FROM THE LIBRARY OF REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON. D. D, BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO THE LIBRARY OF PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY iX A i> SONGS OF MANY S 1862-1874. BY /. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. BOSTON: JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 1875. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, BY JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO., in the OflBce of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. University Press: Welch, Bigelow, & Co., Cambridge. OPENma THE WINDOW. Thus I lift the sash, so long Shut against the flight of song ; All too late for vain excuse, — Lo, my captive rhymes are loose ! Ehymes that, flitting through my brain, Beat against my window-pane, Some with gayly colored wings. Some, alas ! with venomed stings. Shall they bask in sunny rays 1 Shall they feed on sugared praise 1 Shall they stick with tangled feet On the critic's poisoned sheet ] iv PROGRAMME. Are the outside winds too rough 1 Is the world not wide enough ? Go, my winged verse, and try, — Go, like Uncle Toby's fly ! PROGRAMME. Reader — gentle — if so be Such still live, and live for me, Will it please you to be told What my ten-score pages hold? Here are verses that in spite Of myself I needs must write, Like the wine that oozes first When the unsqueezed grapes have burst. Here are angry lines, " too hard " ! Says the soldier, battle-scarred. Could I smile his scars away I would blot the bitter lay, PROGRAMME. Written •with a knitted brow, Read with placid wonder now. Throbbed such passion in my heart 1 — Did his wounds once really smart 1 Here are varied strains that sing All the changes life can bring, Songs when joyous friends have met, Songs the mourner's tears have wet. See the banquet's dead bouquet, Fair and fragrant in its day ; Do they read the self-same lines, — He that fasts and he that dines 1 Year by year, like milestones placed, Mark the record Friendship traced. Prisoned in the walls of time Life has notched itself in rhyme : As its seasons slid along, Every year a notch of song, From the June of long ago, When the rose was full in blow. PROGRAMME. Till the scarlet sage has come And the cold chrysanthemum. Read, but not to praise or blame ; Are not all our hearts the same 1 For the rest, they take their chance, - Some may pay a passing glance ; Others, — well, they served a turn, — Wherefore written, would you learn 1 Not for glory, not for pelf, Not, be sure, to please myself. Not for any meaner ends, — Always " by request of friends." Here 's the cousin of a king, — Would I do the civil thing ] Here 's the first-bom of a queen ; Here 's a slant-eyed Mandarin. Would I polish off Japan 1 Would I greet this famous man, Prince or Prelate, Sheik or Shah 1 — — Figaro 9i and Figaro la ! PROGRAMME. Vli Would I just this once comply ? — So they teased and teased till I (Be the truth at once confessed) Wavered — yielded — did my best. Turn my pages, — never mind If you like not all you find ; Think not all the grains are gold Sacramento's sand-banks hold. Every kernel has its shell, Every chime its harshest bell, Every face its weariest look, Every shelf its emptiest book. Every field its leanest sheaf, Every book its dullest leaf. Every leaf its weakest line, — Shall it not be so with mine ? Best for worst shall make amends, Find us, keep us, leave us friends Till, perchance, we meet again. Benedicite. — Amen ! October 7, 1874. CONTENTS IN THE QUIET DAYS.. Paox An Old-Year Song ► . I Bill and Joe 4 Dorothy Q 7" The Organ-Blower . 11 Homesick in Heaven 15, Fantasia 20- Aunt Tabitha . .' 22: At the Pantomime . 24 After the Fire 28- A Ballad of the Boston Tea-Party ... 31 Epilogue to the Breakfast-Table Series-. . . 36 Bearing the Snow-Line 40- IN WAK time: To Canaan 41 "Thus saith the Lord, I offer thee Three Things" 44 "Choose you this Day whom ye will serve" . 46 Never or Now ! 49 X CONTENTS. The Last ChapwGE 51 One Country 53 Sherman 's in Savannah ! ..... 55 God save the Flag ! 57 Hymn after the Emancipation Proclamation . 59 Hymn for the Fair at Chicago 61 SONGS OF WELCOME AND FAREWELL. America to Eussia 63 Welcome to the Grand Duke Alexis . . .66 At the Banquet to the Grand Duke AlexIs . 68 At the Banquet to the Chinese Embassy . . 71 At the Banquet to the Japanese Embassy . . 74 Bryant's Seventieth Birthday 78 At a Dinner to General Grant .... 83 At a Dinner to Admiral Farragut . . . .87 A Toast to Wilkie Collins 90 To H. W. Longfellow 92 To Christian Gottfried Ehrenberg ... 95 MEMORIAL VERSES. For the Services in Memory of Abraham Lin- coln 98 For the Commemoration Services at Cambridge 100 Edward Everett 105 Shakespeare 109 In Memory of John and Robert Ware . . .113 Humboldt's Birthday 116 CONTENTS. XI Poem at the Dedication of the Halleck ]\Ioxf- MENT 120 Hymn for the Laying of the Corner-Stone of Har- vard Memorial Hall, Cambridge . . .123 Hymn for the Dedication of Memorial Hall at Cambridge 125 Hymn at the Funeral of Charles Sumner. . 127 EHYMES OF AN HOUE. Address for the Opening of the Fifth Avenue Theatre, New York 129 Rip Yan Winkle, M. D 137 Chanson without Music 151 For the Centennial Dinner of the Proprietors of Boston Pier 154 A Poem served to Order 158 The Fountain of Youth 162 A Hymn of Peace 165 FOR MEETINGS OF THE CLASS OF 1829. Our Classmate, F. W. C. 1864 .... 167 Our Oldest Friend. 1865 171 My Annual. 1866 174 All Here. 1867 178 Once More. 1868 182 The Old Cruiser. 1869 187 Hymn for the Class-Meeting. 1869 . . . 192 Even-Song. 1870 194 ±U CONTENTS. The smiling Listener. 1871 200 Our Sweet Singer. 1872 205 H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W. 1873 .... 208 "What I have come for. 1873 211 Our Banker. 1874 213 IN THE QUIET DAYS. Ali OLD-YEAE SONG. As through the forest, disarrayed By chill Xoveraber, late I strayed,, A lonely minstrel of the wood Was singing to the solitude : I loved thy music, thus I said, When o'er thy perch the leaves were spread ;; Sweet was thy song, but sweeter now Thy carol on the leafless bough. Sing, little bird ! thy note shall cheer The sadness of the dying year. When violets pranked the turf with blue' And morning filled their cups with dew,. Thy slender voice with rippling trill The budding April bowers would fill, 1 A AN OLD-YEAR SONG. Nor passed its joyous tones away When April rounded into May : Thy life shall hail no second dawn, — Sing, little bird ! the spring is gone. And I remember — well-a-day ! — Thy full-blown summer roundelay, As when behind a broidered screen Some holy maiden sings unseen : With answering notes the woodland rung, And every tree-top found a tongue. How deep the shade ! the groves how fair ! Sing, little bird ! the woods are bare. The summer's throbbing chant is done And mute the choral antiphon ; The birds have left the shivering pines To flit among the trellised vines, Or fan the air with scented plumes Amid the love-sick orange-blooms, And thou art here alone, — alone, — Sing, little bird ! the rest have flown. The snow has capped yon distant hill, At morn the running brook was still, AN OLD-YEAR SONG. iP'rom driven herds the clouds that rise Are hke the smoke of sacrifice ; Erelong the frozen sod shall mock The ploughshare, changed to stubborn rock, The brawling streams shall soon be dumb, — Sing, little bird ! the frosts have come. Fast, fast the lengthening shadows creep, The songless fowls are half asleep, The air gTOws chill, the setting sun May leave thee ere thy song is done, The pulse that warms thy breast grow cold, Thy secret die with thee, untold : The lingering sunset still is bright,- — Sing, little bird ! 't will soon be night. 1874. BILL AND JOE. Come, dear old comrade, you and I Will steal an hour from days gone by, — The shining days when life was new, And all was bright with morning dew, — The lusty days of long ago, When you were Bill and I was Joe. Your name may flaunt a titled trail Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail. And mine as brief appendix wear As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare ; To-day, old friend, remember still That I am Joe and you are Bill. You 've won the great world's envied prize, And grand you look in people's eyes. With HON. and L L. D. In big brave letters, fair to see, — BILL AND JOE. Your fist, old fellow ! off they go ! — How are you, Bill 1 How are you, Joe ] You 've worn the judge's ermined robe ; You 've taught your name to half the globe ; You 've sung mankmd a deathless strain ; You 've made the dead past live again : The world may call you what it will. But you and I are Joe and Bill. The chaffing young folks stare and say " See those old buffers, bent and gi'ay, — They talk like fellows in their teens ! Mad, poor old boys ! That 's what it means,' And shake their heads ; they little know The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe ! — How Bill forgets his hour of pride, While Joe sits smiling at his side ; How Joe, in spite of time's disguise, Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, — Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill As Joe looks fondly up at Bill. Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame 1 A fitful tongue of leaping flame ; BILL AND JOE. A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust, That lifts a pinch of mortal dust ; A few swift years, and who can show Which dust was Bill and which was Joe ] The weary idol takes his stand. Holds out his bruised and aching hand, While gaping thousands come and go, — How vain it seems, this empty show ! Till all at once his pulses thrill ; — 'T is poor old Joe's " God bless you. Bill ! " And shall we breathe in happier spheres The names that pleased our mortal ears, In some sweet lull of harp and song For earth-born spirits none too long. Just whispering of the world below Where this was Bill, and that was Joe 1 No matter ; while our home is here No sounding name is half so dear ; When fades at length our lingering day, Who cares what pompous tombstones say 1 Read on the hearts that love us still, Hicjacet Joe. Hicjacet Bill. 1868. BOEOTHY Q. A FAillLY PORTRAIT. Grandmother's mother : her age, I guess, Thirteen summers, or something less ; Girlish bust, but womanly air. Smooth, square forehead with uprolled hair, Lips that lover has never kissed, Taper fingers and slender wrist, Hanging sleeves of stiff brocade, — So they painted the little maid. On her hand a parrot green Sits unmoving and broods serene. Hold up the canvas full in view, — Look ! there 's a rent the light shines through, Dark with a century's fringe of dust, — That was a Red-Coat's rapier-thrust ! DOROTHY Q. Such is the tale the lady old, Dorothy's daughter's daughter, told. "Who the painter was none may tell, — One whose best was not over well ; Hard and dry, it must be confessed, Flat as a rose that has long been pressed ; Yet in her cheek the hues are bright, Dainty colors of red and white, And in her slender shape are seen Hint and promise of stately mien. Look not on her with eyes of scorn, — Dorothy Q. was a lady born ! Ay ! since the galloping Normans came, England's annals have known her name ; And still to the three-hilled rebel town Dear is that ancient name's renown, For many a civic wreatli they won. The youthful sire and the gray-haired son. Damsel Dorothy ! Dorothy Q. ! Strange is the gift that I owe to you ; Such a gift as never a king Save to daughter or son might bring, -r DOROTHY Q. All my tenure of heart and hand, All my title to house and land ; Mother and sister and child and wife And joy and sorrow and death and life ! What if a hundred years ago Those close-shut lips had answered No, When forth the tremulous question came That cost the maiden her Norman name, And under the folds that look so still The bodice swelled with the bosom's thrill ? Should I be I, or would it be One tenth another, to nine tenths me % Soft is the breath of a maiden's Yes : Not the light gossamer stirs with less ; But never a cable that holds so fast Through all the battles of wave and blast, And never an echo of speech or song That lives in the babblin'er, April 1874. (Sung "by male voices to a national air of Holland.) Once more, ye sacred towers, Your solemn dirges sound ; Strew, loving hands, the April flowers, Once more to deck his mound. A nation mourns its dead. Its sorrowing voices one. As Israel's monarch bowed his head And cried, " My son ! My son ! " Why mourn for him 1 — For him The welcome angel came Ere yet his eye with age was dim Or bent his stately frame ; 128 HYMN. His weapon still was bright, His shield was lifted high To slay the wrong, to save the right, — What happier hour to die 1 Thou orderest all things well ; Thy servant's work was done ; He lived to hear Oppression's knell, The shouts for Freedom won. Hark ! from the opening skies The anthem's echoing swpll, — " mourning Land, lift up thine eyes ! God reigneth. All is well ! " EHYMES OF AN HOUR ADDRESS For the Opening of the Fieth Avenue Theatee, New York,. December 3, 1873. Hang out our banners on the stately tower !. It dawns at last — the long-expected hour ! The steep is- climbed, the star-lit summit won, The builder's task, the artist's labor done ; Before the finished work the herald stands, And asks the verdict of your lips and hands !" Shall rosy daybreak make us all forget The golden sun that yester-evening set 1 Fair was the fabric doomed to pass away Ere the last headaches born of New Year's Day. With blasting breath the fierce destroyer came And wrapped the victim in his robes of flame ; 6* I 130 ADDRESS. The pictured sky with redder morning blushed, With scorching streams the naiad's fountain gushed, With kindUng mountains glowed the funeral i^jve, Forests ablaze and rivers all on fire, — The scenes dissolved, the shrivelling curtain fell, — Art spread her wings and sighed a long farewell ! Mourn o'er the Player's melancholy plight, — FalstafF in tears, Othello deadly white, — Poor Romeo reckoning what his doublet cost. And Juliet whimpering for her dresses lost, — Their wardrobes burned, their salaries all undrawn. Their cues cut short, their occupation gone ! " Lie there in dust," the red- winged demon cried, " Wreck of the lordly city's hope and pride ! " Silont they stand, and stare with vacant gaze, While o'er the embers leaps the fitful blaze ; When, lo ! a hand, before the startled train. Writes in the ashes, " It shall rise again, — Rise and confront its elemental foes ! " — The word was spoken, and the walls arose, And ere the seasons round their brief career The new-born temple waits the unborn year. ADDRESS. 131 Ours was the toil of many a weary day Your smiles, your plaudits, ouly can repay ; We are the monarchs of the painted scenes, You, you alone the real Kings and Queens ! Lords of the little kingdom where we meet. We lay our gilded sceptres at your feet, Place in your grasp our portal's silvered keys With one brief utterance — We have tried to please. Tell us, 3'e Sovereigns of the new domain. Are you content — or have we toiled in vain 1 With no irreverent glances look around The realm you rule, for this is haunted ground ! Here stalks the Sorcerer, here the Fairy trips, Here limps the Witch with malice-working lips, The Graces here their snowy arms entwine, Here dwell the fairest sisters of the Nine, — She who, with jocund voice and twinkling eye. Laughs at the brood of follies as they fly ; She of the dagger and the deadly bowl. Whose charming horrors thrill the trembling soul ; She who, a truant from celestial spheres, In mortal semblance now and then appeai-s, Stealing the fairest earthly shape she can — Sontag or Nilsson, Lind or Malibran ; 132 ADDEESS. With these the spangled houri of the dance, — What shaft so dangerous as her melting glance, As poised in air she spurns the earth below, And points aloft her heavenly-minded toe ! What were our life, with aU its rents and seams, Stripped of its purple robes, our waking dreams ? The poet's song, the bright romancer's page, The tinselled shows that cheat us on the stage Lead all our fancies captive at their will ; Three years or threescore, we are children still. The little listener on his father's knee, With wandering Sindbad ploughs the stormy sea. With Gotham's sages hears the billows roll (Illustrious trio of the venturous bowl, Too early shipwrecked, for they died too soon To see their offspring launch the great balloon) ; Tracks the dark brigand to his mountain lair. Slays the grim giant, saves the lady fair. Fights all his country's battles o'er again From Bunker's blazing height to Lundy's lane; Floats with the mighty Captains as they sailed Before whose flag the flaming red-cross paled. And claims the oft-told story of the scars Scarce yet grown white, that saved the stripes and stars ! ADDRESS. 133 Children of later growth, we love the Play, We love its heroes, be they grave or gay. From squeaking, peppery, devil-defying Punch To roaring Richard with his camel-hunch ; Adore its heroines, those immortal dames. Time's only rivals, whom he never tames. Whose youth, unchanging, lives while thrones de- cay (Age spares the Pyramids — and Dejazet) ; The saucy-aproned, razor-tongued soubrette, The blond-haired beauty with the eyes of jet. The gorgeous Beings whom the viewless wires Lift to the skies in strontian-crimsoned fires. And all the wealth of splendor that awaits The throng that enters those Elysian gates. See where the hurrying crowd impatient pours, With noise of trampling feet and flapping doors, Streams to the numbered seat each pasteboard fits And smooths its caudal plumage as it sits ; Waits while the slow musicians saunter in. Till the bald leader taps his violin ; Till the old overture we know so well, Zampa or Magic Flute or William Tell, Has done its worst — then hark ! the tinkling bell I 134 ADDEESS. The crash is o'er — the crinkling curtain furled, And lo ! the glories of that brighter world ! Behold the offspring of the Thespian cart, This full-grown temple of the magic art, Where all the conjurors of illusion meet, And please us all the more, the more they cheat. These are the wizards and the witches too Who win their honest bread by cheating you With cheeks that drown in artificial tears And lying skull-caps white with seventy years, Sweet-tempered matrons changed to scolding Kates, Maids mild as moonbeams crazed with murderous hates, Kind, simple souls that stab and slash and slay And stick at nothing, if it 's in the play ! Would all the world told half as harmless lies ! Would all its real fools were half as wise As he who blinks through dull Dundreary's eyes ! Would all the unhanged bandits of the age Were like the peaceful rufl5ans of the stage ! Would all the cankers wasting town and state, The mob of rascals, little thieves and great. Dealers in watered milk and watered stocks, ADDRESS. • 135 Who lead us lambs to pasture on the rocks, — Shepherds — Jack Sheppards — of their city flocks — The rings of rogues that rob the luckless town, Those evil angels creeping up and down The Jacob's ladder of the treasury stairs, — Not stage, but real Turpins and Macaires, — Could doff, like us, their knavery with their clothes, And