured wall, 
 
 Stone Christs and carven cherubim 
 Should look upon my broidered pall. 
 
 Alas! for me nor passing bell, 
 
 Nor priest to shrive, nor nun to pray. 
 But rising smoke my death shall tell, 
 
 And whistling flames my masses say. 
 And if among the jeering crowd 
 Some lonely, beggared knight-at-arms 
 There be, who once in war's alarms 
 
I04 
 
 Hath seen me when the storm was loud, 
 And followed where my banner led, 
 
 He shall my only mourner be, 
 
 And from his pitying eyes shall shed 
 
 A soldier's tears for love of me. 
 
 holy Mary, stead me then — 
 
 A simple maid whose heart may fail : 
 
 1 would not these grim Island men 
 Should smile to see my cheek grow pale. 
 
 And yet what fairer winding-sheet 
 
 Than martyrs' flame ? What church-yard mould 
 
 More consecrated dust can hold? 
 
 What missal claspeth #ords more sweet 
 
 To dying ears, than those he spake ? 
 " Blessed are they — yea, doubly blest, — 
 
 Who suifer death for my dear sake. 
 For them bright crowns and endless rest." 
 
 The night is spent. The early gray 
 
 Warms into sunrise in the skies ; 
 The sunrise of eternal day — 
 
 The threshold steps of Paradise. 
 'Tis written, " After storm comes shine ;" 
 Fierce and more fierce the fires may burn, 
 But as my limbs to ashes turn, 
 My soul, O Lord, shall mix with Thine. 
 
 Even as yonder trembling star 
 Melts into morning's golden sea. 
 
 So, rapt through heavenly spaces far. 
 Shall this poor life be lost in Thee. 
 
I05 
 
 THE IVY AND MYRTLE. 
 
 Where does ivy love to cling? 
 
 On a marble temple's walls, 
 Where a thousand voices ring, 
 
 And ceaseless footsteps throng the halls ? 
 Where untiring fountains spring. 
 
 Where the magic window's might 
 
 Filters rainbows out of light. 
 There, where merry birds will sing, 
 There does ivy love to cling ? 
 
 No : but over ruined piles, 
 
 Failing towers and mouldered stones, 
 
 Where the restless cypress moans. 
 Dimming sun and starlight-smiles; 
 
 Where the bat, on ghostly wing. 
 Glides along the crumbling dome. 
 Where the owl has made its home. 
 
 There, where creaking casements swing, 
 
 There the ivy loves to cling. 
 
 Where does myrtle love to creep ? 
 
 In a bed of painted flowers, 
 In some sunny hollow deep, 
 
 In some cultured garden's bowers ? 
 There, where lovers watches keep, 
 
 Where the happy lovers sit, 
 
 Where the merry insects flit. 
 There, where merry breezes sweep. 
 There does myrtle love to creep ? 
 
lOj 
 
 No : the myrtle loves to creep 
 Over darker, sadder ground, 
 
 Where low-bending willows weep, 
 And sad the sighing breezes sound. 
 
 Over every ruined heap. 
 
 Over graves of buried friends, 
 There, where human grandeur ends. 
 
 There, where sound and sunshine sleep. 
 
 The dark-eyed myrtle loves to creep. 
 
 So, our memory fondest holds 
 To ruined hopes, to buried bliss, 
 
 Wraps them in its closest folds, 
 
 Clothes them green in cheerfulness. 
 
I07 
 LOTUS EATING. 
 
 BY H. A. BEERS, '69. 
 
 Come up once more before mine eyes, 
 
 Sweet halcyon days, warm summer^sea. 
 Faint orange of the morning skies 
 
 And dark-lined shores upon the lee ! 
 Touched with the sunrise, sea and sky 
 All still on Memory's canvas lie : 
 The scattered isles with India ink 
 Dot the wide back-ground's gold and pink : 
 Unstirring in the Sunday calm, 
 
 Their profile cedars sharply drawn, 
 Bold black against the flushing dawn. 
 Take shape like clumps of tropic palm ; 
 Night shadows still the distance dim 
 (Ultra-marine) where ocean's brim 
 Upholdeth the horizon-rim. 
 
 Once more in thought we seem to creep 
 
 By lonely reefs where sea-birds scream, 
 Ulysses-like, along the deep 
 
 Borne onward in the ocean stream. 
 The sea-floor spreadeth glassy still ; 
 No breath the idle sail doth fill ; 
 Our oar-blades smite the heavy seas ; 
 Under the world the morning breeze 
 Treads with the sun the unknown ways. 
 
 Thus steer we o'er the solemn main 
 
 Eating the Lotus-fruit again. 
 Dreaming that time forever stays. 
 Singing "Where, Absence, is thy sting!" 
 Listening to hear our echoes ring 
 Through the far rocks where Sirens sing. 
 
io8 
 A MEMORY. 
 
 BY H. A. BEERS, '69. 
 
 I came across the marsh to-night, 
 And, though the wind was cold, 
 
 I stayed a moment on the bridge 
 To note the paly gold 
 
 That lingered on the darkening bay ; 
 
 The creek which ran below 
 Was frozen dumb; the dreary flats 
 
 Were overspread with snow. 
 
 The college, bell began to ring, 
 
 And as the north wind blew 
 Its distant janglings out to sea, 
 
 I thought, dear Friend, of you ; 
 
 And how one warm September day, 
 While yet the woods were green. 
 
 We strayed across the happy hills 
 And this wide marsh between. 
 
 The hay-stacks dotted here and there 
 
 The water-meadows wide : 
 The level lines of sluices black 
 
 Were filling with the tide. 
 
 Then this salt stream, now winter-bound. 
 Fled softly through the sedge, 
 
 Retreating from the sparkling Sound ; 
 And there along its edge 
 
109 
 
 We strolled, and marked the far-off sloops, 
 
 And watched the cattle graze. 
 O'erhead the swallows rushed in troops, 
 
 While, bright with purple haze, 
 
 West Rock looked down the winding plain- 
 
 Ah ! this was long ago ; 
 The Summer's gone, and you are gone, 
 
 As everything must go. 
 
no 
 
 THE OLD BOY. 
 
 BY D. N. BEACH, '72. 
 
 I like to see a busy man, 
 
 On whom the years are stealing, 
 Offset the silver in his hair 
 
 By store of boyish feeling. 
 
 I like to hear his merry song. 
 When he is out a-teaming ; 
 
 His cheery whistle on the road, 
 When winter stars are gleaming. 
 
 I like his converse with his dogs, 
 
 His jokes unto his cattle. 
 His grave discoursings with his geese. 
 
 His joy in children's prattle; 
 
 His fondness yet for blind-man's-buflF, 
 And holding yarn for winding; 
 
 And, when the handkerchief is hid. 
 His acumen in finding; 
 
 And, when he sits as forfeit judge, 
 The way his writs are laden 
 
 With just the fittest things to do 
 For every timid maiden. 
 
Ill 
 
 I like to watch his lover ways, 
 And how his eyes are lighted 
 
 Whene'er they meet his lady's eyes : 
 Few dream that he is knighted. 
 
 And most, I like to hear him pray 
 His child-like supplication : 
 
 Ah me ! the dear old boy hath guessed 
 The secret of salvation. 
 
112 
 
 THE UNSAID. 
 
 BY D. N. BEACH, '72. 
 
 Well is the ardent lover's praise 
 
 Of graces in his lady found ; 
 
 But she is blest whose life is crowned 
 With praises said in silent ways. 
 
 And he may well espouse a cause 
 
 Whose words and deeds advance its sway ; 
 But better he whose silent way 
 
 Is eloquence beyond applause. 
 
 And he best lives whose life is led 
 In silent channels dark and deep, 
 That well their inmost counsels keep, — 
 
 Whose holiest things are left unsaid. 
 
113 
 THE ANSWER. 
 
 BY R. A. RICE, '68. 
 
 It's come at last, the question boded long; 
 
 So long in coming, I did think 'twould stay 
 Alway. Poor fool and blind ! as if the strong, 
 
 Unerring certainties of life did weigh 
 So little in the balances of hope. 
 
 But now I am adrift and only cling 
 To memories of the past, and darkly grope 
 
 Through gloom and doubt to faith's clear opening. 
 Just when my soul had risen out of grief 
 
 To know the freedom of a life of love, 
 Had swept away the dust of unbelief, 
 
 And through the parted clouds saw light above — 
 And must I then go back to what I was. 
 
 To struggle up again, by paths o'ergrown 
 With tangled briars of cast-off aims, because 
 
 Thou leavest me to walk through life alone ? 
 But who am I ? what is there I can claim ? 
 
 What right have I to urge my hopes on those 
 Whose hopes and fears are not at all the same ? 
 
 The current of whose life in quiet flows 
 To restful seas; while mine not smoothly glides, 
 
 'Neath clouded skies, o'er rocks and shallows, till 
 It meets at last the high, incoming tides 
 
 Of Thought and Life— the Ocean of the Will. 
 I know how vain it was, but yet the heart 
 
 Cannot forego to look upon the side 
 That seems the brighter, while the rays that dart 
 
 From it, are augur'd for the whole, — they hide 
 
114 
 
 The darker — and we dare not look behind. 
 
 I fondly hoped that sometime we might stand 
 Together by the sea, and watch the wind 
 
 Roll up the waves, all hoar with foam, to land, 
 And feel that storm and calm to us were but 
 
 Grand symphonies in diflFerent keys ; or on 
 The mountain top, whose granite faces cut [don 
 
 The clear, blue sky, while field and cloud should 
 Their brightest hues, the morning sun to greet ; 
 
 Or wander in the meadows, picking flowers; 
 Or by the river's bank, on grassy seat. 
 
 To watch the blossoms, fallen after showers. 
 Drifting away ; or once again to float. 
 
 While the soft sunshine glimmers on the sea. 
 At close of summer day, in our light boat. 
 
 I thought, too, in the winter nights, that we 
 Might, read together from the poets rare, 
 
 Or sit before the cozy fire and talk 
 Of future joys and past, of places, where — 
 
 But why fill up the tale with hopes that mock 
 The very longing.? Suffering is sure. 
 
 The grandest thought of sorrow is that in 
 Its furnace fires our hearts may grow more pure. 
 
 Men rise from out their griefs, nobler within. 
 And by them stretch out stronger hands to reach 
 
 The Infinite. 
 
 The blow is not yet here ; 
 
 Whene'er it falls I firmly trust 't will teach 
 Me to be calm and still and free from fear. 
 
 The light of higher possibilities 
 Just dawning o'er my soul, unfelt before. 
 
 May all be dimmed and I may fail to seize 
 
"5 
 
 The one decisive hour, that comes no more — 
 And life be henceforth fighting 'gainst my fate. 
 
 What will it harm? God's grand designs will be 
 Fulfilled as well — I can but stand and wait 
 
 The brighter dawning of eternity. 
 
 Yet though our little boat must strike tlie rocks, 
 
 And go to pieces on the shore, when we ■ 
 Had gained a view of stiller seas, where shocks 
 
 Of storms are rarely felt, it must not be 
 Resigned to waves to bear away and drown ; 
 
 I'll build a drift-wood fire, and in my heart 
 The flames shall glow, and keep the hot tears down. 
 
 The a,shes of my hope shall cure the smart ! 
 
ii6 
 
 INSOMNIA. 
 
 Last night a terror seized me, sleeping ; 
 I, trembling, waked, and upright leaping. 
 
 Sat harkening in the gloom. 
 The night without was wild with snow, 
 The lonesome winds moaned to and fro. 
 
 Dim fire-light lit the room. 
 
 A piteous sound of sobbing, sobbing, 
 The leaden beat of sad hearts throbbing. 
 
 Surged through the half-shut door. 
 Vague whispering voices filled the air, 
 Uncertain steps came up the stair. 
 
 And paced the creaking floor. 
 
 And they were shades of olden time, 
 Haunting by night their buried prime. 
 And sudden one sang low : 
 
 " I am aweary, aweary ; 
 
 All day long I sigh, 
 And all the world has grown so dreary 
 
 I care not when I die. 
 
 " The world cares not for me, 
 
 I care not for the world ; 
 
 I would my sail were furled 
 Safe from the angry sea. 
 
 " Oh, not for such as I 
 
 Is ever joy or calm. 
 
 Death is the only balm ; 
 I pray that I may die. 
 
117 
 
 " I may not break the bond 
 
 That holds my gloomy life ; 
 
 I dare not end the strife; 
 Who knows what lies beyond ?" 
 
 And then another took the strain ; 
 But still of all the sad refrain 
 Was suflFering and woe. 
 
 So all night long I heard them weeping, 
 Like as the measured sound of reaping 
 
 Comes through the autumn corn ; 
 And all life's mystery I knew. 
 Pale and more pale the darkness grew, 
 
 Till eastward bloomed the morn. 
 
ii8 
 
 "BARKIS IS WILLIN'." 
 
 The tide was flowing out, — past the old wrecks 
 'Of mastless boats, half buried in the sand; 
 
 And little sobbing wavelets left their flecks 
 Of foam upon the strand. 
 
 And all along the shore the ripples curled, 
 The tiny rills ran down the beach in glee, 
 
 Each farther than the last, the eddies swirled, 
 And hastened to the sea. 
 
 The tide was flowing out, — and so the life 
 Was ebbing in the breast of Barkis there ; 
 
 Beside him watched that honest, faithful wife. 
 Whose love was now a prayer. 
 
 And yet so gently throbbed the fainting pulse, 
 It seemed as if the heart no answer gave. 
 
 As calm as when the leaves of scarlet dulse 
 Float on the sleeping wave. 
 
 The tide was nearly out, but still the red 
 
 Flush came at times. — " If he shall pass this tide, 
 
 I think he'll live until the next," she said ; 
 "And why is that?" I cried. 
 
 " The folk along the coast can never die. 
 Except at ebb ; nor e'en the babes be born, 
 
 Or truly born, until the tide is high ; 
 'Twill be next ebb at morn." 
 
Ii9 
 
 He passed the tide ; and through the long, dark night 
 We watched and waited. Slowly the old clock 
 
 Ticked round the hours before the spirit's flight 
 At the Death Angel's knock. 
 
 But with the first, dim streaks of early dawn 
 He woke, and feebly called her name. "There's 
 some 
 
 One else." A smile o'erspread his features wan. 
 " Here's Mas'r Davy come.^' 
 
 He tried to grasp my hand, but ere the smile 
 Had faded, turn'd himself upon his side, 
 
 And gently said, " Barkis is willin'," while 
 He went out with the tide. 
 
 The sun, just risen, shone across the sea 
 
 Into the old man's face ; a kindly ray 
 Reflected from the soul, forever free. 
 
 Upon its homeward way. 
 
 The tide was out, and o'er the lessen'd deep 
 
 The faintest shadow of a ripple flew, 
 A shudder as of grief, then sunk to sleep. 
 
 Lost in the distant blue. 
 
I20 
 
 CHRISTMAS CANDY. 
 
 I like the customs of our English sires, 
 
 Of Yule-Logs huge, and blazing Christmas fires ; 
 
 While redly green, in bright reflected glow. 
 
 With mystic meaning hangs the mistletoe. 
 
 Oft I regret how little here remains, 
 
 Spared by our hasty zeal and Puritanic pains. 
 
 I think that man has much whereof to boast 
 Whom Christmas finds guest of an English host, 
 Whose solid roots transplanting could not spoil. 
 To whom yet clings the rich, old English soil. 
 With its ancestral customs ; at his feet there purls 
 The rippling laughter of his merry English girls. 
 
 But such are rare; so give me next instead 
 Some one for host New England born and bred. 
 While forth he drives upon the crackling frost. 
 And past the brook on icy surface crossed. 
 To choose, from out a dozen pairs or more, 
 The brightest skates whose lines festoon the village 
 store. 
 
 His careful wife his slippers works o'erhead. 
 The younger children safe are stowed in bed. 
 Dreaming that socks fit for Goliath's leg 
 Hang filled with candy on the crackling peg. 
 Then Cousin Sue says: "John, I guess you're handy, 
 So come down stairs and help me make the Christ- 
 mas candy." 
 
121 
 
 Curious you watch as forth, with careless grace, 
 
 She draws the " fixings" from their lurking place, 
 
 But half resent as round your willing neck 
 
 She pins the apron, white without a fleck. 
 
 Then seeks again the plenteous household stores, 
 
 And the rich, unctuous, thick molasses deftly pours. 
 
 "Ah, some one's come! John, mind and stir it well, 
 I'll run up stairs and see who's rung the bell." 
 You seize the spoon ; betimes you give a stir, 
 And for the rest you sit and think of her. 
 " Perhaps some other cousin has arrived ; 
 Consoling thought; his family are not long lived." 
 
 And "as you muse the fire burns" brightly up, 
 
 The candy swells ; where is the tasting cup ? 
 
 No matter ; still you sit and calmly think, — 
 
 The candy rises to the very brink ; 
 
 While you're employed on pleasant thoughts and 
 
 strange 
 The fractious candy bubbles over on the range. 
 
 Down comes your cousin with light tripping feet, 
 
 Suspicious odors her quick senses greet, 
 
 " Why John," affairs take a delightful turn, 
 
 " Why John! how did you let the candy burn }" 
 
 " Oh, it isn't burned : it's only running over." 
 
 '' Why did'nt you stir it more and set it on a cover.?" 
 
 Say you " I surely thought I did, my love. 
 We'll have it right again though yet, by Jove !" 
 A blush, a frown, — you take the gentle warning, 
 
 9 
 
122 
 
 " What did I say, my love? I went by, — morning." 
 And now so thick that it will scarcely run. 
 By all traditionary rules the candy's done. 
 
 And so it is : how brittle-like it breaks, 
 
 And scatters round in fine-dividing flakes. 
 
 You pour it out into the ready pans, 
 
 From thence it seeks her white and glistening hands. 
 
 But all in vain ; it finds no sticking place, 
 
 And yet she has forgot her unprotected face. 
 