find it easy as forgetting oaths ! Welcome, thrice welcome to our virgin dome. The Muses' shrine, the Drama's new-found home ! Here shall the Statesman rest his weary brain. The worn-out Artist find his wits again ; Here Trade forget his ledger and his cares, And sweet communion mingle Bulls and Bears ; Here shall the youthful Lover, nestling near The shrinking maiden, her he holds most dear. Gaze on the mimic moonlight as it falls On painted groves, on sliding canvas walls, And sigh, " My angel ! What a lifp of bliss We two could live in such a world as this ! " Here shall the tumid pedants of the schools. The gilded boors, the labor-scorning fools. The grass-green rustic and the smoke-dried cit, Feel each in turn the stinging lash of wit, 136 ADDRESS. And as it tingles on some tender part Each find a balsam in his neighbor's smart ; So every folly prove a fresh delight As in the pictures of our play to-night. Farewell ! The Players wait the Prompter's call ; Friends, lovers, listeners ! Welcome one and all ! PJP TAX WIXKLE, M. D. AN AFTER-DIXXER PRESCRIPTION Taken by the Massachtsetts Medical Societt, at theie ^Ieet- DsG HELD Mat 25, 1870. CANTO FIRST. Old Rip Van Winkle had a grandson, Rip, Of the paternal block a genuine chip ; A lazy, sleepy, curio as kind of chap ; He, like his grandsire, took a mighty nap, TMiereof the story I propose to tell In two brief cantos, if you hsten well. The times were hard when Rip to manhood grew ; They always will be when there 's work to do ; He tried at farming — found it rather slow — And then at teaching — what he did n't know ; Then took to hanging round the tayern bars. To frequent toddies and long-nine cigars, 138 EIP VAN WINKLE, M. D. Till Dame Van AYinkle, out of patience, vexed With preaching homilies, having for their text A mop, a broomstick — aught that might avail To point a moral or adorn a tale, Exclaimed, " I have it ! Now then, Mr. Y. ! He 's good for something — make him an M. D. ! " The die was cast ; the youngster was content ; They packed his shirts and stockings, and he went. How hard he studied it were vain to tell ; He drowsed through Wistar, nodded over Bell, Slept sound with Cooper, snored aloud on Good ; Heard heaps of lectures — doubtless imderstood — A constant listener, for he did not fail To carve his name on every bench and rail. Months grew to years ; at last he counted three, And Rip Van Winkle found himself M. D. Illustrious title ! in a gilded frame He set the sheepskin with his Latin name, Ripu:i Van Winklum, quem we — scimus — know Idoneum esse — to do so and so ; He hired an office ; soon its walls displayed His new diploma and his stock in trade, RIP VAN WINKLE, M. D. 139 A mighty arsenal to subdue disease, Of various names, whereof I mention these : Lancets and bougies, great and little squirt. Rhubarb and Senna, Snakeroot, Thorough wort. Ant. Tart., Yin. Colch., Pil. Cochin, and Black Drop, Tinctures of Opium, Gentian, Henbane, Hop, Pulv. Ipecacuanhse, which for lack Of breath to utter men call Ipecac, Camphor and Kino, Turpentine, Tola, Cubebs, ''Copeevy," Vitriol — white and blue, Fennel and Flaxseed, Slippery Elm and Squill, And roots of Sassafras and " Sassaf rill," Brandy — for colics — Pinkroot, death on worms — Valerian, calmer of hysteric squirms. Musk, Assafcetida, the resinous g-um Named from its odor — well, it does smell some — Jalap, that works not wisely, but too well. Ten pounds of Bark and six of Calomel. For outward griefs he had an ample store. Some twenty jars and gallipots, or more ; Ceratum dmplex — housewives oft compile The same at home, and call it " wax and ile " ; JJnrjuentum Resinosum — change its name, The " drawing salve " of many an ancient dame ; 140 RIP VAN WINKLE, M.D. Argenti Nitras, also Spanish flies, Whose virtue makes the water-bladders rise — (Some say that spread upon a toper's skin They draw no water, only rum or gin) — Leeches, sweet vermin ! don't they charm the sick ^ And Sticking-plaster — how it hates to stick ! Emplastrum Ferri — ditto Picis, Pitch ; Washes and Powders, Brimstone for the which, Scabies or Psora, is thy chosen name Since Hahnemann's goose-quill scratched thee into fame. Proved thee the source of every nameless ill, Whose sole specific is a moonshine pill. Till saucy Science, with a quiet grin. Held up the Acarus, crawling on a pin 1 — Mountains have labored and have brought forth mice : The Dutchman's theory hatched a brood of — twice I 've wellnigh said them — words unfitting quite For these fair precincts and for ears polite. The surest foot may chance at last to slip. And so at length it proved with Doctor Rip. One full-sized bottle stood upon the shelf Which held the medicine that he took himself; BIP VAN WINKLE, M.D. 141 Whate'er the reason, it must be confessed He filled that bottle oftener than the rest ; What drug it held I don't presume to know — The gilded label said " Elixir Pro." One day the Doctor found the bottle full, And, being thirsty, took a vigorous pull. Put back the " Elixir " where 't was always found, And had old Dobbin saddled and brought round. — You know those old-time rhubarb-colored nags That carried Doctors and their saddle-bags ; Sagacious beasts ! they stopped at every place Where blinds were shut — knew every patient's case — Looked up and thought — the baby 's in a fit — That won't last long — he '11 soon be through with it ; But shook their heads before the knockered door Where some old lady told the story o'er Whose endless stream of tribulation flows For gastric griefs and peristaltic woes. What jack o' lantern led him from his way, And where it led him, it were hard to say ; Enough that wandering many a weary mile Through paths the mountain sheep trod single file, O'ercome by feelings such as patients know 142 PJP VAN WINKLE, M.D. Who dose too freely with " Elixir Pro.," He tumbl — dismounted, slightly in a heap, And lay, promiscuous, lapped in balmy sleep. Night followed night, and day succeeded day, But snoring still the slumbering Doctor lay. Poor Dobbin, starving, thought upon his stall. And straggled homeward, saddle-bags and all ; The village people hunted all around. But Rip was missing, — never could be found. *'Drownded," they guessed; — for more than half a year The pouts and eels did taste uncommon queer ; Some said of apple-brandy — other some Found a strong flavor of New England rum. — Why can't a fellow hear the fine things said About a fellow when a fellow 's dead ] The best of doctors — so the press declared — A public blessing while his life was spared, True to his country, bounteous to the poor, In all things temperate, sober, just, and pure ; The best of husbands ! echoed Mrs. Van, And set her cap to catch another man. — So ends this Canto — if it 's quantum siiff., We '11 just stop here and say we 've had enough, EIP VAN WINKLE, M.D. 143 ^And leave poor Rip to sleep for thirty years ; I grind the organ — if you lend your ears To hear my second Canto, after that We '11 send around the monkey with the hat. CANTO SECOND. So thirty years had past — but not a word In all that time of Rip was ever heard ; The world wagged on — it never does go back — The widow Van was now the widow Mac — France was an Empire — Andrew J. was dead, And Abraham L. was reigning in his stead. Fom- murderous years had passed in savage strife, Yet still the rebel held his bloody knife. — At last one morning — who forgets the day When the black cloud of war dissolved away] The joyous tidings spread o'er land and sea, Rebellion done for ! Grant has captured Lee ! Up every flag-staff sprang the Stars and Stripes — Out rushed the Extras wild with mammoth types — Down went the laborer's hod, the school-boy's book — " Hooraw ! " he cried, — " the rebel army 's took ! " Ah ! what a time ! the folks all mad with joy : Each fond, pale mother thinking of her boy ; 144 EIP VAN WINKLE, M.D. Old gray-haired fathers meeting — Have — you — heard'? And then a choke — and not another word ; Sisters all smiling — maidens, not less dear, In trembling poise between a smile and tear ; Poor Bridget thinking how she '11 stuff the plums In that big cake for Johnny when he comes j Cripples afoot ; rheumatics on the jump, Old girls so loving they could hug the pump ; Guns going bang ! from every fort and ship ; They banged so loud at last they wakened Rip. I spare the picture, how a man appears Who 's been asleep a score or two of years ; You all have seen it to perfection done By Joe Van Wink — I mean Rip Jefferson. Well, so it was ; old Rip at last came back, Claimed his old wife — the present widow Mac — Had his old sign regilded, and began To practise physic on the same old plan. Some weeks went by — it was not long to wait — And " please to call " grew frequent on the slate. He had, in fact, an ancient, mildewed air, A long gray beard, a plenteous lack of hair — EIP VAN WINKLE, M. D. 145 The musty look that always recommends Your good old Doctor to his ailing friends. — Talk of your science ! after all is said There 's nothing like a bare and shiny head.; Age lends the graces that are sure to please ; Folks want their Doctors mouldy, like their cheese. So Rip began to look at people's tongues And thump their briskets (called it "sound their lungs "), Brushed up his knowledge smartly as he could, Read in old Cullen and in Doctor Good, The town was healthy ; for a month or two He gave the sexton little work to do- About the time when dog-day heats begin, The summer's usual maladies set in ; With autumn evenings dysentery came. And dusky typhoid lit his smouldering flame ; The blacksmith ailed — the carpenter was down. And half the children sickened in the town. The sexton's face grew shorter than before — The sexton's wife a brand-new bonnet wore — Things looked quite serious — Death had got a grip On old and young, in spite of Doctor Rip. 7 J 146 EIP VAN WINKLE, M. D. And now the Squire was taken with a chill — Wife gave " hot-drops " — at night an Indian pill • Next morning, feverish — bedtime, getting worse, Out of his head — began to rave and curse ; The Doctor sent for — double quick he came : Ant. Tart. gran, duo, and repeat the same If no et cetera. Third day — nothing new ; Percussed his thorax till 't was black and blue — Lung-fever threatening — something of the sort — Out with the lancet — let him blood — a quart — Ten leeches next — then blisters to his side ; Ten grains of calomel ; just then he died. The Deacon next required the Doctor's care — Took cold by sitting in a draught of air — Pains in the back, but what the matter is Not quite so clear — wife calls it "rheumatiz." Ptubs back with flannel — gives him something hot — " Ah ! " says the Deacon, " that goes nigh the spot." Next d;iy a rif/o)" — " Run, my little man, And say the Deacon sends for Doctor Van." The Doctor came — percussion as before, Thumphig and banging till his ribs were sore — *' Right side the flattest" — then more vigorous raps- " Fever — that 's certain — pleurisy, perhaps. EIP VAN WINKLE, M. D. U7 A quart of blood will ease the pain, no doubt, Ten leeches next will help to suck it out, Then clap a blister on the painful part — But first two grains of Antimonium Tart. Last, with a dose of cleansing calomel Unload the portal system — (that sounds well !) " But when the self-same remedies were tried. As all the village knew, the Squire had died ; The neighbors hinted — " this w^ill never do, He 's killed the Squire — he '11 kill the Deacon too." — Now when a doctor's patients are perplexed, A consultation comes in order next — You know what that is 1 In a certain place Meet certain doctors to discuss a case And other matters, such as weather, crops, Potatoes, pumpkins, lager-beer, and hops. For wdiat 's the use ? — there 's little to be said, Nine times in ten your man 's as good as dead ; At best a talk (the secret to disclose) Where three men guess and sometimes one man knows. The counsel summoned came without delay — Young Doctor Green and shrewd old Doctor Gray — 148 BIP VAN WINKLE, M.D. They heard the story — ''Bleed ! " says Doctor Green, *' That 's downright murder! cut his throat, you mean ! Leeches ! the reptiles ! Why, for pity's sake. Not try an adder or a rattlesnake 1 Blisters ! Why bless you, they 're against the law — It 's rank assault and battery if they draw ! Tartrate of Antimony ! shade of Luke, Stomachs turn pale at thought of such rebuke ! The portal system ! What 's the man about 1 Unload your nonsense ! Calomel 's played out ! You 've been asleep — you 'd better sleep away Till some one calls you " " Stop ! " says Doctor Gray — "The story is you slept for thirty years ; With brother Green, I own that it appears You must have slumbered most amazing sound ; But sleep once more till thirty years come round, You'll find the lancet in its honored place, Leeches and blisters rescued from disgrace. Your drugs redeemed from fashion's passing scorn, And counted safe to give to babes unborn." Poor sleepy Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D., A puzzled, serious, saddened man was he ; Home from the Deacon's house he plodded slow RIP VAN WINKLE, M.D. 149 And filled one bumper of " Elixir Pro." " Good by," he faltered, " Mrs. Van, my dear ! I 'm going to sleep, but wake me once a year ; I don't like bleaching in the frost and dew, I '11 take the barn, if all the same to you. Just once a year — remember ! no mistake ! Cry, ' Kip Van Winkle ! time for you to wake ! * Watch for the week in May when lay locks blow, For then the Doctors meet, and I must go." Just once a year the Doctor's worthy dame Goes to the barn and shouts her husband's name, " Come, Rip Van Winkle ! " (giving him a shake) '* Rip ! Rip Van Winkle ! time for you to wake ! Laylocks in blossom ! 't is the month of May — The Doctors' meeting is this blessed day, And come what will, you know I heard you swear You *d never miss it, but be always there ! " And so it is, as every year comes round Old Rip Van Winkle here is always found. You '11 quickly know him by his mildewed air, The hayseed sprinkled through his scanty hair, The lichens growing on his rusty suit — I 've seen a toadstool sprouting on his boot — 150 RIP VAN WINKLE, M.D. — Who says I lie 1 Does any man presume ] — Toadstool 1 No matter — call it a mushroom. Where is his seat 1 He moves it every year ; But look, you 11 find him ■^- he is always here — Perhaps you '11 track him by a whiff you know — A certain flavor of " Elixir Pro." Now, then, I give you — as you seem to think We can give toasts without a drop to drink — Health to the mighty sleeper — long live he ! Our brother Rip, M. M. S. S., M. D. ! CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC. By the Peofessor Emeritus of Dead and Lite Lan'guages. ($. B. K. — Ca:sibridge, 1S67.) You bid me sing, — can I forget The classic ode of days gone by, — How belle Fifine and jeune Lisette Exclaimed, " Anacreon, geron ei " 1 " Regardez done," those ladies said, — " You 're getting bald and wrinkled too : When summer's roses all are shed, Love 's nullum ite, voyez-YOus ! " In vain ce brave Anacreon's cry, " Of Love alone my banjo sings" (Erota mounon). " Etiam si, — Eh b'en 1 " replied the saucy things, — " Go find a maid whose hair is gray. And strike your lyre, — we sha' n't complain ; 152 CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC. But parce nobis, s'il vous plait, — Voila Adolphe ! Voila Eugene ! " Ah, jeune Lisette ! Ah, belle Fifine ! Anacreon's lesson all must learn ; '0 kairos oxtis ; Spring is green, But Acer Hyems waits his turn ! I hear you whispering from the dust, " Tiens, mon cher, c'est toujours so, — The brightest blade grows dim with rust. The fairest meadow white with snow ! " You do not mean it ! JVot encore ? Another string of pi ay day rhymes 1 You 've heard me — nonne est 1 — before, Multoties, — more than twenty times ; Non possum, — vraiment, — pas du tout, I cannot ! I am loath to shirk ; But who will listen if I do, My memory makes such shocking work 1 Ginosko. Scio. Yes, I 'm told Some ancients like my rusty lay. As Grandpa Noah loved the old Red-sandstone march of Jubal's day. CHANSON WITHOUT MUSIC. 153 I used to carol like the birds, But time my wits has quite unfixed, Et quoad verba, — for my words, — Ciel ! Eheu ! Whe-ew ! — how they 're mixed ! Mehercle ! Zeu ! Diable ! how My thoughts were dressed when I was young, But tempus fugit ! see them now Half clad in rags of every tongue ! philoi, fratres, chers amis ! I dare not court the youthful Muse, For fear her sharp response should be, " Papa Anacreon, please excuse ! " Adieu ! I 've trod my annual track How long ! — let others count the miles, — And peddled out my rhyming pack To friends who always paid in smiles. So, laissez-moi ! some youthful wit No doubt has wares he wants to show ; And I am asking, " Let me sit," Dum ille clamat, " Dos pou sto ! " FOE THE CENTENNIAL DINNEE Of the Proprietors of Boston Pier, or the Loxa Wharf, April 16, 1873. Dear friends, we are strangers ; we never before Have suspected what love to each other we bore ; But each of us all to his neighbor is dear, Whose heart has a throb for our time-honored pier. As I look on each brother proprietor's face, I could open my arms in a loving embrace j What wonder that feelings, undreamed of so long. Should burst all at once in a blossom of song ! While I turn my fond glance on the monarch of piers, Whose throne has stood firm through his eight-score of years, My thought travels backward, and reaches the day When they drove the first pile on the edge of the bay. FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER. 155 See ! The joiner, the shipwi'ight, the smith from his forge, The redcoat, who shoulders his gim for King George, The shopman, the 'prentice, the boys from the lane. The parson, the doctor with gold-headed cane. Come trooping down King Street, where now may be seen The pulleys and ropes of a mighty machine ; The weight rises slowly ; it drops with a thud j And, lo ! the great timber sinks deep in the mud ! They are gone, the stout craftsmen that hammered the piles. And the square-toed old boys in the three-cornered tiles ; The breeches, the buckles, have faded from view, And the parson's white wig and the ribbon-tied queue. The redcoats have vanished ; the last grenadier Stepped into the boat from the end of our pier ; They found that our hills were not easy to climb, And the order came, "Countermarch, double-quick time ! " 156 FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER. They are gone, friend and foe, — anchored fast at the pier, Whence no vessel brings back its pale passengers here; But our wharf, like a lily, still floats on the flood, Its breast in the sunshine, its roots in the mud. "Who — who that has loved it so long and so well — The flower of his birthright would barter or sell 1 No : pride of the bay, while its ripples shall run. You shall pass, as an heirloom, from father to son ! Let me part with the acres my grandfather bought. With the bonds that my uncle's kind legacy brought, With my bank-shares, — old " Union," whose ten per cent stock Stands stiff" through the storms as the Eddystone rock ; With my rights (or my wrongs) in the " Erie," — alas ! With my claims on the mournful and " Mutual Mass."; With my "Phil. Wil. and Bait.," with my "C. B. and Q."; But I never, no never, will sell out of you. FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER. 157 We drink to thy past and thy future to-day, Strong right arm of Boston, stretched out o'er the bay. May the winds waft the wealth of all nations to thee, And thy dividends flow like the waves of the sea ! 