 They who besiege a city storm the towers, 
 There they direct th' incessant iron showers ; 
 These once reduced, — their stout defenders slain. 
 Plunder the rosy fruit and golden grain. 
 If that the hands be tied, what can resist. 
 Will not the golden hair be smoothed, the red cheeks 
 kissed ? 
 
 I cannot tell whether they will or no, 
 
 I merely say I think it might be so. 
 
 But if 'tis asked how best to meet th' occasion 
 
 Advise a prompt and strict retaliation, — 
 
 Whether the advice be taken or be shirked, 
 
 At all events the cooling candy must be worked. 
 
 Each takes a piece, but you are much the stronger, 
 Harder your muscles, and your arms the longer ; 
 Your piece grows lighter, like her shining hair, 
 Her's like to that which you in masses wear ; 
 Mingle them, still the color is the same, 
 Yours is the sombre shadow, hers the gleaming flame ; 
 
123 
 
 (Flame is a pretty color ; though we parrots 
 Call that fire-red which looks much more like car- 
 rots.) 
 Put them together, — the two pieces one, 
 The toilsome work is only just begun ; 
 Full many a time the candy must be stretched, 
 As many times the lengthening end be backward 
 fetched. 
 
 It grows more cold, — a lighter color bears, 
 
 Sue's mother's voice is heard upon the stairs ; 
 
 " Children, what's all this noise and laughing fun ? 
 
 Haven't you yet the candy almost done? 
 
 It seems quite brittle as you turn it back. 
 
 For every single time I hear a smothered crack." 
 
 So it is laid on tables and pulled straight. 
 Then it is cut upon the shining plate. 
 These are extended in a goodly row, 
 And set to harden where the North winds blow. 
 The children all declare it can't be beaten ; 
 The pleasant memories last long after the candy's 
 eaten. 
 
124 
 
 THE YOUNGLING YEAR. 
 
 The Youngling Year, with hesitating tread, 
 Advances still to regions new and dread ; 
 Nothing he sees but darkness; nothing knows; 
 Faints in his heart, yet whistles as he goes. 
 
125 
 
 I WAIT FOR THEE. 
 
 BY E. R. SILL, '6l. 
 
 Galmly the night comes down on all the land, 
 Faintly the twilight glimmers o'er the sea, 
 
 Sadly the lingering ripples kiss the sand, 
 So sad I pace the beach and wait for thee. 
 
 Soft steal the muffled inland echoes here, 
 
 A sound of church-bells trembles on the lea, — 
 
 So softly, muffled memories meet the ear, 
 And seem to mock me as I wait for thee. 
 
 Solemnly still the great, calm stars glow on, 
 And all the broad fair heaven leans silently. 
 
 While slumberous Ocean's undulous undertone 
 Still whispers to me as I wait for thee. 
 
 Upon the strand where life's loud surges beat. 
 My footsteps follow where my hope must be ; 
 
 The dull, long days and nights break at my feet- 
 Must I forever, weeping, wait for thee ? 
 
126 
 
 THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE. 
 
 I see it now, as years ago ; within the open door 
 
 The broken streams of sunshine throw bright ripples 
 on the floor; 
 
 The vine-leaves varying shadows trace ; from mead- 
 ows newly mown 
 
 The fragrance-bearing breezes pass the schoolhouse 
 old and brown. 
 
 Beneath its rafters, rude and old, my childish hand 
 hath caught 
 
 The Midas-touch, that turned to gold the forms my 
 fancy wrought ; 
 
 Again the murmur 'round me seems with prophet- 
 voice to bear 
 
 Assurance to my idle dreams of joy I yet shall share. 
 
 As shells that on the strand are flung, though tossed 
 by angry waves. 
 
 Remember still the gentle song they learned in ocean 
 caves, 
 
 A harp within my soul I bear, whose faint and trem- 
 bling thrill. 
 
 Wakened by one who touched it here, is music with 
 me still. 
 
 I see the shades of coming night her childish fea- 
 tures wear, 
 Even amid the holy light that lingers on her hair. 
 
127 
 
 And sheds a brightness on the brow, waiting a Heav- 
 enly Crown, 
 
 And spirit eyes that even now behold the Golden 
 Throne. 
 
 Blindly we walk the earth awhile, nor think our 
 weary hands 
 
 Hold daily, 'mid the dross of toil, a wealth of glitter- 
 ing sands; 
 
 We mourn the goblet's wasted wine, the loved of 
 yesterday 
 
 Stand in the present's mystic shrine, and there our 
 sick souls pray. 
 
 The sacred power that touched me when, Endymion- 
 
 like, I slept, 
 Over my later life, as then, a faithful watch hath kept ; 
 Unto its presence all my fears their anxious faces 
 
 turn — 
 Thither my soul its pleasure bears — thither it goes to 
 
 mourn. 
 
 Thus when in memory I build the schoolhouse old, 
 and see 
 
 Again the vanished forms that filled the time-worn 
 room with me, 
 
 The sighs, that to the lost I give, cease at my thank- 
 ful prayer 
 
 For one who bore where angels live the love I gave 
 her there. 
 
128 
 
 THE PALM. 
 
 O'er-arched by skies forever calm, 
 
 In beauty stands the pillared Palm. 
 
 It is the poet of the trees, 
 
 And oft its charming minstrelsies 
 
 Lap the sea girt Sicilian isle ; 
 
 They float along the winding Nile — 
 
 O'er coral reefs submerged in foam — 
 
 By moon-tipped minaret and dome, 
 
 When starry eyes at midnight gleam 
 
 In rose-bound bowers by Tigris' stream ; 
 
 And where the holy Ganges pours 
 
 A sluggish stream through shelving shores. 
 
 The Palm that shades Sicilian flowers. 
 
 And hears from far Palermo's towers 
 
 The throbbing vespers sweetly ring, 
 
 Is lonely then, and loves to sing ; 
 
 Not of the rocks where syrens play. 
 
 Nor of that purple crescent bay, 
 
 Along whose shore a bright sea flows, 
 
 Where smoke-wreathed, vague Vesuvius glows, 
 
 Nor of the far Hesperides, 
 
 The isles of hope in western seas — 
 
 A sadness, shows through all its form. 
 
 And when the eastern wind blows warm 
 
 It swings its light leaves to and fro. 
 
 And sings a measure sad and low. 
 
 Of longings for a far off home 
 
 That lies beyond the Cretan foam, — 
 
129 
 
 A peaceful home in that calm land, 
 Where broken Memnons silent stand, — 
 Of sculptured tombs, of ruined fanes. 
 Of blank browed hills and sandy plains. 
 But he who sails the Nile may hear 
 The Palm's sweet anthem ringing clear. 
 It sings the young world's history. 
 And of the Sphynx's mystery. 
 The secret those eternal eyes 
 Read in the bending desert skies ; 
 It sings the words that Memnon spoke 
 When first the tropic morning broke, — 
 The spells, and all the magic power 
 That lurks within the lotos flower, 
 Of springs by which the freighted trains 
 Rest in their march on burning plains, — 
 The white memorials of death, — 
 The purple simoon's poisoned breath, — 
 Of love and hate, of rest and strife 
 That fill the round of that wild life. 
 
 Oh, the fair Palm tree that sings and sighs, 
 When over the sea the swift wind flies. 
 Its heart is weary, its sad thoughts roam 
 Past the sunny isles and the breaking foam 
 To a far off' land and a summer-crowned home ! 
 
 Oh, the beautiful Palm ! that, singing, waves 
 By the river calm and the silent graves ; 
 It sings of the time when the sky was red 
 With a glorious dawn, — of a clear light spread 
 Over sea and shore, in the days that are dead. 
 
I30 
 
 Oh, the clear voiced Palm that sweetly calls, 
 Singing its psalm by the Persian walls; 
 It sings of a land of song and flowers, 
 Of bright eyee gleaming, in moonlit bowers, 
 Of gold-spread domes and shining towers ! 
 
131 
 MAY WHISPERS. 
 
 BY E. G. E. 
 
 Listen ! 
 For the sound of the rain-drops, which fall from the 
 
 eaves, 
 To the stir of the budding and balm-scented leaves, 
 To the ripple of brooks, where the long sedges cling, 
 And the frog's hollow croaking is hailing the Spring, 
 To the murmurs which steal over meadow and lea. 
 Where busily buzzes the " bright belted bee," 
 To the thousand glad voices which merrily say. 
 She bringeth the sounds of rejoicing alway. 
 The merry and musical May. 
 
 Listen ! 
 And hear the glad tones of the children who look 
 For the cresses which creep o'er the breast of the 
 
 brook. 
 Or seek for the haunts where the violet lies, 
 'Mid the green of the earth, 'neath the blue of the 
 
 skies. 
 Hear the song of the bird, as it cheerily sings 
 On the bough, where the nest of the oriole swings. 
 Where rose-tinted blossoms are brightening the spray. 
 She bringeth the buds, and the blossoms alway. 
 The balmy and beautiful May. 
 
 Listen ! 
 All ye, who in languor and weariness lean 
 From the casement, which opes on a landscape of 
 green. 
 
132 
 
 All ye, who, amid the earth-struggle and strife, 
 Keep fresh the sweet dreams of your earlier life, 
 And hear the low breathings of spirits which yearn 
 For the blessing and joy of the Past to return 
 'Mid the sparkling of dew, and the sunshine of day, 
 As haply some voice in entreaty shall say, 
 
 " Bring dew to my spirit, Oh May!" 
 
 Listen ! 
 Pale student, and turn from thy volume to look 
 On the golden-clasped pages of Nature's own book. 
 Busy merchant, who still through this sunshine would 
 
 wear 
 On thy brow and thy bosom the shadow of care, 
 Leave ledger, and counter, and desk to their lot. 
 For Nature's arithmetic wearieth not ; 
 How she adds the bright links of the hours to the 
 
 day ! 
 How she multiplies beauties and blessings, alway 
 For merry, munificent May! 
 
 Listen ! 
 May voices. May whispers, steal tenderly in, 
 'Mid the noise of the work-shop, the factory's din. 
 All tell the poor children of labor and pain 
 That the joys of the Springtime are coming again 
 To those who scarce know of the beauty that lies 
 All blushing and bright, 'neath the smile of the skies. 
 Pure breath of the Spring ! to this earth-tainted clay 
 Thou comest with benisons holy alway, 
 
 The pure and the peace giving May ! 
 
133 
 
 Listen ! 
 Oh, weary and anxious and sorrowful breast 
 Still thrilling with passionate sense of unrest, 
 And know that, as sure as the sun after rain. 
 Life's beauty and freshness are coming again 
 To the hearts which shall list to the lessons they 
 
 teach ; 
 These voices of May, with their musical speech, 
 Oh ! listening to these, the lone spirit shall say, 
 " An angel hath walked with my wanderings to-day. 
 The beautiful angel of May!" 
 
134 
 A PEN OF STEEL. 
 
 BY GEORGE PRATT, '57. 
 
 Give me a pen of steel ! 
 
 Away with the gray goose quill ! 
 I will grave the thoughts I feel 
 
 With a fiery heat and will : 
 I will grave with the stubborn pen 
 
 On the tablet of the heart 
 Words never to fade again, 
 
 And thoughts that shall ne'er depart. 
 
 Give me a pen of steel ! 
 
 Hardened, and bright, and keen, — 
 To run like the chariot's wheel 
 
 When the battle flame is seen : — 
 And give me the warrior's heart. 
 
 To struggle through night and day, 
 And to write with this thing of art 
 
 Words clear as the lightning's play. 
 
 Give me a pen of steel ! 
 
 The softer age is done. 
 And the thoughts that lovers feel 
 
 Have long been sought and won : — 
 No more of the gray goose quill — 
 
 No more of the lover's lay — 
 I have done with the minstrel's skill. 
 
 And I change my path to-day. 
 
135 
 
 Give me a pen of steel ! 
 
 I will tell to after times 
 How nerve and iron will 
 
 Are poured to the world in rhymes : 
 How the soul is changed to power, 
 
 And the heart is changed to flame, 
 In the space of a passing hour 
 
 By poverty and shame ! 
 
 Give me a pen of steel ! — 
 
 But even this shall rust, 
 The touch of time shall feej. 
 
 And crumble away to dust ; — 
 So perishes my heart, 
 
 Corroding day by day, — 
 And laid, like the pen, apart, 
 
 Worn out and cast away ! 
 
136 
 
 ODE TO PASTORAL ROMANCE. 
 
 BY E. C. STEDMAN, '53. 
 
 ' Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not." 
 
 The Tempest. 
 
 Queen of the shadowy clime! 
 Thou of the fairy-spell and wondrous lay : 
 Sweet Romance ! breathe upon my way, 
 Not with the breath of this degenerate time, 
 But of that age when life was summer play. 
 When Nature wore a verdurous hue, 
 And Earth kept holiday ; 
 When on the ground Chaldaean shepherds lay, 
 Gazing all night, with calm, creative view. 
 
 Into the overhanging blue. 
 And found, amid the many-twinkling stars. 
 
 Warriors and maidens fair. 
 Heroes of marvellous deeds and direful wars, 
 . Serpents and flaming hair. 
 The Dragon and the Bear, 
 A silvery Venus and a lurid Mars. 
 
 Come at thy lover's call. 
 Thou, that, with embraces kind. 
 Throwing thy tendrils round the lives of all, 
 Something in all to beautify dost find ! 
 So thine own ivy, on the Gothic wall. 
 Or pendent from the arms 
 Of gnarled oaks, where'er its clusters fall, 
 
137 
 
 Clings to adorn and adds perennial charms. 
 
 And therefore, Romance, would I greet 
 
 Thee by the fairest of fair names, 
 
 Calling thee debonair and sweet ; 
 For sweet thou art — inspiring Manhood's dreams, 
 When all aweary of the actual life ; 
 And sweet thy influence seems 
 To Woman, shrinking from the strife, 
 The sordid tumult of the wrangling mart. 
 
 But doubly sweet thou art, 
 Leading the tender child by gentle streams. 
 Among the lilies of our flowery Youth ; 
 
 Filling his all-believing heart 
 With thoughts that glorify the common truth ; 
 Building before him, in the lustrous air. 
 Ethereal palaces and castles fair. 
 
 With such mild innocence the Earth 
 Received thy blessings at her birth ; 
 And in the pastoral days of yore. 
 
 To Man's enchanted gaze. 
 Nature was fair — O, how much more 
 
 Than in our wiser days ! 
 Then deities of sylvan form. 
 While yet the hearts of men were young and warm, 
 Like shepherds wandered through the arching groves, 
 Or sang aloud, the listening flocks among, 
 
 Sweet legends of their loves; 
 Then Cupid and fair Psyche breathed their vows, — 
 He with the feathered darts and bow unstrung. 
 And garlands on his brows ; 
 
138 
 
 She folding gently to her bosom doves 
 Snow-white, forever, as their mistress, young ; 
 And, as they sighed together, peerless Joy 
 Enwreathed the maiden and the raptured boy ! 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yes ! on romantic pilgrimage, 
 To the calm piety of Nature's shrine. 
 Through summer-paths, thou ledst our human-kind, 
 With influence divine. 
 In that orient, elden age. 
 
 Ere man had learned to wage 
 Dispassionate war against his natural mind. 
 
 Thy voice of mystery, 
 Reading aloud the Earth's extended page. 
 
 Bade human aspirations find 
 In the cool fountain and the forest-tree 
 
 A sentient imagery ; 
 The flowing river and the murmuring wind. 
 The land — the sea — 
 Were all informed by thee ! 
 
 Through coral grottoes wandering and singing, 
 The merry Nereid glided to her cave ; 
 Anon, with warm, luxurious motion flinging 
 Her sinuous form above the moonlit wave. 
 
 To the charmed mariner gave 
 A glimpse of snowy arms and amber tresses, 
 
 While on his startled ear 
 The sea-nymph's madrigal fell clear; 
 
 Then to the far recesses, 
 
139 
 
 Where drowsy Neptune wears the emerald crown, 
 
 Serenely floated down, 
 Leaving the mariner all amort with fear. 
 
 In the under-opening wood, 
 What time the Gods had crowned the full-grown year, 
 The Dryad and the Hamadryad stood 
 
 Among the fallow deer ; 
 Bending the languid branches of their trees. 
 
 With every breeze. 
 To view their image in the fountains near : — 
 The fountains ! whence the white-limbed Naiads sang. 
 Pouring upon the air melodious trills. 
 And, while the echoes through the forest rang, 
 The white-limbed Naiads of a thousand rills 
 Far o'er the Arcadian vales a paean spread. 
 Led by Diana, in the dewy dawn. 
 The Oread sisters chased the dappled fawn 
 Through all the coverts of their native hills ; 
 Home, with the spoils, at sultry noon they fled, — 
 
 Home to their shaded bowers, 
 Where, with the ivy, and those sacred flowers 
 That now have faded from the weary earth. 
 Each laughing Oread crowned an Oread's head. 
 The mountains echoed back their maiden mirth. 
 Rousing old Pan, who, from a secret lair, 
 Shook the wild tangles of his frosty hair. 
 And laid him down again with sullen roar : 
 But now the frightened nymphs like statues stand, 
 One balancing her body half in air, 
 Dreading to hear again that tumult sore ; 
 One, with a liquid tremor in her eye. 
 Waving above her head a glimmering hand ; 
 
I40 
 
 Till suddenly, like dreams, away they fly. 
 Leaving the forest stiller than before ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Such was thy power, O Pastoral Romance ! 
 In that ambrosial age of classic fame, 
 
 The spirit to entrance. 
 Fain would I whisper of the latter days. 
 
 When, in thy royal name, 
 The mailed knights encountered lance to lance, 
 All for sweet Romance and fair ladies' praise ; 
 But no ! I bowed the knee 
 And vowed allegiance to thee, 
 As I beheld thee in thy golden prime, 
 And now from thy demesne must haste away : 
 Perchance that of the aftertime. 
 Of nodding plumes and chivalrous array. 
 In aftertime I sing a roundelay. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Fair Spirit of ethereal birth. 
 In whom such mysteries and beauties blend ! 
 Still from thine ancient dwelling-place descend 
 And idealize our too material earth ; 
 Still to the Bard thy chaste conceptions lend. 
 To him thine early purity renew ; 
 Round every image grace majestic throw ! 
 Till rapturously the living song shall glow 
 With inspiration as thy being true, 
 And Poesy's creations, decked by thee. 
 Shall wake the tuneful thrill of sensuous ecstasy. 
 
141 
 GOD GUARD THE LILIES. 
 
 BY F. M. FINCH, '49. 
 
 God guard the Lilies ! Sceptred king 
 
 Reigns not beneath their blossoms now, 
 Nor twines them with the jeweled ring 
 
 That circled once his tyrant brow. 
 Too loud the scornful master spoke, 
 
 Too heavy fell his sovereign blows, 
 And bleeding France from slumber woke 
 
 To circle friends and trample foes. 
 
 God guard the Lilies ! Dripping blade 
 
 And blazing beacon flushed the land, 
 And crowded roof and barricade 
 
 Marked panting Freedom's victor stand ! 
 O'er shattered wheel and massive stone, 
 
 'Mid iron rain drops pressed they on, 
 'Till peasants burned their monarch's throne. 
 
 And millions hailed a battle won ! 
 
 God guard the Lilies ! O'er the wave 
 
 The crownless Bourbon fled in fear, 
 And toiling serf and fettered slave 
 
 Saw Freedom's morning star appear ; 
 And red the ray of burning hall 
 
 Swept o'er the exiled monarch's path. 
 For swift as meteor masses fall 
 
 Comes down a nation's arm of wrath ! 
 
142 
 
 God guard the Lilies! Mountain peak, 
 
 And glen, and valley rang with song, 
 As o'er the Alp rocks, lone and bleak. 
 
 Rolled Freedom's thrilling hymn along: 
 And wild, as leaps the sundered rock 
 
 From sky-clad summit roughly torn, 
 With tempest bound, and earthquake shock, 
 
 Rolled on the anthem — Freedom born ! 
 
 Rolled on the Anthem ! Italy 
 
 The clang of broken fetters heard. 
 And thoughts, like her own chainless sea. 
 
 Within her throbbing bosom stirred ! 
 Andjjriestly robe 'and ducal crown 
 
 Amid the whirl of passion fell. 
 While myriads, at a zealot's frown, 
 
 No longer feared the dungeon cell ! 
 
 Rolled on the Anthem ! Poland caught 
 
 The tones of fire, and sent the strain 
 With more than mortal meaning fraught. 
 
 O'er castled hill and guarded plain. 
 An Empire poured its ruthless bands 
 
 From northern hills of ice and snow. 
 The sabre snapped in Freedom's hands, 
 
 But tyrants cowered beneath the blow. 
 
 Rolled on the Anthem ! Austria woke, 
 As rang those clarion notes afar, 
 
 And bade her children rend the yoke, 
 And shatter tyrant bolt and bar. 
 
143 
 
 The German by his cottage fire 
 
 Heard gathering squadrons trample by, 
 
 While princely lips grew pale with ire, 
 And empires reeled at Freedom's cry. 
 
 Rolled on the Anthem ! Lips of flame 
 
 On every hill prolonged the strain, 
 And leaders sprang from rags and shame 
 
 To chant it at a crimson fane. 
 Still roll its echoes ! While they ring 
 
 The sabre blows of truth resound. 
 And now the scythes of Freedom swing 
 
 Where'er Oppression's grain is found ! 
 
144 
 BOAT SONG. 
 
 BY W. W. WINTHROP, '5I. 
 
 Bowman ! push her from the shore ! 
 Take the boat-hook, not an oar ! 
 Coil the painter on the floor 
 
 In the bow ! 
 Take your places ! peak ! let fall ! 
 Ready ! hear the Captain's call ! 
 Follow stroke, and give way all 
 
 Bravely now ! 
 
 Isn't this most splendid weather ! — 
 Second starboard, mind your feather ! — 
 Pull a little more together 
 
 On the " port ! ' 
 Catch a " cancer," if you dare, 
 And of " swallows," too, beware ; 
 Fifteen minutes and we're there 
 
 At the Fort ! 
 
 Can't you trim a little aft ! — 
 How the winds our banner waft ! 
 " Like a thing of life" our craft 
 
 Promenades ; 
 See how brightly glows the west ! 
 How it gilds the ocean's breast ! 
 One! two! three! four! five! six! — Rest! 
 
 Jolly blades. 
 
145 
 
 Now then, comrades, raise the strain. 
 And let not a man refrain. 
 Though he may not quite attain 
 
 To the tune ; 
 While the insects phosphorescent 
 In the ripples shine incessant. 
 And above us beams the crescent 
 
 Of the moon. 
 
 When in after years we're harbored. 
 With an infant on our larboard 
 Knee, and sitting at our starboard 
 
 Side a wife ; 
 As within our " clinker" cottage 
 We devour our homely pottage, 
 Gliding calmly towards the dotage 
 
 Of our life ; 
 
 Then the rising generation 
 We will tell with exultation 
 How with keen exhilaration 
 
 Long ago, 
 Many puns we perpetrated. 
 And our songs reiterated, 
 And the mermaids fascinated 
 
 Down below. 
 
146 
 
 THE SCHOLAR'S MATE. 
 
 Delia and Damon on a certain day- 
 Sat by the checkered board at chess to play — 
 If Damon lost, 'twas his a ring to give, 
 If Damon won, a kiss he must receive. 
 The lady claimed the pieces ivory fair. 
 The ebon army fell to Damon's share ; 
 And, as is usual both in war and love, 
 The lady claimed, of course, the earliest move. 
 A moment o'er the board, like fairy sprite. 
 Her fair hand hovered, doubting where to light ; 
 Then gently fell upon the king's own pawn. 
 And moved the white-robed warrior two steps on. 
 The same move Damon makes ; the lady then 
 Runs her bright eye along the files of men, 
 And moves one pace the pawn that guards her queen; 
 While Damon boldly brings upon the scene 
 His king's black bishop, onward to the square 
 Three steps before his brother prelate's chair. 
 " A soldier shall defend me !" Delia cried. 
 At once the knight, that stood her queen beside. 
 Leaped forth and paused, prepared in arms to fight, 
 Two squares before the bishop clothed in white. 
 Then Damon's queen, with Amazonian stride. 
 Rushed boldly forth upon the other side. 
 And stood five squares before a castled ward. 
 Which rose her husband's left hand fiank to guard. 
 Then forward sprang fair Delia's other knight, 
 
147 
 
 Who stood in arms upon his monarch's right, 
 Two steps before the bishop, and he deemed 
 His single arm might turn the tide which seemed 
 Setting against his master ; but in vain 
 He strove the desperate battle to maintain, 
 In vain he stood prepared to fight away 
 The black-robed queen from her devoted prey. 
 Down, down she came with one tremendous spring. 
 And stood before poor Delia's conquered king. 
 "Checkmate! checkmate!" exulting Damon cries, 
 " I claim a kiss, the victor's lawful prize." 
 The maiden blushed that pleasing debt to pay ; 
 But Damon lost his ring another day. 
 
148 
 
 SMOKING SONG. 
 
 BY F. M. FINCH, '49. 
 
 Floating away like the fountain's spray, 
 Or the snow-white plume of a maiden, 
 The smoke-wreaths rise to the star-lit skies, 
 With blissful fragrance laden. 
 
 Then smoke away till a golden ray 
 
 Lights up the dawn of the morrow. 
 For a cheerful cigar, like a shield, will bar 
 The blows of care and sorrow. 
 
 The leaf burns bright, like the gems of light 
 
 That flash in the braids of Beauty, 
 It nerves each heart for the hero's part 
 
 On the battle plain of duty. 
 
 In the thoughtful gloom of his darkened room 
 
 Sits the child of song and story. 
 But his heart is light, for his pipe beams bright, 
 
 And his dreams are all of glory. 
 
 By the blazing fire sits the gray-haired sire. 
 
 And infant arms surround him ; 
 And he smiles on ail in that quaint old hall. 
 
 While the smoke-curls float around him. 
 
 In the forest grand of our native land. 
 
 When the savage conflict's ended, 
 The " Pipe of Peace " brought a sweet release 
 
 From toil and terror blended. 
 
149 
 
 The dark-eyed train of the maids of Spain 
 'Neath their arbor shades trips lightly, 
 
 And a gleaming cigar, like a new-born star. 
 In the clasp of their lips burns brightly. 
 
 It warms the soul, like the blushing bowl 
 With its rose-red burden streaming, 
 
 And drowns it in bliss, like the first warm kiss 
 From the lips with love-buds teeming. 
 
ISO 
 FAREWELL ODE. 
 
 BY F. M. FINCH, '49. 
 
 Gray rocks, by heaven's own arches span'd, 
 Twin giants guarding sea and land, 
 The vine shall wreath your brows of stone, 
 The cloud shall make your crags its throne, 
 When harvests wave and orchards bloom 
 Upon each long forgotten tomb. 
 Though stern the fate your dark lips tell, 
 Farewell, gray ramparts, fare ye well ! 
 
 Broad bay, upon whose heaving breast 
 The billow waves its battle crest. 
 Our shallop helm and dipping oar 
 Shall part thy locks of foam no more ! 
 We shall not plow thine azure plain. 
 Nor count thy snow-tipped hills again ; • 
 Yet, while the tides of ocean swell, 
 Farewell, brave billows, fare ye well ! 
 
 Dark elms, beneath whose emerald dome 
 Music and smiles have built their home, 
 Within whose realm of summer shade 
 Our dreams like wanton birds have strayed, 
 We shall not see you clothed again 
 With verdant wreath or crystal chain. 
 Yet long may leaf to leaflet tell 
 Our parting word, our sad farewell ! 
 
Old halls, through which the whirling tide 
 Of earnest toil and wrestling pride 
 Has rolled with many a billow shock, 
 As rivers lash the sundered rock. 
 Your aged walls shall ring no more 
 With word or song of ours. 'Tis o'er — 
 The changeful dream, the witching spell, — 
 One thought is left us, — 't is farewell ! 
 
HUMOROUS. 
 
155 
 
 AN IDLE. 
 
 BY E. F. GREENE, '8o. 
 
 He sat on the shore as the sun went down, 
 Went down in the depths of the wide, wide west ; 
 To a chance observer it might have seemed queer 
 That he didn't go home as the night drew near, 
 But he didn't, and therefore it might appear 
 That the sitter himself knew best. 
 
 He sat on the shore as the morning sun 
 Shone out from the east over sea and land ; 
 He sat, I remark, as the sun arose, 
 On the very same spot where he sat at the close 
 Of the previous day, and the Lord only knows 
 Why he did it, — I don't understand. 
 
 Perhaps he was searching for coral reefs; 
 
 Perhaps he was trying to keep him cool j 
 Perhaps the breezes from over the sea 
 As they toyed with his tresses said, " Come to me ;' 
 The field of conjecture is wide you see ; 
 
 Perhaps he was only a fool, — 
 Or a clam. 
 
156 
 CASTLES IN THE AIR. 
 
 BY A. E. BOWERS, '83. 
 
 Little freshie, young and fair, 
 Rosy cheeks and glossy hair, 
 Hied him to the State-house old. 
 Armed with bunting, cheek, and gold. 
 
 Roused the keeper from his slumber. 
 Showed him dollars quite a number. 
 Pointed to the flag-staff high. 
 Chuckled at his plan so sly. 
 
 Keeper seized the welcome money. 
 Thought the freshman awful funny. 
 Hurried to the roof on high, 
 Placed the flag beneath the sky. 
 
 Freshie's heart was filled with joy, 
 How he capered, little boy ! 
 How the sophs would storm and swear, 
 Rend their clothes and tear their hair ! 
 
 Rising in the morning early, 
 Freshie brushed his hair, so curly. 
 Toddled to the house of prayer, 
 Saw the banner, high in air. 
 
 On the way to recitation 
 Looks of evident vexation 
 From astounded Eighty-three 
 Filled his heart with highest glee. 
 
157 
 
 Dreams of glory turned his head, 
 Made him flunk his lessons dead. 
 What were lesson's to a hero? 
 Little cared he for the zero. 
 
 But how vain is freshman glory ! 
 'Twas the same, the same old story. 
 Naught but ruin and defeat 
 Freshman plans are sure to meet. 
 
 Eighty-three puts in cold rushes ; 
 Then from many doors she gushes. 
 To the State-house quick repairs, 
 Climbs the hidden flight of stairs. 
 
 Freshie, dumb with fear and wonder. 
 Sees his banner rent asunder; 
 Shivers at the wicked theft ; 
 Says it's cold for he's got left. 
 
158 
 FUMES. 
 
 BY J. R. BISHOP, '8Z. 
 
 Who swore, if e'er I learned to smoke, 
 My breath from out my frame he'd choke, 
 And wrung a promise, which I broke ? 
 My father. 
 
 Who kissed away my tears and said 
 Tliat, if I wouldn't smoke in bed, 
 A little smoke would clear my head ? 
 My mother. 
 
 Who said it was a nasty trick 
 Worthy of a ragged mick — 
 That smoking made her awful sick ? 
 My sister. 
 
 Who said 't would be a beastly grind 
 On " Gov.," and vowed (with oaths) he'd find 
 A way to help me have my mind } 
 My brother. 
 
 With one of daddy's pet cigars, 
 Who stole a ride upon the cars, 
 And ? — but the end the story mars — 
 The author. 
 
159 
 
 THE TROUBLED JUNIOR. 
 
 BY BURNSIDE FOSTER, '82. 
 
 It is a junior, pale and wan, 
 
 Whose features once were ruddy. 
 
 Who strides his chamber up and down 
 In vain attempts to study. 
 
 What can it be that crowds his brain ? 
 
 Is it last Sunday's sermon 
 That fills him with his guilty pain. 
 
 Or has he flunked his German .' 
 
 Is it some crime that tears his heart 
 
 With guilty apprehension. 
 Or is he possessed of fifty marks 
 
 And fearful of suspension ? 
 
 But look ! he stops and mutters low — 
 
 What are those words he's saying ? 
 " More than I have I already owe, 
 To the Promenade I want to go, 
 And for all that I'd like to know 
 Who is to do the paying ?" 
 
i6o 
 INVOCATION. 
 
 BY T. D. HOLLAND, '82. 
 
 Wake! 'girls, wake! and rub your sleepy eyes, 
 In dulcet strains our songs we hope to utter. 
 
 We come from far to take you by surprise ; 
 Get out your flowers and set ajar the shutter. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Your teachers now have sought repose 
 
 And gone to peaceful dreaming ; 
 Our tutors grim have "doused the glim," 
 
 And ceased awhile from scheming ; 
 The moon has climbed the airy vault 
 
 The stars from heaven are peeping, 
 The balmy night has spoiled us quite 
 
 For such a thing as sleeping. 
 We love to sing in local fairs. 
 
 And shovel cakes and pies in ; 
 We " mingle " well, as all can tell^ — 
 
 At that we're quite surprisin'. 
 Yet sentiment in mighty waves 
 
 Will sometimes sweep quite o'er us. 
 And slender waist and kisses' taste 
 
 We celebrate in chorus. 
 
 Then drop one flower for memorabil. 
 
 Each gallant's love believing. 
 And scratch a match, that we may catch 
 
 One glance ere we be leaving. 
 
i6i 
 
 THE SONG OF THE SOPHOMORE. 
 
 BY D. H. BUELL, '83. 
 
 I continually complain 
 That my sophomoric brain 
 
 Is stored with useless trash 
 That it never can contain ; 
 
 And I'm giddy, wild, and rash, 
 Yes, and really far from sane 
 When I tilt with trigonometry, 
 Analytical geometry. 
 And anapaestic dipodies 
 From a chorus of Euripides. 
 When I tackle a Denarius, 
 And tell facts unique and various 
 Of Bootes and Aquarius, 
 I could flee to the antipodes. 
 
1 62 
 
 A VACATION REMINISCENCE. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 I met her at a country dance 
 
 At uncle Obadiah's, 
 She sat between two wrinkled aunts, 
 
 A wild rose 'mid the briers. 
 
 She was so very rare and sweet, 
 
 So artlessly bewitching, 
 Such shy, bright eyes, such restless feet, 
 
 Such sudden lights enriching 
 The beauty of her gentle face. 
 
 Whene'er, too rudely turning, 
 Fond gazes lingered on its grace 
 
 And set her cheeks a burning. 
 
 I drew her from the gorgons' care. 
 Who, somewhat overprudent. 
 
 With hopeless horror gave their fair 
 To an ill-omened student. 
 
 With many a wondrous, unheard tale 
 
 Of rushing and of hazing. 
 That made her cheek turn ashy pale, 
 
 And seemed to me amazing. 
 And wicked jokes, that "just for fun 
 
 We played at Alma Bona 
 On profs, and tutors," thus I won 
 
 My artless Desdemona. 
 
i63 
 
 And yet, sweet, simple village belle. 
 
 My tales I half repented. 
 And half resolved that I would tell 
 
 Her they were all invented. 
 
 But ah, how weak is all our art 
 
 When woman is dissembling ! 
 For when it came the hour to part, 
 
 She said, with laughter trembling, 
 " I feared this would be such a bore. 
 
 But you've made it so pleasant ! 
 I shall be glad to meet you more. 
 
 At home; I'm always present." 
 
 And then she handed me a card 
 That made my heart turn craven, 
 
 "Professor ," O wretch ill-starred! 
 
 " street. New Haven." 
 
164 
 
 SANDWICHES. 
 
 [Dedicated to the waiter at the New Haven Depot.] 
 
 BY ISAAC BROMLEY, '81. 
 
 The dew of night was falling fast 
 As through the railroad train there passed 
 A darkey bearing, slice on slice, 
 Refreshments of this strange device, 
 " Sandwiches, fresh cut ham sandwiches. 
 Cut fresh for every train." 
 