1873. A POEM SERVED TO ORDER. Phi Beta Kappa, June 26, 1873. The Caliph ordered up his cook, And, scowling with a fearful look That meant, — We stand no gammon, - " To-morrow, just at two," he said, " Hassan, our cook, -will lose his head, Or serve us up a salmon." " Great Sire," the trembling chef replied, " Lord of the Earth and all beside. Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on — " (Look in Eothen — there you '11 find A list of titles. Never mind, I have n't time to go on :) " Great Sire," and so forth, thus he spoke, " Your Highness must intend a joke ; A POEM SERVED TO ORDER. 159 It doesn't stand to reason For one to order salmon brought. Unless that fish is sometimes caught, And also is in season. *' Our luck of late is shocking bad, In fact, the latest catch we had (We kept the matter shady), But, hauling in our nets, — alack ! We found no salmon, but a sack That held your honored Lady ! " — " Allah is great ! " the Caliph said, *' My poor Zuleika, you are dead, I once took interest in you." — " Perhaps, my Lord, you 'd like to know We cut the lines and let her go." — " Allah be praised ! Continue." — " It is n't hard one's hook to bait, And, squatting down, to watch and wait To see the cork go under ; At last suppose you 've got jonr bite. You twitch away with all your might, — You 've hooked an eel, by thunder ! " 160 A POEM SERVED TO ORDER. The Caliph patted Hassan's head : " Slave, thou hast spoken well," he said, " And won thy master's favor. Yes ; since what happened t' other mom The salmon of the Golden Horn Might have a doubtful flavor. " That last remark about the eel Has also justice that we feel Quite to our satisfaction. To-morrow we dispense with fish, And, for the present, if you wish. You '11 keep your bulbous fraction." ^' Thanks ! thanks ! " the grateful chef replied, His nutrient feature showing wide The gleam of arches dental : " To cut my head off would n't pay, I find it useful every day. As well as ornamental." Brothers, I hope you will not fail To see the moral of my tale And kindly to receive it. A POEM SERVED TO ORDER. 161 You know your anniversary pie Must have its crust, though hard and dry, And some prefer to leave it. How oft before these youths were bom I 've fished in Fancy's Golden Horn For what the Muse might send me ! How gayly then I cast the line, When all the morning sky was mine, And Hope her flies would lend me ! And now I hear our despot's call, And come, like Hassan, to the hall, — If there 's a slave, I am one, — My bait no longer flies, but worms ! I 've caught — Lord bless me ! how he squirms ! An eel, and not a salmon 1 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. Read at the Meeting of the Harvard Alumni Association, June 25, 1873. The fount the Spaniard sought in vain Through all the land of flowers Leaps glittering from the sandy plain Our classic grove embowers ; Here youth, unchanging, blooms and smiles, Here dwells eternal spring, And warm from Hope's elysian isles The winds their perfume bring. Here every leaf is in the bud, Each singing throat in tune, And bright o'er evening's silver flood Shines the young crescent moon. What wonder Age forgets his staff And lays his glasses down, THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. 163 And gray-haired grandsires look and laugh As when their locks were brown ! With ears grown dull and eyes grown dim They greet the joyous day That calls them to the fountain's brim To wash their years away. What change has clothed the ancient sire In sudden youth 1 For, lo ! The Judge, the Doctor, and the Squire Are Jack and Bill and Joe ! And be his titles what they will, In spite of manhood's claim The graybeard is a school-boy still And loves his school-boy name ; It calms the ruler's stormy breast Whom hurrjang care pursues, And brings a sense of peace and rest, Like slippers after shoes. And what are all the prizes won To youth's enchanted view 1 And what is all the man has done To what the boy may do ? 164 THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH. blessed fount, whose waters flow Alike for sire and son, That melts our winter's frost and snow And makes all ages one ! 1 pledge the sparkling fountain's tide, That flings its golden shower With age to fill and youth to guide, Still fresh in morning flower ! Flow on with ever-widening stream, In ever-brightening morn, — Our story's pride, our future's dream, The hope of times unborn ! A HYMN OF PEACE. SUNQ AT THE " JUBILEE," JUNE 15, 1869, TO THE MUSIC OP Keller's "American Hymn." Angel of Peace, thou hast wandered too long ! Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love ! Come while our voices are blended in song, — Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove ! Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove, — Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song, Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love, — Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long ! Brothers we meet, on this altar of thine Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee. Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine, Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea, — Meadow and mountain and forest and sea ! Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, 166 A HYMN OF PEACE. Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, Brothers once more round this altar of thine ! Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain ! Hark ! a new birth-song is filling the sky ! — Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main Bid the full breath of the organ reply, — Let the loud tempest of voices reply, — Roll its long surge like the earth-shaking main ! Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky ! — Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain I POEMS FOR THE ANNUAL MEETINGS OF THE CLASS OF 1829, HAEVARD UNIVERSITY. 1864. OUK CLASSMATE, F. W. C. Fast as the rolling seasons bring The hour of fate to those we love, Each pearl that leaves the broken string Is set in Friendship's crown above. As narrower grows the earthly chain, The circle widens in the sky ; These are our treasures that remain, But those are stars that beam on high. "We miss — 0, how we miss ! — his face, — With trembling accents speak his name. Earth cannot fill his shadowed place From all her rolls of pride and fame ; 168 OUR CLASSMATE, F. W. C. Our song has lost the silvery thread That carolled through his jocund lips ; Our laugh is mute, our smile is fled, And all our sunshine in eclipse. And what and whence the wondrous charm That kept his manhood boy -like still, — That life's hard censors could disarm And lead them captive at his will 1 His heart was shaped of rosier clay, — His veins were filled with ruddier fire, — Time could not chill him, fortune sway, Nor toil with all its burdens tire. His speech burst throbbing from its fount And set our colder thoughts aglow, As the hot leaping geysers mount And falling melt the Iceland snow. Some word, perchance, we counted rash, — Some phrase our calmness might disclaim. Yet 't was the sunset lightning's flash, No angry bolt, but harmless flame. Man judges all, God knoweth each ; We read the rule, He sees the law ; OUR CLASSMATE, F. W. C. 169 How oft his laughing children teach The truths his prophets never saw ! friend, whose wisdom flowered in mirth, Our hearts are sad, our eyes are dim ; He gave thy smiles to brighten earth, — We trust thy joyous soul to Him ! Alas ! — our weakness Heaven forgive ! We murmur, even while we trust, " How long earth's breathing burdens live, Whose hearts, before they die, are dust ! " But thou ! — through griefs untimely tears We ask with half-reproachful sigh — " Couldst thou not watch a few brief years Till Friendship faltered, ' Thou mayst die 1 ' " Who loved our boyish years so well 1 Who knew so well their pleasant tales. And all those livelier freaks could tell Whose oft-told story never fails 1 In vain we turn our aching eyes, — In vain we stretch our eager hands, — Cold in his wintry shroud he lies Beneath the dreary drifting sands ! 8 170 OUR CLASSMATE, F. W. C. Ah, speak not thus ! He lies not there ! We see him, hear him as of old ! He comes ! he claims his wonted chair ; His beaming face we still behold ! His voice rings clear in all our songs, And loud his mirthful accents rise ; To us our brother's life belongs, — Dear friends, a classmate never dies ! 1865, OUE OLDEST FEIEND. I GIVE you the health of the oldest friend That, short of eternity, earth can lend, — A friend so faithful and tried and true That nothing can wean him from me and you. When first we screeched in the sudden blaze Of the daylight's blinding and blasting rays, And gulped at the gaseous, groggy air, This old, old friend stood waiting there. And when, with a kind of mortal strife, We had gasped and choked into breathing life, He watched by the cradle, day and night. And held our hands till we stood upright. 