 His eye was black ; his lips beneath, 
 Flashed dazzling white his yellow teeth ; 
 And like a two-cent clarion rung 
 The warbling of that wagging tongue, 
 " Sandwiches, fresh cut ham sandwiches. 
 Cut fresh for every train." 
 
 "Sandwich this way!" an old man said. 
 Smoothing the hair on his old bald head, 
 " But stay ! is the ham cut thin and wide.'" 
 Yet soft that sylph-like voice replied, 
 " Sandwiches, fresh cut ham sandwiches. 
 Cut fresh for every train." 
 
 " O cheese," the maiden said, " and rest 
 A ten-cent sandwich on my chest!" 
 An H,0 stood in each eye. 
 But still he murmured with a sigh, 
 
 " Sandwiches, fresh cut ham sandwiches. 
 Cut fresh for every train." 
 
i6s 
 
 There in the train, as on its way 
 It sped, a fresh cut sandwich lay, 
 And from the depot, a long way off, 
 Came a noise like the whooping cough, 
 " Sandwiches, fresh cut ham sandwiches, 
 Cut fresh for every train." 
 
1 66 
 MY CHUM. 
 
 BY G. E. IDE, '8l. 
 
 His joyful laugh is heard no more, 
 
 His jovial mood is gone, 
 He's getting to be quite a bore, 
 
 His face is all forlorn. 
 
 He watches for the morning mail 
 
 With quick and eager air, 
 He hastes to meet the postman Hale 
 
 And greets him on the stair. 
 
 A card received the other night, 
 Embossed with some strange crest. 
 
 Filled him with raptures of delight. 
 And fired his manly breast. 
 
 If letters there be none, he groans 
 
 And tears his auburn hair. 
 Then lays him down and sadly moans 
 
 With a dejected air. 
 
 " Mory's " has now for him no charm, 
 
 Nor Gus's sparkling beer ; 
 His actions fill me with alarm 
 
 They're so confounded queer. 
 
 The other day he made a " rush ;" 
 
 He studies long and hard. 
 I swear, I think he got a crush 
 
 At the last Promenade. 
 
1 67 
 
 YALEVERSICULA. 
 
 BY A. B. LINCOLN, '8l. 
 
 The seniors spin the festive top, 
 Or shoot the tricksy marble, 
 
 And try from Human Intellect 
 A decent rush to garble. 
 
 The juniors take their Physics straight. 
 And meanwhile make conjectures, 
 
 " How long this fearful grind will last 
 Before they give us lectures." 
 
 The sophoniores are well content 
 To give the freshmen knowledge ; 
 
 They study hard, and hard appear 
 To every class in college. 
 
 The freshmen — they are innocent. 
 They stake their all on study. 
 
 And, unambitious, are content 
 As nothing and nobody. 
 
1 68 
 THE FRESHMAN'S WALK. 
 
 BY G. E. IDE, '8l. 
 
 Up from his bed on Washington's day 
 A freshman rose all blithesome and gay ; 
 Ecstatic joy his heart did tear, 
 He longed his banger forth to bear. 
 The hour for morning service nigh 
 He took his cane and forth did hie, 
 And Chapel twenty blocks away. 
 
 He looked upon the morning bright, 
 He hailed with joy the fresh sunlight ; 
 And louder in his ears there rolled 
 The knell of the church bell uncontrolled, 
 And his blood with anxious fear grew cold 
 As he thought of the game he would get that day. 
 And Chapel twenty blocks away. 
 
 But there is a side street leading down 
 Straight from the outskirts of the town, 
 And there through the flush of that morning's light 
 The freshman went in his eager flight ; 
 As if he knew some terrible need, 
 He strode along with his utmost speed ; 
 He swung his stick, he tried to look gay. 
 But Chapel was fifteen blocks away. 
 
 Still sprung from that banger, thundering down, 
 A noise that frightened all the town. 
 On ! on he went ever faster and faster 
 Foreboding to small dogs the doom of disaster. 
 Looking as if he now were the master. 
 No sophomore now could injure his pride, 
 
169 
 
 But his anxious heart his looks belied, 
 And to himself he did ever say, 
 
 " Chapel is still ten blocks away.'' 
 
 Under his hastening feet the road 
 Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 
 But a sophomore spied his hastening steps 
 And knew he had seen him at Sigma Eps., 
 And the soph., like a bark fed with furnace ire. 
 Swept on with his wild eye full of fire. 
 He walks behind that freshman tame. 
 He gives that freshman the wildest game. 
 But Chapel is only five blocks away. 
 
 He nears the church. On every side 
 He sees the constantly swelling tide 
 Of sophomores and men of every class, 
 They lift their hats, they let him pass, 
 He feels like a most egregious ass. 
 Wounded is now his heart so vain. 
 He wants to bury that cursed cane, 
 Freshmanic pride is surely pained, 
 
 But Chapel at last is safely gained. 
 
 He enters ; he sees not the gathered crowd. 
 
 He hears not the notes of the organ loud. 
 
 His hat and his banger, he must carry both. 
 
 Then setting his teeth with a terrible oath 
 
 He starts with bold air 'mid an audible smile 
 
 And carefully takes a few steps down the aisle. 
 
 With dirt and with dust his new trousers are gray ; 
 
 By the flash of his eye and his lips' haughty play, 
 
 He seemed to the whole congregation to say, 
 
 " I carried my banger all the way 
 
 To celebrate Washington's natal day." 
 
I70 
 
 MY INDIAN PIPE. 
 
 BY H. S. DURAND, '8 1. 
 
 Thou friend of clay, who day by day 
 Dost furnish me such comfort soothing, 
 
 The troubled brow, when sorrow's plow 
 Has furrowed it with wrinkles, smoothing ; 
 
 Oh speak ! and tell me what befell 
 
 When first thy curious form was moulded, 
 
 Ere for thy tribe Time's mystic scribe 
 His sable-covered book had folded. 
 
 What savage hands have carved those bands 
 About thy bowl with strange designing.' 
 
 What sachem old or chieftain bold 
 
 Has, smoked thee, 'neath the shade reclining.'' 
 
 Hast soothed to rest some warrior's breast, 
 When wearied with his wild vocations. 
 
 Or calmed the ire, at council fire. 
 
 And sealed the lasting peace of nations? 
 
 Oh pipe ! I fear I ne'er shall hear 
 Thy strange, eventful,' ancient story. 
 
 For darkness shrouds with gloomy clouds 
 The time when thou wast in thy glory ; 
 
171 
 
 But this my love for thee will prove, 
 I would not sell thee e'en to Barnum, 
 
 For I should rniss the soothing bliss 
 Thou givest to my room in Farnam. 
 
 Oh pipe ! thy light is out, good-night, 
 If thou saidst aught I did not hear it. 
 
 I know full well thy sleepy spell 
 Has cast itself about my spirit. 
 
1/2 
 
 NURSERY RHYMES. 
 
 BY ERNEST WHITNEY, '82. 
 
 There was a young man in North Middle 
 Who played by the hour on the fiddle ; 
 And the stories they tell 
 Say he went straight to — well, 
 Where the resin burns him and his fiddle. 
 
 There was a young student in Farnam 
 Who took off his stockings to darn 'em, 
 
 And a piece of the needle 
 
 He used in the deed '11 
 Be found in the student in Farnam. 
 
 A student in chapel this morning, 
 The laws of the Faculty scorning, 
 Bent devoutly his head 
 While his lessons he read : 
 Therefore he receiveth a warning. 
 
 There was a young soph, from Hoboken 
 Sent to his true love as a token 
 A photograph new 
 Of himself, a la crew, — • 
 The once happy engagement is broken. 
 
173 
 
 There was a young student in chapel 
 Said " I think that a snug little nap '11 
 
 Do me more good 
 
 Than a sermon could." 
 And his snores softly rose in the chapel. 
 
 There was a young tutor behind him 
 
 For ten seconds glared wildly to find him ; 
 
 Then he took out a book 
 
 With his happiest look, 
 And seventeen marks he assigned him. 
 
 A student in Greek recitation 
 Recited without deviation 
 
 Six lines from the trot, 
 
 And the mark that he got 
 Was forty above high oration ; 
 
 While another, who had his translation 
 Perfected by long cogitation, 
 
 Was looked on with suspicion 
 
 And from the division 
 Was dropped with no more hesitation. 
 
 A certain socratic Professor 
 
 Questions so that "No, sir," and "Yes, sir" 
 
 Are his only demand, 
 
 And the man of high stand 
 Gives way to the luckiest guesser. 
 
174 
 
 There was a fair maiden at Vassar, 
 In German no one could surpass her : 
 
 She danced it so well 
 
 And talked it so ill 
 That the Faculty had to unclass her. 
 
 There was a fair maiden at Vassar, 
 In drawing no one could surpass her, 
 
 She drew like Lorraine, 
 
 And a very long train. 
 And a check that astonished the cashier. 
 
 There was a fair maiden at Vassar, 
 
 Of whom it was often remarked that in the careless 
 grace, agility, velocity, and precision of her man- 
 ner of sliding down the banisters, no one could 
 surpass her. 
 
 But she slid down one day 
 
 In such an extremely neglectful way. 
 
 That she slipped up and landed a la poose-back and 
 candle-extinguisher on the head of an innocent 
 appearing old gentleman with blue glasses who 
 turned out to be a Cornell Professor. 
 
 There is a fair maid in this city 
 Whose hand is exceedingly pretty ; 
 
 I kissed it one night . 
 
 In the silver moonlight, — 
 And the way that it slapped was a pity. 
 
175 
 
 There was a fair maid in Schenectady, 
 When her lover called quite unexpectedly, 
 Was berating the servant 
 In language most fervent — 
 Now she paces her parlor dejectedly. 
 
 John Jones, while out walking with Hannah, 
 Slipped and fell on a frozen banana, 
 
 And she came down kerslap 
 
 Right square on his lap, 
 In an awkward, embarrassing manner. 
 
 But yet, though she ruined her pannier, 
 Hannah seemed rather pleased with the manner, 
 
 For after a while 
 
 She said with a smile, 
 "John, let's find another banana." 
 
 There was a small boy had some powder. 
 And in trying to make it go louder 
 He succeeded so well 
 That his friends couldn't tell 
 His remains from a dish of clam chowder. 
 
176 
 
 NURSERY RHYMES. 
 
 BY C. S. HEBARD, '82. 
 
 Oh! the cheek of the damsel at Vassar, 
 Without chaperon to harass her ; 
 
 She may be a pearl 
 
 And a very nice girl, 
 But many are they that surpass her. 
 
 The maid who is modest and shy, 
 And wishes her chaperon nigh, 
 
 Although not a flirt, 
 
 Bewitching and pen — 
 Will be in demand bye-and-bye. 
 
 There is a fair lass at Miss Cady's, 
 Conspicuous among the young ladies; 
 To the concert she goes 
 And smiles she bestows, 
 But wary and cautious this maid is. 
 
 For the madame suspicious is there. 
 And for nothing else seems to have care 
 
 Save not to neglect 
 
 Her ward to protect 
 From the students' very impolite stare. 
 
177 
 NURSERY RHYMES. 
 
 BY S. C. PARTRIDGE, '8o. 
 
 There was a young fresh, in North College 
 Who cared not a straw for your knowledge, 
 
 And so every day 
 
 He cursed Chauvenet, 
 This wicked young fresh, in North College. 
 
 There was a gay junior in Farnam 
 Whose only profane word was " darn-em. 
 
 So when he was mad 
 
 He only thought bad, 
 This pious young junior in Farnam. 
 
 There was a gay senior said " How now 
 Shall I contrive to improve on my bow-ow ; 
 It's considerable trouble 
 To bend one's self double. 
 So I think I will shorten my bow-ow." 
 
 The next morning he nodded his head. Sir, 
 
 But the Prex. stopped and smiled as he said, " Sir, 
 
 Your mind must be weak 
 
 To think (so to speak) 
 That a bow is a nod of the head, Sir.'' 
 
.1/8 
 
 A junior in very high station, 
 While seeking devout inspiration, 
 Tried to sing from Ganot, 
 But the tutor, you know, 
 Shut down on his young aspiration. 
 
 There was a polite scientific, 
 In manners extremely prolific. 
 Who said : " Where I go, 
 The ladies, you know. 
 Are mashed on this gay scientific." 
 
 There was a young legal adviser 
 
 Who said : " For the crew I will try, sir, 
 
 I know the Law School 
 
 Can certainly pull. 
 Because we are older and wiser." 
 
 There was a young maid in New Haven 
 Over whom all the students were ravin', 
 
 Till a Theolog. tall 
 
 Got ahead of them all, 
 By betrothing this maid of New Haven. 
 
 For -the Theolog. bold, I've often been told, 
 Though of scriptural puns a rejector. 
 
 Will oft snatch a kiss 
 
 From his dear Jenny-sis, 
 In the Exodus after the lecture. 
 
179 
 
 There was a young man who said : " I, Sir ; 
 
 A ' tone' flannel garment will buy, Sir, 
 And then I will wander 
 To the boarding school yonder, 
 
 And a gentle flirtation I'll try. Sir." 
 
 But up spoke a feminine bold one 
 Whose luxuriant tresses were golden : 
 
 " We never will flirt 
 
 With a gray flannel shirt. 
 So return Sir, and put on your old one." 
 
i8o 
 
 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 A PASTORAL. 
 
 BY A. P. FRENCH, '82. 
 
 Slowly the Summer's day draws to its close; 
 Scents of the new-mown hay ravish the nose ; 
 Sweetly the calves to their mothers respond ; 
 Softly the bull-frogs snore in the pond. 
 
 ORDO PLANETARUM. 
 
 Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, 
 
 Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, 
 
 When together sang the morning stars. 
 All in harmonious chorus kept tune. 
 
 THE THEOLOGUES. 
 BY S. C. PARTRIDGE, '8o. 
 
 The theologues tall 
 Play pat ball 
 Against the wall 
 Of Divinity Hall, 
 Where dwell all 
 The theologues tall. 
 
I8l 
 
 YE SENIOR. 
 
 BY C. C. TURNER, '78. 
 
 Ye senior sitteth upon ye fence 
 
 And pondereth all ye time 
 Whence to obtain ye pounds and pence 
 
 To square ye bills betime. 
 
 TO A SINGER. 
 
 BY B. W. DAVIS, '75. 
 
 If you earnestly wish to promote 
 Your talent, hear what I suggest ; 
 
 You've given us many a note, 
 For Heaven's sake, give us a rest. 
 
 BROTHERS JUNIOR PRIZE DEBATE. 
 BY T. R. BACON, '72. 
 
 Three hearers heard in a sleepy state, 
 Three speakers spoke with eloquence great 
 To gain three prizes in Brothers' Hall, 
 Three judges judged, and that was all. 
 
1 82 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 They were stopping at the seaside ; 
 
 Rumor had it they would wed, 
 No one knew just who had said it, 
 
 But all knew it had been said. 
 
 So the social circles kindly 
 Took the matter in their hands, 
 
 At full length discussed the prospects 
 And the parties to the bans. 
 
 Wondered if the pair were wealthy. 
 Thought it very strange that she 
 
 Could so stoop from her position 
 To a man of his degree. 
 
 Even grew a trifle angry, 
 As the days incessant sped; 
 
 And the gossip still continued, 
 But the pair remained unwed. 
 
 Till one old, grey-headed veteran. 
 More courageous than the rest. 
 
 Took upon himself a mission. 
 Took it merely by request. 
 
 Gained acquaintance with the lady; 
 
 Sweetly thought, " The day is won," 
 But she smiling said, "allow me 
 
 To present to you — my son." 
 
CAUGHT. 
 
 BY G. E. IDE, '8l. 
 
 In the twilight they were walking 
 
 By the roaring ocean's tide, 
 Arthur of his college "talking, 
 
 Edith silent by his side. 
 
 Long he talked of violent hazing, 
 Sophomores bold and freshmen pale, 
 
 And of all things most amazing 
 In his life at dear old Yale ; 
 
 Of the freshmen, young and fearful. 
 Of the tutors, stern and hard ; 
 
 Then he turned to scenes more cheerful. 
 Told her of the Promenade. 
 
 " Yes !" said Edith, slightly yawning, 
 
 " O ! I did enjoy it so ! 
 And the German in the morning. 
 
 Tell me, Arthur, did you go ?" 
 
 Now before him quickly rushes 
 
 All that he has said before ; 
 And he answers amid blushes, 
 
 " No ! my class is '84." 
 
1 84 
 
 OBJURGATION. 
 
 BY E. F. GREEN, '8o. 
 
 Pretty Jennie came to me, 
 Earnest, seeking information : 
 
 " Cousin, darling, will you show 
 What is meant by osculation ?" 
 
 What could mortal man as I 
 
 Do in such a situation ? 
 Father, mother, no one nigh. 
 
 Liberal views, a great temptation ! 
 
 Jennie is my cousin, too; 
 
 So, to please my young relation — 
 ***** 
 
 " Ah ! you horrid thing, there ! now ! 
 
 I referred to occultation." 
 
i8s 
 
 AT THE RECEPTION. 
 
 Maiden with the rippling hair, 
 Laughing eyes, and tripping feet, 
 Was it for me you smiled so sweet 
 
 When I passed you on the stair ? 
 
 Do I cause the tell-tale blush 
 
 Which o'er-crimsons all your cheek, 
 Which, though silent, yet doth speak 
 
 Thoughts which glow like sunset-flush ? 
 
 Do I cause — confound my glasses! 
 
 Quick, good usher, lest I miss her. 
 "There's the lady, there she passes!" 
 
 " Why man, hang it, thafs my sister !" 
 
 13 
 
1 86 
 
 YE PALE STUDENT. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 Ye first verse. Come yc lordings one and all 
 
 And listen now to me, 
 Hear what strange things may befall, 
 Which least expected be. 
 
 Ye pale student. 'Neath the elms of dear old Yale, 
 In the city by the sea, 
 A student dwelleth, wan and pale, 
 A student hard is he. 
 
 He connetii his task. Through the long and silent night 
 The midnight oil doth burn, 
 But, though he toil until the light. 
 His task he well must learn. 
 
 He groweth 
 aweary. 
 
 He seeketh refresh- 
 ment. 
 
 He getteth it. 
 
 But he groweth faint and sad 
 
 "Alas! alas!" saith he, 
 " I would that I my lesson had — 
 
 That I at rest might be. 
 
 " My irksome task I'll con no more 
 
 For it doth weary me ; 
 But for assistance I'll implore 
 
 Saint Moriaritee." 
 
 Then he rises and departs, 
 
 Assistance he doth gain. 
 The nectar through his spirit darts 
 
 And calms the weary brain. 
 
i87 
 
 A strange miracle 
 happeneth. 
 
 He lamenteth. 
 
 Ye next morning. 
 
 He doth not rush. 
 
 He gnasheth his 
 teeth. 
 
 He invoketh not 
 ye Saint. 
 
 Ye moral. 
 
 With gladsome heart he doth return, 
 
 His task to con he tries, 
 The letters upside down do turn 
 
 And swim before his eyes. 
 
 When these wonders he doth see, 
 
 "Alas! alas!" he cries, 
 " That I in such a state should be !" 
 
 And to his rest he hies. 
 * * * * 
 
 Slow the morning sun doth rise. 
 
 The student doth also ; 
 Good ways to skin he doth devise, 
 
 And to recite doth go. 
 
 And now impatiently he waits. 
 With weak and trembling knees ; 
 
 His hook the subtle tutor baits. 
 And flunketh him with ease. 
 
 His fate the luckless student wails, 
 His heart with rage doth seethe. 
 
 But nought his anger him avails — 
 He gnasheth with his teeth. 
 
 And he goeth now no more 
 
 To Moriaritee, 
 The Saint's assistance to implore, 
 
 Though weak and sad he be. 
 
 Now hark ye lordings one and all. 
 
 The moral ye may see — 
 Beware how ye to aid ye call 
 
 Saint Moriaritee. 
 
1 88 
 
 A COINCIDENCE. 
 
 (2 o'clock A. M. He retires.) 
 " Wake me up for prayers," I said, 
 
 As I closed my bedroom door, 
 " If you forget it, on thy head 
 
 Be those marks, now nigh three score." 
 
 (7.59 A. M. Chum opens the door.) 
 But what means the sight about me, 
 
 These wooden forms that round me stand ? 
 What horde of demons would arouse me 
 
 From my dreams in fairy land .' 
 
 (Chum smiles.) 
 The room is full of grinning clocks, 
 
 With laughing, leering, jeering faces; 
 All normal laws each timepiece mocks, 
 
 With lines for legs, for bodies, cases. 
 
 (Chum comes into the room.) 
 Of every age and size and form. 
 
 Of every make that this earth knows, 
 Like sailors reeling in a storm 
 
 The crowd of clocks careering goes. 
 
 (Chum approaches the bed.) 
 Pressing now towards my bed 
 
 They clasp their hands in magic ring ; 
 Eight, marks the dial in each head — 
 
 They sway in time, and swaying, sing — 
 
1 89 
 
 (Chum calls.) 
 " Get up, get up, 't is eight, 't is eight, 
 
 'T is eight, get up, 't is eight!" they cry — 
 Oppressive as the words of Fate 
 
 Upon my soul their chant doth lie. 
 
 (Chum leans over the bed.) 
 And now, it seems, they draw right near. 
 
 The many faces are as one 
 Which grin a grin from ear to ear, 
 
 Like a fiend who hath a soul undone. 
 
 (He begins to awake.) 
 "Away, ye shades," I madly cry, 
 
 "Away! what, do ye dare resist?" 
 They move not. " By the heavens on high. 
 
 Take that." I use my doubled fist. 
 
 (8 A. M. He has awaked.) 
 " Good gracious — a thousand pardons, chum- 
 
 I didn't know — a dream — but wait," 
 " Oh never mind, but get up, come ! 
 
 It's eight o'clock and you'll be late." 
 
I go 
 SIR JOHN'S ADVENTURE. 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE " ACOKN AND THE PUMPKIN. 
 BY J. H. DYSON, '^^. 
 
 Sir John for grace and piety 
 
 Was noted far and near ; 
 His tongue was famed for praise of Heaven, 
 
 His heart for Christian cheer; 
 Applause he sang of Nature's laws, 
 The echoing hills returned applause. 
 
 In travels through earth's wide domains 
 
 He nought amiss could find, 
 But all he saw in Nature's realms 
 
 Gave pleasure to his mind ; 
 " In all the earth, whate'er I see, 
 All show their Maker's skill," said he. 
 
 One noon, in country far from home, 
 
 Outstretched upon the ground 
 Beneath a well-filled cocoa tree, 
 
 A scanty shade he found ; 
 And with his eyes turned upward, he 
 Indulged in this soliloquy. 
 
 "The symmetry of Nature's works 
 
 Is everywhere displayed ; 
 But such a noble, comely tree 
 
 I ne'er before surveyed. 
 'Tis fitting that a giant tree 
 Should bring forth ponderous fruit," said he. 
 
191 
 
 " Now some would think that berries small 
 
 On such a tree should grow, 
 And that the larger cocoanut 
 
 Should on small vines lie low ; 
 Small berries on small vines should be, 
 And larger fruit grace such a tree." 
 
 E'en as he spoke, a cocoanut 
 
 Dropped from the lofty tree ; 
 Upon the face of good Sir John 
 
 It fell right heavily. 
 With bleeding face and battered nose, 
 The howling knight in pain arose. 
 
 And ever since that luckless time 
 
 Has Sir John spent his days 
 In cursing loud and finding fault 
 
 With Nature's devious ways. 
 " Had berries grown on that vile tree 
 My nose had still been whole,'' quoth he. 
 
192 
 THE OLD CHAPEL. 
 
 BY A. T. HADLEY,- '76. 
 
 Once on a time, long years ago, upon a summer day, 
 The Profs, did meet in Prex.'s room to drive dull care 
 away. 
 
 All silently they sat and smoked, until their leader 
 
 rose ; , 
 
 He was a solemn man, that Prex. as everybody knows. 
 
 Said he, " The Corporation vote we build a College 
 
 Church, 
 I need your help; stand by me, friends; don't leave 
 
 me in the lurch. 
 
 "What is the most unsightly shape.?" he asked the 
 
 Prof of Art. 
 That gentleman arranged his views, and drew them 
 
 on a chart. 
 
 " Well hast thou done, Sir Architect ! thou art a 
 
 noble man ; 
 I cannot see what well could be less beauteous than 
 
 this plan. 
 
 " Now who is he who can produce a draft of winter 
 air 
 , So cold and yet so copious that each shall have a 
 share.?" 
 
193 
 
 Then rose a man both old and grave, of very wond- 
 rous knowledge he; 
 
 It was that much respected man, the Prof, of Meteor- 
 ology. 
 
 Said he, "The current A. Q. X. through B. P. C. 
 
 will go, 
 And carry up and down the aisles both rain and hail 
 
 and snow. 
 
 " But when the heat of Summer comes the current is 
 reversed, 
 
 No breath of air can reach the seats, unless the build- 
 ing burst." 
 
 Scarce had he done, when up rose one with theologic 
 ^ face ; 
 
 Said he, " My mission is to help the fallen human 
 race. 
 
 " The source from which I draw my power is placed' 
 
 above the sky ; 
 Wherefore, I pray you, set my desk three hundred 
 
 cubits high.'' 
 
 " Well said ! well said ! Sir Theologue, we'll do as 
 
 you suggest ; 
 Now who can furnish us with seats which students 
 
 shall detest V 
 
 Then silence reigned among the Profs., and not a 
 
 word they spoke, 
 'Till he who Mathematics taught, the awful stillness 
 
 broke. 
 
194 
 
 Straight to the blackboard up he went and drew 
 three circles round, 
 
 And fourteen lines and sixteen curves, with knowl- 
 edge most profound. 
 
 He pointed out how by these means a seat could be 
 
 obtained 
 In which no student, great or small, could sit and not 
 
 be pained. 
 
 He gave the proof — of all, the Profs., not one could 
 
 understand — 
 It was not strictly logical, but sounded very grand. 
 
 But, proved or not, the fact was true, and that was all 
 
 they needed ; 
 And so the learn6d Faculty to other talk proceeded. 
 
 And thus the wondrous pile was built, by mason and 
 
 by joiner. 
 They say it has no counterpart 'twixt Washington 
 
 and China. 
 
 And there the students sit, absorbed in meditation 
 
 deep, 
 'Till nature's sweet restorer comes and puts them all 
 
 to sleep. 
 
195 
 THE NEWS AT ROME. 
 
 BY R. J. JESSUP, '76. 
 
 Pope Pius bowed his holy head 
 
 And told his rosary, 
 Ten Aves and a Pater said 
 
 With much prolixity. 
 And lo ! around, each dropsical, 
 Disconsolate red Cardinal 
 Did, with the aged Pope, agree 
 'Twill be a "famous victory.'' 
 " But if we do not win," said he, 
 "Ah, then will come the agony." 
 
 Monsignore comes with low salaam, 
 " 'Tis from New Haven straight. 
 
 Behold the cable telegram ! 
 
 'Sophs, win the Match Debate.' " 
 
 The Bishops dance the gay can-can 
 
 Within the sad, old Vatican ; 
 
 Before the Pontiff's holy eyes 
 
 The Cardinals, like fire-flies. 
 
 Trip gaily to and fro. 
 
 " I've Gladstone on the hip," quoth he, 
 
 " It is a famous victory. 
 
 Ye gallant Swiss, what, ho ! 
 
 Illuminate St. Peter's dome ! 
 
 A holiday proclaim to Rome ! — 
 
 My brethren, don't go." 
 
 The Cardinals with joy distend, 
 
 Before the Pontiff gladly bend. 
 
 Like red bricks in a row. 
 
196 
 FACULTY MARCH. 
 
 BY W. P. ALLEN, '80. 
 
 " Marks, marks, marks from the Faculty, marks," 
 
 This is the slogan of Yale ; 
 This is the shingle to make their backs tingle 
 
 And student complexions turn pale. 
 Marks for the Freshman who cannot recite, 
 Marks for the Sophomores who haze him at night, 
 Marks for the Junior whene'er he cuts chapel, 
 Marks even for Seniors — last shot of the battle. 
 Yes, every man, who hath haunted these realms 
 And studied four years 'neath the wide arching elms. 
 Has stepped into line with the student brigade. 
 Treading time to the march which the Faculty played. 
 " Marks, marks, marks from the Faculty, marks," 
 Fall in line there ! 
 Keep time there ! 
 "Marks from the Faculty, marks." 
 
 " Marks, marks, marks from the Faculty, marks," 
 
 All booked in an orderly way. 
 In strange hieroglyphic, Yale's patent physic, 
 
 Dose given three times a day. 
 We have figured this matter excessively fine. 
 We can value your brains to the worth of dime. 
 And though deeply you drink of this classical lore. 
 We can measure each draught by our standard of 
 
 Four. 
 Two to the bummer — Three to the dig, 
 And three and one-half to the best, we give 
 
197 
 
 Come ye from the east or from western plains, 
 By this scale of Four will we measure your brains, 
 But whether you're ranked in rear or van, 
 O tread time to this tune, which your grandfathers 
 
 sang, 
 " Marks, marks, marks from the Faculty, marks," 
 Fall in line there ! 
 Mark time there ! 
 " Marks from the Faculty, marks." 
 
198 
 
 AROUND THE FIRE. 
 
 BY E. R. JOHNES, '73. 
 
 When the cold north wind is heavy 
 With its freight of feathery snow, 
 
 And the leafless, shuddering branches 
 Toss and tremble to and fro ; 
 
 When the flying words are frozen 
 Ere they issue from my mouth. 
 
 Then I leave thee, frosty Farnam, 
 For a room in dear old South, 
 
 Where a throng of jovial fellows 
 
 Sit before the open fire; 
 Watch the cheerful flames ascending, 
 
 Wreathing, curling high and higher, 
 
 Quaffing glasses of old Burton, 
 Moistening the " silent dust," 
 
 Back the fleeting breath recalling 
 By an "animated bust." 
 
 All our hearts are warmed to music. 
 Petty spite and private wrong 
 
 Die away, while friendship lingers 
 In the cadence of our song^ 
 
 True, we are a little noisy, — 
 
 He's a thief that goes by stealth, — 
 
 Who would stop the glasses clinking. 
 Drinking a companion's health.? 
 
199 
 
 And 'tis but a superstition, 
 
 Idle folly and no more, 
 To object, if one for pastime 
 
 Drop a dumb-bell on the floor. 
 
 But the Faculty don't think so, 
 And I long for scenes more blest, 
 
 Where the tutor does not trouble. 
 And the bummer is at rest. 
 
 For they break our sweet communion 
 
 By a rapping at the door, 
 And they soothe our troubled spirits 
 
 By a dozen marks or more. 
 
 And I fear I'll get the notice 
 
 ''You're conditioned in Guizot;" 
 
 Still I'll not desert the fire-place 
 While its ruddy embers glow. 
 
200 
 
 THE ANTHEM. 
 
 BY T. R. BACON, '72. 
 
 Say, Freshman, have you ever heard 
 
 The Christmas Anthem sung. 
 When, the last Sunday of the term. 
 
 The bell for prayers has rung ? 
 
 The " snab " fill all the galleries 
 
 In beautiful array, 
 (They rose, their toilet to perfect, 
 
 Before the break of day). 
 
 The Prex. behind the lofty desk 
 
 Lifts up his figure slim, 
 And, having read the sacred page. 
 
 Gives out the Christmas hymn : 
 
 "'Mortals, awake, and angels join 
 
 To chant the solemn lay,' 
 Beginning at the second verse;" 
 
 And then they blaze away. 
 
 And first they lift their voices high. 
 
 This wondrous college choir. 
 And having "strung and tuned the lyre" 
 
 They "string and tune the lyre." 
 
 And when they've '' strung and tuned the lyre' 
 
 They "string and tune the lyre," 
 And when "the lyre is strung and tuned" 
 
 They lift their voices higher. 
 
20I 
 
 They rush, they roar, they scream, they howl, 
 
 "And loud the echo rolls, 
 Down through the portals of the sky 
 
 The angels fly" in shoals. 
 
 And when the inspiration sweet 
 
 Begins to lose its fire, 
 They beat a masterly retreat, 
 
 And "string and tune the lyre." 
 
 And though they leave the lyre again, 
 
 And send forth varied tones, 
 Unearthly noises, loud and deep. 
 
 And sighs, and shouts, and groans, 
 
 Back to the charge they come again, 
 
 With hearts that never tire. 
 And, lifting up their sweetest strain. 
 
 They "string and tune the lyre." 
 
 Preserve, O Freshman ! these brief lines 
 
 Until you hear the song; 
 Compare my story with the deed, 
 
 And say if I am wrong. 
 
 14 
 
202 
 
 CUPID. 
 
 BY W. K. TOWNSEND, '7I. 
 
 Many a hundred years ago, ' 
 
 When Constantino started to overthrow. 
 Of Heaven the gods, and of Earth the princes. 
 With the motto of " In hoc signo vinces," 
 Jupiter, with a prophetic eye 
 Reading his own harsh destiny, 
 Made up his mind to retreat in good order 
 Ere Constantine's cross crossed over his border. 
 So one morn, as Aurora, unveiling the night 
 With rosy-hued fingers, unfolded the light, 
 Juno's snoring awakes him : up quickly he jumps, 
 Bids Mercury don his caduceus and pumps. 
 And gives him a package of letters to take. 
 Which should summon a council within half a 
 So Mercury carried these notes of his Pa's [shake. 
 To Neptune, Apollo, lame Vulcan, and Mars, 
 To Ceres, Minerva, Diana, and Venus; 
 Although with the ladies, I tell you between us, — 
 He lingered, as men will, their fancies to please, — 
 By taking replies to Jove's R. S. V. Ps. 
 So the party all got to Olympus that night. 
 
 And took a light supper. 
 
 Of nectar a cup or 
 Of dove-borne ambrosia a bountiful bite, [placed, 
 Then, while Jiino went off to see where they'd be 
 Old Jove seized his chance and the ladies^embraced. 
 [I'd forgotten to state that he summoned Miss Vesta, 
 But it's needless to say that he didn't molest her.] 
 
203 
 
 But when this was arranged and Night over them 
 
 crept, [slept. 
 
 Wrapped in Morphean dreams gods and goddesses 
 
 "At five o'clock in the morning," although it yet was 
 
 dark, 
 The royal train, as was their wont, rose gaily with 
 
 the lark ; 
 And 'though, like Miss McFlimsey, they nothing had 
 
 to wear, 
 Unlike her, this was just the thing for which they 
 
 didn't care. 
 But, using fig-leaves, a la mode in that queer age of 
 
 fable. 
 They dressed them quickly, and appeared around the 
 
 breakfast table. 
 This meal dispatched, the council met, but Jove had 
 
 got the "blues," 
 For the " Morning Herald," just arrived, who brought 
 
 the latest news. 
 Announced that Constantine, at last, had started out 
 
 from home, 
 And, by forced marches, in a week would reach the 
 
 walls of Rome. 
 " So," said great Jove, " there's just one thing remains 
 
 for us to do, 
 And ' if 'twere well 'twere done, 'twere well it were 
 
 done quickly,' too ;^- 
 ' A roobe to goo invisibell ' let each one of you don, 
 And I'll give each some worldly goods to keep his 
 
 eyes upon. 
 Until that glorious future, when, subduing Chris- 
 
 tianism, 
 
204 
 
 We once again restore on earth the rule of Pantheism." 
 Now Neptune was a boating-man and doated on 
 
 sardines, 
 Jove placed hiifi o'er Oceanus as " captain of marines," 
 Dispatched him to his scallop-shell, with mermaids 
 
 to make merry. 
 And promised him, if things went well, a patent 
 
 paper wherry. 
 Apollo next, his handsome son, he sent the sun to 
 
 run, 
 And said " My son, now make you hay while on you 
 
 shines the sun. 
 For, when the troops of Constantine before Rome's 
 
 walls arrive, 
 I, from this Mount, shall mount the box your chariot 
 
 to drive." 
 But Mars had grown so quarrelsome his Ma's delight 
 
 he mars 
 By kicking up disturbances with her attendant stars ; 
 So, since she swore to mighty Jove she wouldn't have 
 
 him 'round. 
 He bade him to "vamoose the ranche," and seek 
 
 some battle ground. 
 Next Jove to Vulcan sentence gave in this right 
 
 jovial pun, — 
 " Quid Vulcan vult can Vulcan do, and so adieu, my 
 son." 
 