172 OUR OLDEST FRIEND. From gristle and pulp our frames have grown To stringy muscle and solid bone ; While we were changing, he altered not ; We might forget, but he never forgot. He came with us to the college class, — Little cared he for the steward's pass ! All the rest must pay their fee. But the grim old dead-head entered free. He stayed with us while we counted o'er Four times each of the seasons four ; And with every season, from year to year. The dear name Classmate he made more dear. He never leaves us, — he never wiU, Till our hands are cold and our hearts are still ; On birthdays, and Christmas, and New-Year's too, He always remembers both me and you. Every year this faithful friend His little present is sure to send ; Every year, whereso'er we be. He wants a keepsake from you and me. OUR OLDEST FRIEND. 173 How he loves us ! he pats our heads, And, lo ! they are gleaming with silver threads ; And he 's always begging one lock of hair, Till our shining crowns have nothing to wear. At length he will tell us, one by one, " My child, your labor on earth is done ; And now you must journey afar to see My elder brother, — Eternity ! " And so, when long, long years have passed, Some dear old fellow will be the last, — Never a boy alive but he Of all our goodly company ! When he lies down, but not till then. Our kind Class- Angel will drop the pen That writes in the day-book kept above Our lifelong record of faith and love. So here *s a health in homely rhyme To our oldest classmate, Father Time ! May our last survivor live to be As bald, and as wise, and as tough as he ! 1866. MT ANNUAL. How long will this harp which you once loved to hear Cheat your lips of a smile or your eyes of a tear ] How long stir the echoes it wakened of old, While its strings were unbroken, untarnished its gold] Dear friends of my boyhood, my words do you wrong ; The heart, the heart only, shall throb in my song ; It reads the kind answer that looks from your eyes, — " We will bid our old harper play on till he dies." Though Youth, the fair angel that looked o'er the strings. Has lost the bright glory that gleamed on his wings. Though the freshness of morning has passed from its tone. It is still the old harp that was always your own. MY ANNUAL. 176 I claim not its music, — each note it affords I strike from your heart-strings, that lend me its chords j I know you will listen and love to the last, For it trembles and thrills with the voice of your past. Ah, brothers ! dear brothers ! the harp that I hold No craftsman could string and no artisan mould ; He shaped it, He strung it, who fashioned the lyres That ring with the hymns of the seraphim choirs. Not mine are the visions of beauty it brings, Not mine the faint fragrance around it that clings ; Those shapes are the phantoms of years that are fled, Those sweets breathe from roses your summers have shed. Each hour of the past lends its tribute to this. Till it blooms like a bower in the Garden of Bliss ; The thorn and the thistle may grow as they will, Where Friendship unfolds there is Paradise still. The bird wanders careless while summer is green, The leaf-hidden cradle that rocked him unseen ; When Autumn's rude fingers the woods have undressed, The boughs may look bare, but they show him his nest 176 MY ANNUAL. Too precious these moments ! the lustre they fling Is the light of our year, is the gem of its ring, So brimming with sunshine, we almost forget The rajs it has lost, and its border of jet. While round us the many-hued halo is shed. How dear are the living, how near are the dead ! One circle, scarce broken, these waiting below, Those walking the shores where the asphodels blow ! Not life shall enlarge it nor death shall divide, — No brother new-born finds his place at my side ; No titles shall freeze us, no grandeurs infest. His Honor, His Worship, are boys like the rest. Some won the world's homage, their names we hold dear, — But Friendship, not Fame, is the countersign here ; Make room by the conqueror crowned in the strife For the comrade that limps from the battle of life ! What tongue talks of battle 1 Too long we have heard In sorrow, in anguish, that terrible word ; It reddened the sunshine, it crimsoned the wave, It sprinkled our doors with the blood of our brave. MY ANNUAL. 177 Peace, Peace comes at last, with her gaiiaud of white ; Peace broods in all hearts as we gather to-uight ; The blazon of Union spreads full in the sun ; We echo its words, — We are one ! We are one ! 8* 1867. ALL HERE. It is not what we say or sing, That keeps our charm so long unbroken, Though every lightest leaf we bring May touch the heart as friendship's token ; Not what we sing or what we say Can make us dearer to each other ; We love the singer and his lay. But love as well the silent brother. Yet bring whate'er your garden grows. Thrice welcome to our smiles and praises ; Thanks for the myrtle and the rose. Thanks for the marigolds and daisies ; One flower erelong we all shall claim, Alas ! unloved of Amaryllis — ALL HERE. 179 Nature's last blossom — need I name The wreath of threescore's silver lilies 1 How many, brothers, meet to-night Around our boyhood's covered embers 1 Go read the treasured names aright The old triennial list remembers : Though twenty wear the starry sign That tells a life has broke its tether, The fifty-eight of 'twenty-nine — God bless The Boys ! — are all together ! These come with joyous look and word, 'With friendly grasp and cheerful greeting, — Those smile unseen, and move unheard, The angel guests of every meeting ; They cast no shadow in the flame That flushes from the gilded lustre. But count us — we are still the same ; One earthly band, one heavenly cluster ! Love dies not when he bows his head To pass beyond the narrow portals, — The light these glowing moments shed Wakes from their sleep our lost immortals ; 180 ALL HERE. They come as in their joyous prime, Before their morning days were numbered, — Death stays the envious hand of Time, — The eyes have not grown dim that slumbered I The paths that loving souls have trod Arch o'er the dust where worldlings grovel High as the zenith o'er the sod, — The cross above the Sexton's shovel ! We rise beyond the realms of day ; They seem to stoop from spheres of glory With us one happy hour to stray, While youth comes back in song and story. Ah ! ours is friendship true as steel That war has tried in edge and temper ; It writes upon its sacred seal The priest's uhique — omnes — senqoer ! It lends the sky a fairer sun That cheers our lives with rays as steady As if our footsteps had begun To print the golden streets already ! The tangling years have clinched its knot Too fast for mortal strength to sunder ; ALL HERE. 181 The lightning bolts of noon are shot ; No fear of evening's idle thunder ! Too late ! too late 1 — no gTaceless hand Shall stretch its cords in vain endeavor To rive the close encircling band That made and keeps us one forever 1 So when upon the fated scroll The falling stars have all descended, And, blotted from the breathing roll, Our little page of life is ended, We ask but one memorial line Traced on thy tablet. Gracious Mother : " My children. Boys of '29. In 'pace. How they loved each other ! " 1868. ONCE MOKE. " Will I come ? " That is pleasant ! I beg to inquire If the gun that I carry has ever missed fire 1 And which was the muster-roll — mention but one — That missed your old comrade who carries the gun ] You see me as always, my hand on the lock, The cap on the nipple, the hammer full cock. It is rusty, some tell me ; I heed not the scoff ; It is battered and bruised, but it always goes off! — "Is it loaded r' I '11 bet you! What doesn't it hold? Rammed full to the muzzle with memories untold ; "Why, it scares me to fire, lest the pieces should fly Like the cannons that burst on the Fourth of July ! ONCE MORE. 183 One charge is a remnant of College-day dreams (Its wadding is made of forensics and themes) ; Ah, visions of fame ! what a flash in the pan As the trigger was pulled by each clever young man ! And love ! Bless my stars, what a cartridge is there ! With a wadding of rose-leaves and ribbons and hair, — All crammed in one verse to go off at a shot ! — Were there ever such sweethearts 1 Of course there were not ! And next, — what a load ! it will split the old gun, — Three fingers, — four fingers, — five fingers of fun ! Come tell me, gray sages, for mischief and noise Was there ever a lot like us fellows, " The Boys " 1 Bump ! bump ! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes, — Aha, old Professor ! Look out for your toes ! Don't think, my poor Tutor, to sleej:* in your bed, — Two " Boys " — 'twenty-niners — room over your head ! Remember the nights when the tar-barrel blazed ! From red " Massachusetts " the war-cry was raised ; And "HoUis" and " Stoughton " re-echoed the call ; Till P poked his head out of Holworthy Hall ! 184 ONCE MORE. Old P , as we called him, — at fifty or so, — Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full blow ; In ripening manhood, suppose we should say. Just nearing his prime, as we boys are to-day ! 0, say, can you look through the vista of age To the time when old Morse drove the regular stage ^ When Lyon told tales of the long-vanished years. And Lenox crept round with the rings in his ears 1 And dost thou, my brother, remember indeed The days of our dealings with Willard and Read 1 When ''Dolly " was kicking and running away, And punch came up smoking on Fillebrown's tray % But where are the Tutors, my brother, tell ! — And where the Professors, remembered so well ? The sturdy old Grecian of Holworthy Hall, And Latin, and Logic, and Hebrew, and all 1 — " They are dead, the old fellows " (we called them so then. Though we since have found out they were lusty young men). ONCE MOKE. 185 — They are dead, do you tell me 1 — but how do you know? You 've filled once too often. I doubt if it 's so^ I 'm thinking. I 'm thinking. Is this 'sixty-eight % It 's not quite so clear. It admits of debate. . I may have been dreaming. I rather incline To think — yes, I 'm certain — it is 'twenty-nine 1 "By Zhorzhe ! " — as friend Sales is accustomed to cry, — You tell me they 're dead, but I know it 's a lie I Is Jackson not President % — What was 't you said I It can't be; you 're joking ; what, — all of 'em dead ? Jim, — Harry, — Fred, — Isaac, — all gone from our side? They could n't have left us, — no, not if they tried. — Look, — there 's our old Prseses, — he can't find his text ; — See, — P rubs his leg, as he growls out, " The next 1 " I told you 't was nonsense. Joe, give us a song ! Go harness up " Dolly," and fetch her along ! — 186 ONCE MORE. Dead ! Dead ! You false graybeard, I swear they are not! Hurrah for Old Hickory ! — 0, I forgot ! Well, one we have with us (how could he contrive To deal with us youngsters and still to survive f) Who wore for our guidance authority's robe, — No wonder he took to the study of Job ! — And now as my load was uncommonly large, Let me taper it off with a classical charge ; When that has gone off, I shall drop my old gun — And then stand at ease, for my service is done. Bihamus ad Classem vocatam " The Boys " Et eorum Tutorem cui nomen est " Noyes " ; Bt floreant, valeant, vigeant tarn, Kon Peircius ipse enumeret qiiam ! 1869. THE OLD CEUISEE. Here 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine, Forty times she 's crossed the line ; Same old masts and sails and crew, Tight and tough and as good as new. Into the harbor she bravely steers Just as she 's done for these forty years, — Over her anchor goes, splash and clang ! Down her sails drop, rattle and bang ! Comes a vessel out of the dock Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock. Feathered with sails and spurred with steam, Headins: out of the classic stream. 188 THE OLD CRUISER. Crew of a hundred all aboard, Every man as fine as a lord. Gay they look and proud they feel, Bowling along on even keel. On they float with wind and tide, — Gain at last the old ship's side ; Every man looks down in turn, — Keads the name that 's on her stern. *' 'Twenty-nine ! — Liable you say ! That was in Skipper Kirkland's day ! What was the Flying Dutchman's name % This old rover must be the same. ^' Ho ! you Boatswain that walks the deck, How does it happen you 're not a wreck % One and another have come to grief, How have you dodged by rock and reef % " — Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid, Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid : "Hey ? What is it % Who 's come to grief? Louder, young swab, I 'm a little deaf." THE OLD CKUISEK. 189 " I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat With aU your joUy old boys afloat, When scores of vessels as good as she Have swallowed the salt of the bitter sea ? " Many a crew from many a craft Goes drifting by on a broken raft Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine Taller and prouder than 'Twenty-nine. " Some capsized in an angry breeze, Some were lost in the narrow seas, Some on snags and some on sands Struck and perished and lost theLr hands. " TeU us young ones, you gray old man, What is your secret, if you can. We have a ship as good as you, Show us how to keep our crew." So in his ear the youngster cries ; Then the gray Boatswain straight replies : — " All your crew be sure you know, — Never let one of your shipmates go. 190 THE OLD CRUISER. *' If he leaves you, change your tack, Follow him close and fetch him back ; When you 've hauled him in at last, Grapple his flipper and hold him fast. " If you 've wronged him, speak him fair, Say you 're sorry and make it square ; If he 's wronged you, wink so tight None of you see what 's plain in sight. *' When the world goes hard and wrong, Lend a hand to help him J^long ; When his stockings have holes to dam, Don't you gi'udge him your ball of yarn. " Once in a twelvemonth, come what may. Anchor your ship in a quiet bay, Call all hands and read the log, And give 'em a taste of grub and grog. " Stick to each other through thick and thin ; All the closer as age leaks in ; Squalls will blow and clouds will frown, But stay by your ship till you all go down ! " THE OLD CRUISEE. 191 Added for the Alumni Meeting^ June 29, 1869. So the gray Boatswain of 'Tweuty-nine Piped to " The Boys" as they crossed the line ; Round the cabin sat thirty guests, Babes of the niurse with a thousand breasts. There were the judges, gi-ave and grand, Flanked by the priests on either hand ; There was the lord of wealth untold, And the dear good fellow in broadcloth old. Thirty men, from twenty towns, Sires and grandsires with silvered crowns, — Thirty school-boys all in a row, — Bens and Georges and Bill and Joe. In thirty goblets the wine was poured. But threescore gathered around the board, — For lo ! at the side of every chair A shadow hovered — we all were there ! 1869. HYMN FOE THE CLASS-MEETINa. Thou Gracious Power, whose mercy lends The light of home, the smile of friends, Our gathered flock thine arms infold As in the peaceful days of old. Wilt thou not hear us while we raise, In sweet accord of solemn praise, The voices that have mingled long In joyous flow of mirth and song 1 For all the blessings life has brought, For all its sorrowing hours have taught. For all we mourn, for all we keep, The hands we clasp, the loved that sleep ; HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING. 193 The noontide sunshine of the past, These brief, bright moments fading fast, The stars that gild our darkening years, The twihght ray from hoHer spheres ; We thank thee, Father ! let thy grace Our narrowing circle still embrace, Thy mercy shed its heavenly store, Thy peace be with us evermore ! 1870. EVEN-SONG. It may be, yes, it must be, Tim© that brings An end to mortal things, That sends the beggar Winter in the train Of Autumn's burdened wain, — Time, that is heir of all our earthly state. And knoweth well to wait Till sea hath turned to shore and shore to sea, If so it need must be. Ere he make good his claim and call his own Old empires overthrown, — Time, who can find no heavenly orb too large To hold its fee in charge. Nor any motes that fill its beam so small, But he shall care for all, — It may be, must be, — yes, he soon shall tire This hand that holds the lyre. EVEN-SONG. 195 Then ye who listened in that earlier day When to my careless lay I matched its chords and stole their first-born thiill, With untaught rudest skill Vexing a treble from the slender strings Thin as the locust sings When the shrill-crying child of summer's heat Pipes from its leafy seat, The dim pavilion of embowering green Beneath whose shadowy screen The small sopranist tries his single note Against the song-bird's throat, And all the echoes listen, but in vain ; They hear no answering strain, — Then ye who listened in that earlier day Shall sadly turn away, Saying, " The fire burns low, the hearth is cold That warmed our blood of old ; Cover its embers and its half-burnt brands, And let us stretch our hands Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame ; Lo, this is not the same. The joyous singer of our morning time, Flushed high with lusty rhyme ! 196 EVEN-SONG. Speak kindly, for he bears a human heart, But whisper him apart, — Tell him the woods their autumn robes have shed And all their birds have fled. And shouting winds unbuild the naked nests They warmed with patient breasts ; Tell him the sky is dark, the summer o'er, And bid him sing no more ! Ah, welladay ! if words so cruel-kind A listening ear might find ! But who that hears the music in his soul Of rhythmic waves that roll Crested with gleams of fire, and as they flow Stir all the deeps below Till the great pearls no calm might ever reach Leap glistening on the beach, — Who that has known the passion and the pain, The rush through heart and brain. The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed Hard on his throbbing breast, When thou, whose smile is life and bliss and fame Hast set his pulse aflame, Muse of the lyre ! can say farewell to thee 1 Alas ! and must it be 1 EVEN-SOXG. 197 In many a clime, in many a stately tongue, The mighty bards have sung ; To these the immemorial thrones belong And purple robes of song ; Yet the slight minstrel loves the slender tone His lips may call his own, And finds the measure of the verse more sweet Timed by his pulse's beat, Than all the hymuings of the laurelled throng. Say not I do him wrong. For Nature spoils her warblers, — them she feeds In lotus-growing meads And pours them subtle draughts from haunted streams That fill their souls with dreams. EuU well I know the gracious mother's wiles And dear delusive smiles ! No callow fledgling of her singing brood But tastes that witching food, And hearing overhead the eagle's wing. And how the thrushes sing. Vents his exiguous chirp, and from his nest Flaps forth — we know the rest. I own the weakness of the tuneful kind, — Are not all harpers blind ? 