 Jove, when he'd sent away the gods. 
 
 The goddesses addressed ; 
 Quoth he, "Of all the mart affords. 
 
 We'd give to you the best, 
 
20S 
 
 "But, since my realm, hung by a thread. 
 
 No safety now enjoys, 
 To you I'll say just what I said 
 
 When I sent off the boys. 
 
 " Let Ceres to the cornfields go, 
 
 Vesta keep up her fire, 
 Diana, taking up her bow. 
 
 To mountain heights retire. 
 
 " Minerva, still watch over art. 
 
 Be youth's bright guiding star, 
 But ' maid of Athens, ere we part,' 
 
 Embrace your fond Papa. 
 
 " Venus, with us you must remain, 
 
 'Though all the rest disperse ; 
 'Till your spouse Vulcan comes again 
 
 You shall be Cupid's nurse." 
 
 Now when this speech was taken down, and read by 
 the Recorder, 
 
 The " miscellaneous business" came as the next in 
 order. 
 
 The ladies all spoke up at once, but Venus got the 
 floor, 
 
 And, 'mid a flood of sighs and tears, did Cupid's fate 
 deplore; 
 
 " What," quoth she, " would you make all love a mat- 
 ter of the forum, 
 
 And buy and sell our women there for their milia 
 sestertiorum ? 
 
206 
 
 Why, ' 'Twere better to be a slave along with the 
 
 barbarous Turk, 
 Where women has never a soul to save,' if this is to 
 
 be your work." 
 Now who, of gods or men, could stand a pretty 
 
 woman's tears ? 
 Jove yielded, and sent Venus down to calm young 
 
 Cupid's fears. 
 
 At the foot of a mount, 
 
 Where a crystal fount 
 In its pebbly bed was dancing. 
 
 Within the pale 
 
 Of a wooded vale. 
 Where the sun on the leaves was glancing, 
 Venus found Cupid, trying his art 
 At shooting his dart through an oaken heart. 
 Ah Cupid ! the practice you've had since then, 
 Till you pierce through the stoniest hearts of men. 
 
 But Venus was sad 
 
 As she called the lad 
 And told him the mournful story. 
 
 How the Christian band. 
 
 With a ruthless hand. 
 Were robbing the gods of their glory ; 
 
 And the love-god's tears fell thick and fast. 
 For a cloud o'er his sunny life was cast. 
 Ah Cupid ! would that the thought of those tears 
 Might teach you to pity in after years ! 
 
 But when the sun 
 His course had run. 
 
207 
 
 And the shadows melted in night, 
 When Diana unbars 
 The moon and stars, 
 Revealing their silver light, 
 
 Venus went flying back to old Jove, 
 Leaving poor Cupid alone in the grove. 
 Ah Cupid! if you had but stayed in that spot, 
 How many a heart would have been unshot ! 
 
 But he, forlorn, with heavy-hanging head. 
 All heedless wandered, praying Jove to pity. 
 
 Until his footsteps near the Tiber led. 
 And to the city. 
 
 The moon looked down upon a rustic bower. 
 Half hid by vines in tangled masses twisting. 
 
 Whose gnarled old branches, screened by many a 
 Made place for trysting. [flower, 
 
 Cupid looked in upon a Roman maid, 
 
 Whose hazel eyes shone out through nut-brown 
 tresses ; 
 A Roman youth to move her heart essayed 
 
 With soft caresses. 
 
 Quick as a flash did Cupid seize his bow, — 
 
 Two arrows quickly through two hearts went flying. 
 
 I tell no more. What follows none should know 
 Except by trying. 
 
 But Cupid winged his way to Jove divine. 
 
 Begged and obtained permission from that hour, 
 
 As God of Love, to rule o'er this. Love's shrine, — 
 A garden bower. 
 
208 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 Vanished is the age of fable, 
 Buried in a mist of years. 
 
 They, who sat at Jove's great table, 
 
 Rulers in his kingdom stable, 
 
 Now are gone ; and on Life's label 
 Cupid's name alone appears 
 He alone of gods has power, 
 Lurking hidden 'neath some flower, 
 Waiting in the garden bower. 
 
 So I warn each youth and maiden 
 With a love's young yearnings laden ; 
 When the winds the leaves are wooing. 
 When your heart for love is suing. 
 
 In the moonlit evening hour, 
 Then, beware, lest what you're doing 
 You may be, at some time, rueing; 
 Cupid is some mischief brewing, 
 Lurking in some garden bower. 
 
209 
 
 YE LAYE OF YE WOODPECKORE. 
 
 BY H. A. BEERS, '69. 
 PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. 
 
 O whither goest thou, pale student 
 
 Within the wood so fur? 
 Art on the chokesome cherry bent? 
 
 Dost seek the chestnut burr? 
 
 PALE STUDENT. 
 
 O it is not for the mellow chestnut 
 
 That I so far have come, 
 Nor yet for puckery cherries, but 
 
 For Cypripediiim. 
 
 A blossom hangs the choke-cherry 
 
 And eke the chestnut burr, 
 And thou a silly fowl must be, 
 
 Thou red-head wood-pecker. 
 
 PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. 
 
 Turn back, turn back, thou pale student, 
 
 Nor in the forest go ; 
 There lurks beneath his bosky tent 
 
 The deadly mosquito, 
 
 And there the wooden-chuck doth tread. 
 
 And from the oak-tree's top 
 The red, red squirrels on thy head 
 
 The frequent acorn drop. 
 
210 
 
 PALE STUDENT. 
 
 The wooden-chuck is next of kin 
 
 Unto the wood-pecker: 
 I fear not thine ill-boding din, 
 
 And why should I fear her? 
 
 What though a score of acorns drop 
 And squirrel's fur be red ! 
 
 'Tis not so ruddy as thy top — 
 So scarlet as thy head. 
 
 O rarely blooms the Cypripe- 
 
 diiim upon its stalk ; 
 And like a torch it shines to me 
 
 Adown the dark wood-walk. 
 
 O joy to pluck it from the ground, 
 
 To view the purple sac, 
 To touch the sessile stigma's round— 
 
 And shall I then turn back .' 
 
 PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. 
 
 O black and shining is the bog 
 That feeds the sumptuous weed, 
 
 Nor stone is found nor bedded log 
 Where foot may well proceed. 
 
 Midmost it glimmers in the mire 
 Like Jack o' Lanthorn's spark. 
 
 Lighting with phosphorescent fire 
 The green umbrageous dark. 
 
211 
 
 There, while thy thirsty glances drink 
 
 The fair and baneful plant, 
 Thy shoon within the ooze shall sink 
 
 And eke thine either pant. 
 
 PALE STUDENT. 
 
 Give o'er, give o'er, thou wood-peck6re ; 
 
 The bark upon the tree 
 Thou, at thy will, mayst peck and bore. 
 
 But peck and bore not me. 
 
 Full two long hours I've searched about, 
 
 And 'twould in sooth be runj. 
 If I should now go back without 
 
 The Cypripediiim. 
 
 PICUS ERYTHROCEPHALUS. 
 
 Farewell ! Farewell ! But this I tell 
 
 To thee, thou pale student. 
 Ere dews have fell, thou 'It rue it well 
 
 That woodward thou didst went : 
 
 Then whilst thou blows the drooping nose 
 
 And wip'st the pensive eye — 
 There where the sad Symplocarpus fcetidus grows, 
 
 Then think— O think of I ! 
 
 Loud flouted there that student wight 
 
 Swich warninge for to hear; 
 " I scorn, old hen, thy threats of might, 
 
 And eke thine ill grammere. 
 
212 
 
 " Go peck the lice (or green or red) 
 That swarm the bass-wood tree, 
 
 But wag no more thine addled head 
 Nor clack thy tongue at me." 
 
 The wood-peck turned to whet her beak, 
 The student heard her drum, 
 
 As through the wood he went to seek 
 The Cypripediiim. 
 
 Alas ! and for that pale student : 
 
 The evening bell did ring, 
 And down the walk the Freshman went 
 
 Unto the prayer-meeting; 
 
 Upon the fence loud rose the song, 
 The weak, weak tea was o'er — 
 
 Ha ! who is he that sneaks along 
 Into South Middle's door? 
 
 The mud was on his shoon, and O ! 
 
 The briar was in his thumb, 
 His staff was in his hand, but no — 
 
 No Cypripediiim. 
 
213 
 
 TWO MOONS. 
 
 BY L. H. BAGG, '6g. 
 
 The poet sat upon the fence 
 
 One lovely night in Soph'more year: — 
 The breeze was soft, the sky was clear — 
 He thought no one could overhear, 
 And he did thus commence : 
 
 " Shine on, O silver-beaming Moon ! 
 
 E'en though you glow with borrowed rays : 
 No Dickerman your course delays. 
 And holds you back 'until you pays,' 
 As he held me this noon. 
 
 " Shine on, O mystic-featured Moon ! 
 Your face I think is mostly cheek : — 
 I wish I'd had it all, last week, 
 When to escape a flunk in Greek 
 I fell down in a swoon. 
 
 "Shine on, O quondam-worshiped Moon! 
 Your ' lay ' as god was based on rock : — 
 Were I as unknown in the flock 
 Who run me, surely I'd be Coch, 
 And doubtless take the Spoon. 
 
 "Shine on, O ever-constant Moon! 
 I love your soft, alluring light : — 
 And, as I bid you now good-night, 
 Rejoice to think no foe can blight 
 Your glory, which will still beam bright 
 When comes another June." 
 
214 
 
 The poet leaned across the fence 
 One dismal night in Junior year: — 
 The wind was chill, the sky was drear, 
 He, careless who should overhear, 
 These words did thus dispense : 
 
 " Keep dark, you flickering lunar ball ! 
 I now, alas ! know what you are : — 
 Your ugly mug I'd like to mar. 
 And smear it over thick with tar. 
 So you couldn't shine at all. 
 
 " Keep dark, you pock-marked lunar ball ! 
 Old Tycho's streaks please now relax, 
 Remember that you can't melt wax. 
 Your horizontal parallax 
 I never could recall. 
 
 " Keep dark, eccentric lunar ball ! 
 You doubly cursed, librating orb. 
 On the blue sky a hideous daub. 
 Why did you all my stand absorb, 
 Which at the best was small ? 
 
 " Keep dark, intemperate lunar ball ! 
 No water can your surface show : — 
 And yet your baleful beams below 
 Cause earthly tides to ebb and flow. 
 To rise and then to fall. 
 
 " Keep dark, inconstant lunar ball ! 
 
 I hate your ghostly glimmering glare : — 
 I now withdraw me to my lair 
 
215 
 
 A skinning paper to prepare : — 
 To-morrow I the fates must dare, 
 Inside Alumni Hall." 
 
 The poet haunts the fence no more; 
 No more the college knows his face: 
 Fair Luna's course he could'nt trace ; 
 They therefore " sat upon his case," 
 And we his loss deplore. 
 
 The moon shines on just as before. 
 Apparently all unaware 
 How much it adds to student care, 
 How hard it makes the Junior swear 
 That annuals are a bore. 
 
2l6 
 
 A FISH STORY. 
 
 BY H. A. BEERS, '69. 
 
 A whale of great porosity 
 And small specific gravity, 
 
 Dived down with much velocity 
 Beneath the sea's concavity. 
 
 But soon the weight of water 
 Squeezed in his fat immensity, 
 
 Which varied — as it ought to — 
 Inversely as his density. 
 
 It would have moved to pity 
 
 An Ogre or a Hessian 
 To see poor Spermaceti 
 
 Thus suffering compression. 
 
 The while he lay a-roaring 
 
 In agonies gigantic, 
 The lamp-oil out came pouring. 
 
 And greased the wide Atlantic. 
 
 (Would we'd been in the navy. 
 And cruising there ! Imagine us 
 
 All in a sea of gravy 
 
 With billows oleagenous!) 
 
 At length old million-pounder. 
 
 Low on a bed of coral, 
 Gave his last dying flounder, 
 
 Whereto I pen this moral. 
 
217 
 
 MORAL. 
 
 O let this tale dramatic 
 
 Anent this whale Norwegian, 
 
 And pressures hydrostatic 
 
 Warn you, my young collegian. 
 
 That down-compelling forces 
 Increase as you get deeper; 
 
 The lower down your course is, 
 The upward path 's the steeper. 
 
 •5 
 
2l8 
 
 DROPPED. 
 
 [imitated from m. o'r.] 
 
 by l. h. bagg, '69. 
 
 Never again to the chapel 
 
 To rush at the sound of the bell ; 
 Never again in the chapel 
 
 To turn the stealthy leaves ; 
 Never again be prompted 
 
 By the chap who could always tell ; 
 Never again to dream the dream 
 That college music weaves. 
 
 Never again call " Comrade " 
 
 To the men who were comrades for years ; 
 Never to hear their voices, 
 
 Tender, or sweet, or solemn ; 
 .Never to be " Alumni " — 
 
 'Tis this we think of with tears ; — 
 Never, alas ! to be enrolled 
 
 In the dazzling graduate's column. 
 
 Never again flunk Euclid, 
 
 Or cram for an annual ex.; 
 Never again in Lyceum 
 
 To skin the page of Puckle; 
 Never again in the mazes 
 
 Of German our brains to vex ; 
 Never again at instructor's jokes 
 To solemnly smile or chuckle. 
 
219 
 
 Never again pitch pennies, 
 
 Or go with the crowd to the float ; 
 Never give out elections 
 
 At the solemn midnight hour; 
 Never again waste treasure 
 
 Small prize-fights to promote; 
 Never again to sit on the fence, 
 
 That bound of our elm -clad bower. 
 
 Wretched, forlorn, and lonesome. 
 The glory of life grown dim. 
 Brooding alone o'er the memory 
 
 Of the bright, glad days gone by ; 
 Nursing a better fancy. 
 
 An idle, regretful whim, 
 Oh, comrades, this leaving is harder — 
 We know it is easy to lie ! 
 
 Never again to the class room 
 
 To rush at the sound of the bell ; 
 Never again in the class room 
 To turn the stealthy leaves ; 
 Never again be prompted 
 
 By the chap who could always tell ; 
 Never again to dream the dream 
 That young ambition weaves. 
 
220 
 
 THE HEATHEN PASSEE, OR PLAIN LAN- 
 GUAGE FROM TUTOR PH— LPS 
 
 " Which I wish to remark, 
 
 And my language is plain, 
 That for plots that are dark 
 
 And not always in vain, 
 Ye wily young Soph, is peculiar ; 
 
 The same which I rise to explain. 
 
 "Tom Skinn was his name; 
 
 A queer chap, I trow 
 In regard to the same. 
 
 Above average ? No ! 
 And his look was most always deceptive, 
 
 As I frequent remarked to Prof. Coe. 
 
 " 'Twas on June the fourth. 
 
 And quite blue were the skies. 
 Which it might be inferred 
 
 That Tom Skinn was likewise. 
 Yet he played it that day upon P — rr — n 
 
 And me, in a way I despise. 
 
 " I ne'er can forget 
 
 How that day at three, 
 A Greek paper was set 
 
 By Examiner P 
 
 On Sophocles' play, ' Ed. Tyrannus,' 
 
 A subject Tom knew partially. 
 
221 
 
 " But the knowledge displayed 
 
 By that Heathen Passee, 
 And the answers he made 
 
 Were quite frightful to see ; 
 For he rapidly '' shirted" the paper 
 
 By about twenty minutes past three. 
 
 " Then I looked up at P , 
 
 And he gazed upon me. 
 I observed, 'Don't you see.?' 
 
 He replied, ' Can it be ? 
 We are fooled by this artful young person, 
 
 And he sent for that Heathen Passee. 
 
 "The scene that ensued 
 
 Was disgraceful to view, 
 For the floor it was strewed 
 
 With a tolerable few 
 Of the ' cribs' that Tom had been hiding 
 
 For the subject he partially knew. 
 
 " On the cuff of his shirt 
 
 He had managed to get 
 What we hoped had been dirt, 
 
 But which proved, I regret. 
 To be notes on the Thespian Dramas — 
 
 A question invariably set. 
 
 " In his various coats 
 
 We proceeded to seek. 
 Where we found sundry notes. 
 
222 
 
 And, with sorrow I speak, 
 One of Bohn's publications, so useful 
 To the student of Latin or Greek. 
 
 " In the crown of his cap 
 
 Were the Furies and Fates, 
 And a delicate map 
 
 Of the middle Greek States, 
 And we found in his palms which were hollow, 
 
 What are frequent in palms — that is, dates." 
 
223 
 
 SATIRE OF JUVENILE. 
 
 BY W. H. BISHOP, '67. 
 
 His Staff was in his hand, upon his back 
 
 His latest tunic; shone his sandals black 
 
 As polished ebon; from his shoulder swung 
 
 His frugal scrip; his eyes fierce glances flung 
 
 Before, behind ; and raged his muttering tongue. 
 
 He stood. There where tall elms o'erarch the street, 
 
 There at the civic temple's pillared feet, 
 
 There where alternate years law-givers meet, 
 
 He stood and thus 'gan speak — " Since reign 
 
 All kind of force, and fraud, and cheat, and bane, 
 
 Within yon learned shades, no longer there 
 
 I'll stay, nor linger longer forth to fare. 
 
 To delve in sooty mines, to roam the sea 
 
 Though cold it were, and rough as rough can be, 
 
 To hoe, to spin, to sweep, to haul, to pull, 
 
 To deal in pots and kettles, rags or wool, 
 
 Ere to you, fickle, false, and foolish school, 
 
 I will return, is my resolve and rule. 
 
 My soul craves ease, still lakes beneath the moon. 
 
 And solemn woods where leaves fall one by one, 
 
 All still. — " Not going to leave us ? " quoth a friend, 
 
 "Thou art not going Pylades, Heaven send!" 
 
 Yes ! but I am, Orestes — Noise shall rack 
 
 My brain no more, nor study bend my back ; 
 
 No more for me shall toot the midnight horn, 
 
 Nor direful discord din the early morn. 
 
 What do I in the Groves ? How noise is rife ! 
 How worse than chained convict's drags my life ! 
 
224 
 
 How thumps and bangs and roars the day affright ! 
 How howls and yells and hootings mar the night ! 
 'Tis twelve o' the clock, I burn the studious oil 
 And strive to read or write. My silent toil 
 Progresses fair ; bright thoughts across my brain 
 Course thick and fast, as meteoric rain 
 Shoots down the sky. — A hideous call of fire 
 Breaks from below and knocks my fancies higher 
 Than soaring kite. A hundred throats repeat the 
 
 strain. 
 And "fire! heads out!!" they shout with might and 
 
 main. 
 The old brick walls in terror quake again. 
 Steam engines splash and shriek till I am fain 
 To stop my ears. The cause } — why none — 
 The thing's a joke, Pylades, only fun. 
 
 What do I in the Groves ? How faith is broke, 
 How solemn oaths avail like fleeting smoke. 
 "Behold!" cries one, " I vow, I swear to thee. 
 So thou but plight thy troth to vote with me. 
 Thou shalt Class Hist'ry have. Lit., Mag. or Spoon." 
 He plights — and seeks his prize from the man i' the 
 moon. 
 
 Within the Groves thrive stratagem and ruse ; 
 
 All subterfuge and shift, all base excuse. 
 
 Orestes cutting daily exercise 
 
 Sails down the bay ; 
 
 On inland, shunning sharp detector's eyes, 
 
 Walks far away; 
 
 Next day 
 
 Frames fair excuses in the usual way. 
 
225 
 
 " I saw thee walk abroad," says archon L m, 
 
 " Why that thou didst not leave thy room 
 
 To me pretend ? 
 
 Impend 
 
 For this offence, all pains the law doth lend." 
 
 " One cannot leave a place unless he's there," 
 
 He doth reply; 
 
 " I left Euclidon's room — not mine — I swear. 
 
 His stands close by. 
 
 Descry 
 
 The nice distinction now, with half an eye!" 
 
 " But stay !" cries Plato, " wait for cooler time ! 
 
 You're angry; there's no reason in your rhyme." 
 
 But, nay! good sage, I'm cool as Norway's clime, 
 
 And I do know there's reason in my rhyme. 
 
 I know such a voice as this: 
 
 Without, how the wild blasts of Winter 
 
 Howl through the leafless boughs 
 
 And shake in their casements the windows. 
 
 Cast down, Pylades, thy book. 
 
 And shivering turn to thy klinon. 
 
 There, whilst thou lyest asleep 
 
 In the measureless spaces of dreaming, 
 
 And thy soul with uncertain aim 
 
 Grasps at thin visions and phantoms. 
 
 Low burns the fire in thy grate. 
 
 Smoulders and flickers and dies out. 
 
 Cold is thy chamber at dawn. 
 
 Ice is the water for washing. 
 
 Empty of money thy purse. 
 
 Empty thy closet of fuel. 
 
226 
 
 Why tarry in the Groves ? There are all pests 
 More than obey Beelzebub's behests. 
 A knock comes at my door; it opes — "fine day ! 
 Ole clothes to sell?" I hurl a boot straightway. 
 A knock comes at my door — " me and my friend 
 Walked yesterday from Thebes, and we do bend 
 Beneath a weight of wounds and woe and wants," — 
 "Ye thieving scamps!" I cry, "begone! avaunt !" 
 Ten thousand knocks — "I'm blind, I'm dqaf, I'm dumb, 
 I've broken every bone from toe to thumb; 
 
 I've fought on land and sea ; I've " out vile scum ! 
 
 About ye hang Plutonian fumes of rum. 
 
 What should I do i' the Groves ? What bores there 
 
 dwell ! 
 What maddening plagues, what piece-meal murderers 
 
 fell! 
 Do I to Musikalen purpose to go. 
 Or to behold the gladiatorial show, 
 " Ha !" cries the bore, " ha ! yes, I'm going too. 
 About the seventh hour I'll stop tor you." 
 Do I desire to stroll at leisure times. 
 He preys on me, as on fresh verdure Hyems; 
 "Stay but a moment till I bring my stick," 
 He asks, and cools my walking ardor quick. 
 Do I sit me down in my easy chair. 
 Secure in my lofty four-flight stair, 
 And grasp my book, to sling things. 
 He enters then 
 To borrow a pen, 
 
 He'd raise the ire of the mildest of men. 
 He sits and clacks like a China hen, 
 
227 
 
 From quarter after the chime of ten 
 
 Till five minutes before the bell rings. 
 
 I vainly fume and rage, rip tear and swear ; 
 
 Oh! why, Politeness, must men such ills bear? 
 
 Again, with studious mind, I read at night, 
 
 Soft radiance throws my kerosenium light. 
 
 Pop ! splutter! pop! red glare and sudden dark. 
 
 The trait'rous lamp gives up its vital spark. 
 
 Ho ! chum, the can ! 'tis brought ; I gently pour. 
 
 With careful hand, its contents — on the floor. 
 
 Now fire the wick. All's well. Not so, vain man — 
 
 Smash goes the chimney, clatter goes the can, 
 
 Crash goes the table down ; thick streams of oil 
 
 My parchment soak and my best tunic soil. 
 
 The bare remembrance makes my blood to boil. 
 
 Naught, naught of good is found where'er one roves. 
 How glibly Glycon doth his task repeat. 
 With open book behind the friendly seat. 
 How bold Orontes marks the chalky board. 
 Who 'neath his coat hath ready parchment stored. 
 Oh ! I could rage for hours — but see the car 
 Roll rumbling on, that comes to bear me far, 
 Th' impatient driver becks — Farewell ye Groves ! 
 
228 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 The moon was sailing overhead, 
 The clock was striking three, 
 
 And I was sailing up the Green, 
 As gay as I could be. 
 
 The stairs came tumbling up my feet, 
 
 And, quite to my surprise, 
 My room came tumbling down the stairs. 
 
 Right in my face and eyes. 
 
 I broke my knee across a chair. 
 
 My head against the wall ; 
 A brighter light shone round about 
 
 Than e'er saluted Paul. 
 
 My boots, I could not leave my boots 
 
 On such a dirty floor, 
 I tucked them in between the sheets, 
 
 And soon my cares were o'er. 
 
 I slept. A thousand Bengal lights 
 Danced round my red hot table, 
 
 On which ten thousand little imps 
 Were raising perfect Babel. 
 
 And soon they spied my beaver hat, 
 
 I gave it up for lost ; 
 At every kick it withered like 
 
 A squash-vine after frost. 
 
229 
 
 I halloed for the Riot Act, 
 
 Whereat a giant sprite 
 Came burning through the wall and dragged 
 
 Me out into the night. 
 
 Away now on plumbago wings, 
 
 With platinum for hinges, 
 The Goblin quietly remarked, 
 
 " Cast-iron always singes." 
 
 Two million leagues from Mercury, 
 
 We met, and passed as soon, 
 A car load of philosophers, 
 
 With tickets for the moon. 
 
 A billion kilometres on, 
 
 I'll stake my word upon it, 
 A crowd of little Mercurites 
 
 Were kicking round a comet. 
 
 Now just before us glared the Sun, 
 
 Its mountains smoking hot, 
 With herds of roasted cattle 
 
 In every steaming lot. 
 
 The Goblin took one eyeball out, 
 
 With fire-clay filled the socket. 
 And twitching oif an arm and leg, 
 
 He stuffed them in his pocket. 
 
 And then he swore a fiery oath, 
 
 It only cooled his tongue, 
 The spittle in " spheroidal state," 
 
 That round his palate swung. 
 
230 
 
 Burst in a cloud of scalding steam, 
 
 His iron form was riven, 
 Down, down through retrograding stars, 
 
 Through all the host of Heaven, 
 
 Thro' all the sea of molecules, 
 With horrid speed we dropped. 
 
 Through forty miles of atmosphere ; 
 And, as we nearly stopped, 
 
 I laughed for joy. Of course it was 
 
 An end of gravitation. 
 And straightway in centrifugal. 
 
 Centripetal saltation. 
 
 We whirled about the globe, until 
 
 The fragments of his bones 
 Were scattered in Kentucky, 
 
 In a shower of iron stones. 
 
 And when I took another turn 
 
 Around this earthly ball, 
 I fell with a tremendous thwack 
 
 Against the college wall. 
 
 I rubbed my eyes, and shouted out, 
 "Chum, didn't something fall?" 
 
 He just looked over from the bed, 
 And grinned — and that was all. 
 
231 
 
 THE SWEEP'S DEFENSE. 
 
 I find a deep and widely-spread opinion 
 
 Which puts our guild beneath the public ban, 
 A college- sweep is nothing but a minion, 
 A small-type man. 
 
 What madness strange those editors has hit. 
 
 That they all flap their wings and chirp and twitter ? 
 Their business is to manage the Yale Lit., 
 Mine the Yale litter. 
 
 My honest heart could never have mistrusted 
 
 That folks would be so insolently free. 
 That when they found their sofas were not dusted. 
 They'd sit on me. 
 
 Young gentlemen, when you complain the sweep 
 
 Takes absolutely no dirt from your room. 
 One sad and mournful fact you overleap; 
 He swallows some. 
 
 Endow for us some new professorship ; 
 
 Before our eyes set some bright expectation. 
 For always better far than spur or whip 
 Is emulation. 
 
 If they could make a Doctor Musicus, 
 
 To keep his talents great from rusting, 
 Why can't they choose a new D. D. from us. 
 Doctor of Dusting.? 
 
232 
 
 OLD ENGLISH MS. 
 
 [From an old English MS. found while digging the foundations 
 of the Peabody Museum, and supposed to have been written in 
 the days of Abraham Pierson.] 
 
 The freshe satt him glad enow in Eurick stret to 
 
 mete, 
 Tho' thritti sophees on hine kal" ant asken forte 
 
 trete ; 
 Thereto ha seth, " ichabbe noghf spondulikes forte 
 
 don it, 
 Ac, tho ichadde, ik can ne teV hou that y mote con it, 
 For resun whilk y moght shelowt," or ther mote 
 
 be the nede 
 That ichul take the doun toun' forte kreem and ois- 
 
 ters fede." 
 The sophees eghe blinketh blythe' ac til hine tho he 
 
 sede, 
 "Bot thou wilt quic to Redklife gon' ichwolla the 
 
 in bedde 
 Ful semely putte & wyt sissors' wul shriven wel 
 
 thin hedde. 
 Tho wend alonn nou straight wyt' ous ant maketh 
 
 noght delay, 
 For, an thu donne, y telle her- thult ferely rue the 
 
 day." 
 Thereto the freshye maketh word' that he wul nevere 
 
 donne. 
 Nor pledge hym, nor moght be wroghf te Reddecliffe 
 
 te gonne. 
 Thes sophes tho, right son enow, hym toke fro hys 
 ^ fettes. 
 
233 
 
 And fro his legges puUand beth' his breetsches, to 
 
 the stretes ' 
 Cumanden ha shul gon er lang' or elles straitway 
 
 gett up 
 & down to Reddeclife's hym laddc an to kreem and 
 
 oisters sett up. 
 That freshye thereon chaunged his wyt," he cud non 
 
 elles don, 
 Ant iad thos sophyes wid him nou" to Reddeclifife's 
 
 to gon. 
 So freshees dere, the moreail' Ichwolle tellen yo, 
 Whan thritti sophies segh, " sett up," hit bettre beth 
 
 to go. 
 
 i6 
 
234 
 
 SYMPTOMS. 
 
 I have a friend who is ailing, 
 
 And what can the matter be ? 
 His appetite fast is failing, 
 
 And he dines upon toast and tea; 
 His cheeks are thinning and paling 
 
 To the hue of a pod of a pea. 
 
 He mopes through the recitation, 
 
 Till he's called upon to speak. 
 When he muddles his mensuration. 
 
 And murders his Latin and Greek. 
 
 The tutor looks up from his pages 
 To see what the man can mean, 
 
 For when asked what the Golden Age is. 
 He stammers, "She's just eighteen." 
 
 He takes no thought for his linen. 
 
 He towzles his flowing hair, 
 And I really think he's beginning 
 
 To be careless, with wonderful care. 
 
 He takes no pains with his necktie, 
 
 And must be demented, alas ! 
 For only to-day I suspect I 
 
 Caught him before the glass. 
 
 And why should he stand there and simper, 
 
 Since he comes away again 
 Looking neglected and limper 
 
 Than a rooster in the rain ? 
 
235 
 
 He has bought "Aids to Composition," 
 
 For the synonymes he said, 
 But the edge has a dark partition, 
 
 Which shows 'tis the rhymes that are read. 
 
 While poring away like a Hindoo 
 On his book, he will make a break 
 
 Over table and chairs for the window, 
 At the risk of his precious neck. 
 
 I look in vain for the reason, 
 
 No hand-organ draweth nigh. 
 Not a circus has passed this season 
 
 Where that maiden is tripping by. 
 
 He slouches his hat like a bandit. 
 
 Deep scowls his forehead mar ; 
 He takes long walks in the moonlight. 
 
 And lessons upon the guitar. 
 
 He never attempts to be funny, 
 
 As he used to do of yore ; 
 He doesn't borrow your money. 
 
 And yet he's a terrible bore; 
 
 For he comes to your room of an evening 
 And reads you about the "glades," 
 
 And all his " dove"-ing and " love"-ing. 
 Till you curse the " Parker's Aids." 
 
 He has taken to reading Byron, 
 
 And hating his fellow-man, 
 (Tho' I doubt if his fellow-women 
 
236 
 
 Would all come under the ban,) 
 And he marks the lines to a Siren, 
 And places in Don Juan. 
 
 One day I ventured to ask him. 
 When he seemed to be in pain. 
 
 If he didn't think 't was his stomach. — 
 I don't think I'll ask again. 
 
 His cheeks will never be fatter, 
 Nor turn from their pea-pod hue, 
 
 Nor the scowls from his forehead scatter 
 Till we can discover the clue 
 
 To what in the world is the matter, — 
 I can't imagine, can you ? 
 
237 
 
 APPRAISALS. 
 
 My bills are out, like canker worms 
 
 They swarm on every tree, 
 Issued regardless of expense. 
 
 Their imprint C. C. C. 
 Keeping my room from morn till eve 
 
 I find a fearful bore ; 
 It's strange that there has been no rush 
 
 To buy at 64. 
 
 My carpet's faded, and perhaps 
 
 Some holes you might espy. 
 To count the stains and spots of ink 
 
 I any one defy ; 
 But age enhances price sometimes, 
 
 No carpet ever wore 
 Like this, — it goes for twenty-five — 
 
 'Twas new in '64. 
 
 My bed's superb, it has a way, 
 
 Well, every week or so,- 
 Of breaking down, a pleasant fact 
 
 I'm not supposed to know; 
 Elysian dreams it will afford ; 
 
 Go search the college o'er. 
 Twelve dollars will not buy a bed 
 
 Like this in 64. 
 
 I'll take six dollars for my lamp. 
 That's low enough I guess. 
 
 It sometimes shows suspicious signs 
 Of bursting I confess. 
 
238 
 
 I shouldn't wonder if the man 
 Who bought it wildly swore, 
 
 And used harsh language of the chap 
 Who lived in 64. 
 
 And that cigar-stand, seems to me. 
 
 At five is not too dear, 
 I took it from a man we hazed 
 
 First term of Sophomore year. 
 If he should come to buy it back, 
 
 By George ! how I should roar ! 
 Perhaps he'll find some other things 
 
 Of his in 64. 
 
 My book-case I'm afraid is not 
 
 Black walnut through and through ; 
 But as an escritoir 't will pass, 
 
 These English words won't do. 
 It cost me fifty, but I think 
 
 It ought to bring me more, 
 I'm so attached to it you know ! 
 
 We'll call it 64. 
 
 The bottom of that rocking-chair 
 
 Will last a month, we'll say ; 
 I hope the fellow won't grow fat 
 
 Who carries it away. 
 This scuttle, I believe, is owned 
 
 By some one on this floor; 
 No one has claimed it, so 'twill have 
 
 To sell from 64. 
 
239 
 
 This bracket's cracked, but at the least 
 
 Five dollars ought to bring, 
 The fellow said, when it was bought, 
 
 That it was " quite the thing." 
 To throw good furniture away 
 
 In this style grieves me sore. 
 But Oh, how welcome cash would be 
 
 To us in 64 ! 
 
 Brown's sofa paid his bill at Hoad.'s, 
 
 And Black has sold his stove 
 And taken out a pretty girl 
 
 To drive to Morris Cove. 
 Freshmen, I'm getting desperate, 
 
 Wide open stands my door. 
 Come view the shocking sacrifice 
 
 Up here in 64 ! 
 
240 
 THE COLLEGE GHOST. 
 
 A LEGEND OF OLD SOUTH MIDDLE. 
 
 By the flickering light of a fluid lamp 
 A freshman sat in his room so damp, 
 
 But his lesson was a damper, 
 Studying out how the Roman Camp 
 Had been lorded over by many a scamp 
 
 Who made their enemies scamper. 
 The rain poured without while he pored within, 
 The elements made a most fearful din. 
 
 Like ten thousand gongs for dinner. 
 When he heard a step on the college walk. 
 
 Like the step of a ghostly walker, 
 And at his door he heard a knock, 
 
 Like the rap of a ghostly knocker ; 
 For the knock was hollow upon the door. 
 And hollow the step on the entry floor, 
 As if made by bones and nothing more. 
 
 " Who comes there at this time of night .'" 
 The freshman queried in pale afiright. 
 While the hair of his head stood bolt upright. 
 And he felt quite blue as he turned quite white. 
 
 No answer ; but bump 
 
 On the door came a thump. 
 As much as to say : " No lingo ! 
 
 Open your door 
 
 Without a word more, 
 Or I'll break it down, by jingo !" 
 
241 
 
 The freshman reluctantly turned the key, 
 Expecting a sophomore gang to see, 
 Who, with faces masked and bangers stout, 
 Had come resolved to smoke him out, 
 And give him a puff" he could do without. 
 So he turned the bolt with fear and gloom. 
 But sophomores bolt not into the room. 
 
 But instead, a woful vision 
 
 Smote upon his startled sight ; 
 In the darkness of the entry 
 
 Stood a shape most thin and white, 
 Showing all its ghastly grimness 
 
 On the bosom of the night : 
 Dimly through its form transparent 
 
 Shone the freshman's fluid light. 
 And the hair stood stiff and straighter 
 
 On the fear-bewildered wight. 
 " Who art thou," he faintly uttered, 
 
 " Coming in this mournful plight ?" 
 And the figure dimly muttered — 
 
 What I very soon shall write. 
 In the next verse you shall see it. 
 
 Read it slowly — read it right. 
 
 " I am not the ghost of biped. 
 Trampling over the stones. 
 As soon thou wilt discover 
 By the hide on my bones ; 
 In my extremity 
 I come to thee ; 
 At my extremity. 
 Thou wilt see 
 
242 
 
 A long and stern tail ; 
 
 Keep thy serenity, 
 Nor let thy lips turn pale. 
 
 " I am a college pony, 
 
 Coming from a junior's room ; 
 The ungrateful wretch has cast me 
 
 Forth to wander in the gloom. 
 Though I bore him safe through Horace, 
 
 Saved him from the flunkey's doom. 
 Now biennial is over, 
 He, instead of oats and clover, 
 
 Will not grant me e'en a tomb. 
 "While I wander here unburied 
 
 I am in a dreadful fix. 
 For I never can be ferried 
 
 O'er the deep and muddy Styx. 
 As I am old and spavin-Jjneed, 
 I thy help most sorely need. 
 
 Lay me low in Tutor's Lane ; 
 I will bear thee there with speed, 
 
 Caring not for wind and rain." 
 
 The freshman heard and saw his tale ; 
 He bestrode the back of the form so pale, 
 Although it was sharp, like the edge of a rail, 
 And the speed of the Pale Horse never did fail. 
 Till he reached the middle of Tutor's Lane, 
 Where the freshman dug, in the midst of the rain, 
 A grave for the Pony with might and main. 
 (There's a fine chance to pun with " rain" and 
 
 " main.") 
 He dug the grave, and he laid him low 
 
243 
 
 Where the sweet May-flowers in their beauty grow ; 
 
 And the winds of winter wildly rave, 
 
 Over the place of the Pony's grave. 
 
 He planted above him a white pine board, 
 
 And on it these words he rudely scored : 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 " This grave is unworthy to hide 
 His hide who traveled rough roads ; 
 
 He ne'er was translated, but died 
 Translating old Horace's Odes. 
 
 " Here he lies past the doctor's art, 
 Tread gently, and leave him alone ; 
 
 The remains of what may have been Smart, 
 Although it was skin and Bohn !" 
 
244 
 RECIPE FOR CHEMICAL LECTURE. 
 
 BY N. W. T. ROOT, '52. 
 
 Take about two dozen girls, 
 
 Some with smooth hair, one with curls ; 
 
 Take the senior class of college, 
 
 Some making love, some getting knowledge ; 
 
 Sixteen interesting meds., 
 
 With dirty hands and towzled heads ; 
 
 A scholar of the house ; three " labs.," 
 
 With legs and feet curled up like crabs ; 
 
 A table with a monstrous sink in it, 
 
 Bell-glasses and a lot of drink in it ; 
 
 One expert and wise Professor, 
 
 And an everlasting mess o' 
 
 Bottles, flasks, and champagne glasses ; 
 
 And Weld, the jovial Yale Agassiz; 
 
 Mix these up as I direct you. 
 
 And you will have a chemic lecture. 
 
 Bubble, bubble ! 
 Single, double ! 
 Toil and trouble ! 
 
 Tighten this ! 
 
 Slacken that ! 
 
 Whiten this! 
 
 Blacken that ! 
 
 Let this corrode ! 
 Let that explode ! 
 Mingle the single ones ! 
 
245 
 
 Trouble the double ones ! 
 "Robert! come here!" 
 "Robert! go there!" 
 
 Let this be upheld, 
 Let that be witheld, 
 "Take this, Mr. Weld!" 
 "Take that, Mr. Weld!" 
 
 Bubble! bubble! 
 
 Bubbling — bubbling— 
 
 Toil and trouble ! 
 
 Toiling — troubling. 
 
 Mix like this and I expect you 
 'L get a comic chemic lecture ! 
 
246 
 
 HOW TIM CARROLL DID THE DEVIL. 
 
 BY THE SOUTH MIDDLE BARD. 
 FYTTE I. 
 
 There can't be the slightest doubt 
 
 That Ireland's a very cute nation ; 
 Although its elbows are somewhat out, 
 And though it lies a trifle without 
 
 The pale of civilization. 
 Now, in Ireland there is a certain place 
 
 Called the County of Londonderry, 
 Since Harry the Eighth's time, who, "by God's grace," 
 With his golden sceptre and brazen face, 
 Has long crossed the Stygian ferry. 
 A singular place, me judice, 
 This county is understood to be; 
 Where never a dun, 
 Or a pointless pun. 
 Or a clouded sun, 
 Or a whole pair of breeches you 're likely to see. 
 And within the said county's boundary line, 
 In the year eighteen hundred and thirty-nine, 
 A certain wight, 
 Tim Carroll hight, 
 Was absolute master, " by grace divine," 
 Of a mud-walled shebeen. 
 And a jug of poteen, 
 And a ragged caubeen. 
 And a bin full of " pratees," undoubtedly fine ; 
 Not to mention a pig, who supported himself 
 
247 
 
 By wandering in search of all edible pelf; 
 As free as his master, except when some pound 
 Enclosed him by chance in its magical round. 
 But as Tim is my hero, 't were fit I relate 
 His "circumstance" at the above-mentioned date. 
 One fine evening late, 
 Or at half past eight. 
 At a door which looked conveniently towards the 
 south, 
 
 Tim Carroll sat. 
 With his ragged hat 
 On his head, and himself rather " down in the mouth." 
 Scarce so much of a wonder 
 As mid-winter thunder, 
 (Vide Scott's Cyclopaedia, page fifty-eight,) 
 For his pig and potatoes had gone, that same day, 
 Sundry heavy arrears of old rent to pay ; 
 And not e'en a " thirteen's" enlivening weight 
 His pocket stretched — as for getting well drunk, 
 " Nothing sobers a man so completely a-sfunk." 
 What Timothy's thoughts were, I really can't say. 
 Though perhaps some ubiquitous reader may. 
 But I humbly opine, 
 ^ They were scarce as divine 
 
 As my friend Mr. King has portrayed Anastatius'; 
 But bordering, rather. 
 On what Doctor Mather, 
 In his villainous French, would have termed a la 
 
 dessus. 
 He gazed on the rush-dip's flickering light 
 With a sorrowful groan. 
 And murmured "Och hone! 
 
248 
 
 / could sell my soul to the Divil this night!" 
 
 Lo ! ere the last word 
 
 Was well uttered, he heard 
 An approaching sound of footsteps nigh ; 
 
 And, before his sight, 
 
 As he gazed in affright, ' 
 
 Stood a queer looking chap with a twinkliug black 
 eye! 
 
 With a gaping stare 
 
 At the stranger there, 
 Tim fain would speak, the moment he sees it, 
 But he struggles in vain, vox in faucibus hcesit. 
 
 The stranger first 
 
 The silence burst : 
 " Well, here is ' the Divil,' my good friend Tim, 
 Very much at your service, how like you him ?" 
 
 In a shocking scare. 
 
 With uplifted hair,' 
 
 Tim Carroll uttered. 
 
 Or rather, stuttered. 
 What he doubtless meant to pass for a prayer : 
 
 " Sathan, — sanctissime, 
 
 Credo — -purissime, ' ' 
 But, alas ! was obliged to finish there. 
 From beneath his coat, old Harry drew 
 A long-necked bottle of transparent hue ; 
 And after a good deal of tugging un'neath. 
 He managed to draw out the cork with his teeth ; 
 Then said, with his sly and peculiar wink, 
 " There 's as nate stuff, Tim Carroll, as iver you '11 
 drink." 
 
 Tim would have refused. 
 
 But the odor diffused 
 
249 
 
 So seducingly under his nose, that the draught, 
 Aut vDlens, aiit nolens, was eagerly quaffed. 
 Such heavenly liquor Tim never had drank ! 
 Again was it set to his lips, and fast sank. 
 
 With expression queer. 
 
 Betwixt a leer 
 
 And sarcastic sneer. 
 The Devil spoke : " Is it real poteen .?" 
 " Och," responded Tim, " sure the like was ne'er 
 
 seen." 
 " Then perhaps you'd be pleased, if a cask of the same 
 Every month in the year to your cabin came." 
 
 " I 'd be a baste, 
 
 Or a fool at laste, 
 To refuse such a present," retorted Tim. 
 "Then listen, my boy, I've a trifling whim, 
 The which, if you've no great objection to please, 
 For ten years henceforward you'll live at your ease ; 
 Provided you'll sign an agreement in full. 
 When the term has expired, to yield me your soul. 
 My dear Mr. Carroll, I beg you wont storm, 
 I assure you, 'tis only a matter of form ; 
 
 For if I shouldn't take you, 
 
 As post obit, pelf, 
 
 You 're morally certain 
 
 To come of yourself. 
 Altogether, it's absurd to cut any capers. 
 Pass the bottle, your health. And now sign the 
 
 papers." 
 Tim Carroll looked black and Tim Carroll looked 
 
 blue, 
 Like a Port Royal lobster his face changed its hue, 
 17 
 
250 
 
 And, as he reflected, uneasier grew ; 
 
 His position was ticklish he very well knew. 
 
 He looked at Old Nick, 
 
 And he looked at his stick — 
 'Twas vulgo, "a stick" — Hibernice, "shillala." 
 
 But he felt a strange dread 
 
 Of cracking that head. 
 Though feats of that nature accustomed to daily. 
 The bargain seemed tempting, why shouldn't he 
 
 strike it ? 
 But the Devil smiled strangely, Tim didn't quite 
 
 like it ; 
 He gave his os frontis a dubious poke, 
 And in great botheration thus outspoke : 
 " What you say, Mr. Lucifer, sounds very well. 
 But I don't so much fancy a roasting in h — 1. 
 Though your honor may think my unwillingness 
 
 shammed, 
 I feel no remarkable wish to be d — d. 
 To be plain with your highness, the lease must be 
 
 longer. 
 Though I don't greatly care that the liquor be 
 stronger." 
 
 The Devil looked grim 
 
 As he listened to Tim : 
 
 " You spalpeen," quoth he, 
 
 " This language to me, 
 Than whom you ne'er had a more trustworthy friend ! 
 
 Whatever in reason 
 
 You'd have, ask in season, 
 I can't remain long, for my time 's near an end. 
 I must shortly be off to a nice little supper, 
 
251 
 
 Graced by the presence of most of the upper 
 Ten thousand of Hades — a pie of baked Jews, 
 And a delicate steak from our Irish Lord H. 
 Belphegor and Mammon will quarrel, no doubt, 
 For precedence, if I should much longer be out ; 
 Then that old witch, Astarte, 
 For a row is quite hearty. 
 At the end of your term you may search as you 
 
 please, 
 And if you can find any flaw in the lease, 
 I'll solemnly swear to resign every claim 
 That I hold on your soul." "And the whisky the 
 
 same ?" 
 " Of course." " Done, old gentleman, there is my 
 
 name.'' 
 
 Old Nick upreared. 
 And, at the last chime of the midnight bell, 
 'Mid a flash and a smoke, and a shocking bad smell, 
 
 Through the floor disappeared ! 
 For ten years thenceforward, 'twas sworn to by all 
 That Tim Carroll had met with some lucky windfall. 
 Not a spade would he touch, not an axe in his fist 
 Was e'er seen, or a yard of " best superfine twist ;" 
 But was there a wedding, a dance, or a fair, 
 Tim Carroll was morally sure to be there. 
 With the men he would drink, with the girls he 
 
 would toy. 
 And by all was acknowledged "the broth of a boy." 
 Still himself he enjoyed on the fat of the land : 
 Had always a " thrench-fuU" of " murphies" on hand, 
 And a jug of the clearest and strongest poteen, 
 The envy of every surrounding shebeen. 
 
252 
 
 If questions were asked, he'd reply with a wink, 
 " Sorra one o' me cares. But, come boys and let 's 
 drink." 
 
 This was strange, no doubt, 
 
 None could make it out. 
 Though canvassed repeatedly under the rose 
 
 The result was the same 
 
 To which every one came — 
 That our worthy friend Tim "was confoundedly 
 close." 
 
 FYTTK II. 
 
 Now in due course of time. 
 
 And, egualiter, rhyme. 
 As my readers will graciously please to observe, 
 
 Ten years have passed 
 
 Like all things, at last, 
 And Tim grows remarkably full of nerve. 
 
 His brains he racked. 
 
 His invention cracked. 
 And his brow wore various sombre shades. 
 
 As he thought of a berth 
 
 Below the earth. 
 In that place which Lempriere denominates " Hades." 
 But at last the dreaded hour came. 
 And at eleven, one night, you might see by the flame. 
 As Tim sat by his fire, that the very same 
 Rum looking old chap, with the very same wink. 
 Was leering on Tim, whose complexion, once pink. 
 Or carbuncular rather, had now grown as pale 
 As ever a rowdyish son of old Yale 
 On the morn after tippling three gallons of ale. 
 
253 
 
 The clock struck Twelve ! and tearfully broke 
 The sound on Tim's ear, as old Nicholas spoke. 
 
 " Now, my boy, you 're mine. 
 
 Nor think I'll resign 
 My claim, for aught earthly or heavenly power; 
 
 Come along, you thief, 
 
 And none of your grief, 
 I'm d — d if I give you another hour. 
 Do you see that candle" — his finger came 
 Towards a little rush-dip, whose wavering flame 
 Was scarcely an inch from the socket spout : 
 " r II give you the time till that candle 's burnt out." 
 Tim sprang to his feet, as a glorious thought 
 
 On his senses flashed, 
 
 At the candle dashed, 
 And with one hand held, while the other caught 
 At the family Bible under the eaves. 
 Hid the bit of old candle between the leaves. 
 
 And sat down on the book 
 
 With exulting look. 
 " Now, you spalpeen, break your own word if you 
 
 You must keep without [dare ! 
 
 Till the candle 's burnt out, 
 And sorra a light shall ever come there.'' 
 
 'Twere vain to relate 
 
 How the Devil swore ; 
 'Twas worth an exchange with the " Second Eight" 
 
 To have heard the uproar ; 
 
 With fury undamped 
 
 He raved and stamped; 
 
 Around he dashed, 
 
 And his flanks he lashed 
 
254 
 
 With his tail — he was " neither to haud nor to hold, 
 
 As he thought how his victim 
 
 In esse, had nicked him ; 
 And, despite of his cunning, felt neatly " sold." 
 
 A flash and a smoke 
 
 From nose and mouth broke. 
 
 With a />ar derriire poke 
 
 Very far from a joke 
 
 But mal. pre., per Lord Coke. 
 Yet a denser cloud from his nostrils rolled. 
 
 And through the floor 
 
 With a parting roar 
 He sank as the hour of one was tolled. 
 
255 
 MATHEMATICAL LOVE SONG. 
 
 BY F. J. KINGSBURY, '46. 
 
 The cone of my affections, Love, 
 
 Hath found a base in thee ; 
 The square of joy if thou'dst complete 
 
 Add but thy smiles to me. 
 If I were skilled in figures. Love, 
 
 Or could use symbols well, 
 I'd raise a Pyramid of praise, 
 
 Where all thy charms should dwell. 
 The total sum of happiness 
 
 Is equal, dear, to thee ; 
 But if I'm minus thy sweet smiles, 
 
 The world is nought to me. 
 Let not the line of all my life 
 
 'Run parallel to thine; 
 But in that blissful angle meet. 
 
 Where Hymen is the sine. 
 Let endless circles represent 
 
 My constancy to you. 
 And series infinite of years 
 
 ShaAl pro7'e my love is true. 
 The cube of happiness, whose root 
 
 I see in t/iee alone. 
 Equals the highest power of Love 
 
 Divided among one. 
 Oh, I am that divisor, Love, 
 
 The quotient is for thee ; 
 And we'll, together multiplied. 
 
 Love to infinity. 
 
2S6 
 
 Would ! would that I of boundless love 
 
 The Logarithm knew ! 
 For natural numbers can't express 
 
 The half I feel for you. 
 If thou'lt approximate to me, 
 
 I'll leap not to despair, 
 Describing ^parabola 
 
 Through boundless fields of air. 
 But troubles shall in tangents fly 
 
 Beyond the farthest /i?/^ y 
 Oh thou perimeter of hope. 
 
 And segment of my soul ! 
 
 N. B. Shouldst thou my proposition scorn. 
 With hempen line I'll dangle ; 
 And howling winds shall waft the sighs 
 Of thine own 
 
 George Triangle — Q. E. D.