198 EVEN-SONG. I sang too early, must I sing too late 1 The lengthening shadows wait The first pale stars of twilight, — yet how sweet The flattering whisper's cheat, — " Thou hast the fire no evening chill can tame. Whose coals outlast its flame ! " Farewell, ye carols of the laughing mom, Of earliest sunshine born ! The sower flings the seed and looks not back Along its furrowed track ; The reaper leaves the stalks for other hands To gird with circling bands ; The wind, earth's careless servant, truant-born, Blows clean the beaten corn And quits the thresher's floor, and goes his way To sport with ocean's spray ; The headlong-stumbling rivulet scrambling down To wash the sea-girt town, Still babbling of the green and billowy waste Whose salt he longs to taste, Ere his warm wave its chilling clasp may feel Has twirled the miller's wheel. The song has done its task that makes us bold With secrets else untold, — EVEN-SONG. 199 And mine has run its errand ; through the dews I tracked the flying Muse ; The daughter of the morning touched my lips With roseate finger-tips ; Whether I would or would not, I must sing With the new choirs of spring ; Now, as I watch the fading autumn day And trill my softened lay, I think of all that listened, and of one For whom a brighter sun Dawned at high summer's noon. Ah, comrades dear, Are not all gathered here 1 Our hearts have answered. — Yes ! they hear our call : AU gathered here ! all ! all ! 1872. THE SMILINa LISTENEE. Precisely. I see it. You all want to say That a tear is too sad and a laugh is too gay ; You could stand a faint smile, you could manage a sigh, But you value your ribs, and you don't want to cry. And why at our feast of the clasping of hands Need we turn on the stream of our lachrymal glands 1 Though we see the white breakers of age on our bow. Let us take a good pull in the jolly-boat now ! It 's hard if a fellow cannot feel content When a banq\iet like this does n't cost him a cent, When his goblet and plate he may empty at will, And our kind Class Committee will settle the bill. THE SMILING LISTENER. 201 And here 's your old friend the identical bard Who has rhymed and recited you verse by the yard- Since the days of the empire of Andrew the First Till you 're full to the brim and feel ready to burst- It 's awful to think of, — how year after year With his piece in his pocket he waits for you here ;- No matter who 's missing, there always is one To lug out his manuscript, sure as a gun.. " Why won't he stop writing 1 " Humanity cries v The answer is briefly, " He can't if he tries ; He has played with his foolish old feather so long. That the goose-quill in spite of him cackles in song." You have watched him with patience from morning to- dusk Since the tassel was bright o'er the green of tlie husk, And now — it 's too bad — it 's a pitiful job — He has shelled the ripe ear till he 's come to the cob. I see one face beaming — it listens so well There must be some music yet left in my shell — The wine of my soul is not thick on the lees ; One string is unbroken, one friend I can please ! 202 THE SMILING LISTENER. Dear comrade, the sunshine of seasons gone by Looks out from your tender and tear-moistened eye, A pharos of love on an ice-girdled coast, — Kind soul ! — Don't you hear me 1 — He 's deaf as a post ! Can it be one of Nature's benevolent tricks That you grow hard of hearing as I gTow prolix 1 And that look of delight which would angels beguile Is the deaf man's prolonged unintelligent smile 1 Ah ! the ear may grow dull, and the eye may wax dim, But they still know a classmate — they can't mistake him ; There is something to tell us, " That 's one of our band," Though we gi'oped in the dark for a touch of his hand. Well, Time with his snuffers is prowling about And his shaky old fingers will soon siuiff us out ; There 's a hint for us all in each pendulum tick, For we 're low in the tallow and long in the wick. You remember Rossini — you 've been at the play 1 How his overture-endings keep crashing away THE SMILING LISTENER. 203 Till you think, " It 's all over — it can't but stop now — That 's the screech and the bang of the final bow-wow." And you find you 're mistaken ; there 's lots more to come, More banging, more screeching of fiddle and drum. Till when the last ending is finished and done, You feel like a horse when the winning-post 's won. So I, who have sung to you, merry or sad, Since the days when they called me a promising lad. Though I 've made you more rhymes than a tutor could scan, Have a few more still left, like the razor-strap man. JSTow pray don't be frightened — I 'm ready to stop My galloping anapests' clatter and pop — In fact, if you say so, retire from to-day To the garret I left, on a poet's half-pay. And yet — I can't help it — perhaps — who can tell ] You might miss the poor singer you treated so well. And confess you could stand him five minutes or so, " It was so like old times we remember, you know." 204 THE SMILING LISTENER. 'T is not that the music can signify much, But then there are chords that awake with a touch, - And our hearts can find echoes of sorrow and joy- To the winch of the minstrel who hails from Savoy. So this hand-organ tune that I cheerfully grind May bring the old places and faces to mind. And seen in the light of the past we recall The flowers that have faded bloom fairest of all ! 1872. OUE SWEET SINGER. J. A. One memory trembles on our lips : It throbs in every breast ; In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse, The shadow stands confessed. Sweet voice, whose carols cheered so long Our manhood's marching day, "Without thy breath of heavenly song, How weary seems the way ! Vain every pictured phrase to tell Our sorrowing hearts' desire : The shattered harp, the broken shell, The silent unstrung lyre ; 206 OUR SWEET SINGER. For youth was round us while he sang ; It glowed in every tone ; With bridal chimes the echoes rang, And made the past our own. blissful dream ! Our nursery joys We know must have an end, But love's and friendship's broken toys May God's good angels mend ! The cheering smile, the voice of mirth And laughter's gay surprise That please the children born of earth, Why deem that Heaven denies 'i Methinks in that refulgent sphere That knows not sun or moon, An earth-born saint might long to hear One verse of " Bonny Doon " ; Or walking through the streets of gold In Heaven's unclouded light, His lips recall the song of old And hum " The sky is bright." OUR SWEET SINGER. 207 And can we smile when thou art dead 1 Ah, brothers, even so ! The rose of summer will be red, In spite of winter's snow. Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom Because thy song is still, Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom With gTief s untimely chill. The sighing wintry winds complain, — The singing bird has flown, — Hark ! heard I not that ringing strain, That clear celestial tone 1 How poor these pallid phrases seem, How weak this tinkling line, As warbles through my waking dream That angel voice of thine ! Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay ; It falters on my tongue ; For all we vainly strive to say, Thou shouldst thyself have sung ! 1873. * * * H. CM. H. S. J. K. W. The dirge is played, the sad-voiced requiem sung That faltered on the tongue ; On each white urn where memory dwells The wreath of rustling immortelles Our loving hands have hung, And balmiest leaves have strewn and tenderest blossoms flung. The birds that filled the air with songs have flown, The wintry blasts have blown. And these for whom the voice of spring Bade the sweet choirs their carols sing Sleep in those chambers lone Where snows untrodden lie, unheard the night-winds moan. H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W. 209 We clasp them all in memory, as the vine Whose running stems intwine The marble shaft, and steal around The lowly stone, the nameless mound ; With son'owing hearts resign Our brothers true and tried, and close our broken Hne. How fast the lamps of life grow dim and die Beneath our sunset sky ! Still fading, as along our track We cast our saddened glances back, And while we vainly sigh The shadowy day recedes, the stany night draws nigh, As when from pier to pier across the tide With even keel we glide, The lights we left along the shore Grow less and less, while more, yet more New vistas open wide Of fair illumined streets and casements golden-eyed. Each closing circle of our sunlit sphere Seems to bring Heaven more near : Can we not dream that those we love Are listening in the world above 210 H. C. M. H. S. J. K. W. And smiling as they hear The voices known so well of friends that still are dear 'i Does all that made us human fade away With this dissolving clay 1 Nay, rather deem the blessed isles Are bright and gay with joyous smiles, That angels have their play, And saints that tire of song may claim their holiday. All else of earth may perish ; love alone Not Heaven shall find outgrown ! Are they not here, our spirit guests With love still throbbing in their breasts 1 Once more let flowers be strown. Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count you still our own ! 1873. WHAT I HAVE COME FOE. I HAVE come with my verses — I think I may claim It is not the first time I have tried on the same. They were puckered in rhyme, they were wrinkled m wit ; But your hearts were so large that they made them a fit. I have come — not to tease you with more of my rhyme, But to feel as I did in the blessed old time ; I want to hear him with the Brobdingnag laugh — We count him at least as three men and a half. I have come to meet judges so wise and so grand That I shake in my shoes while they 're shaking my hand; 212 WHAT I HAVE COME FOR. And the prince among merchants who put back the crown When they tried to enthrone him the King of the Town. I have come to see George — Yes, I think there are four, If they all were like these I could wish there were more. I have come to see one whom we used to call "Jim," I want to see — 0, don't I want to see him 1 I have come to grow young — on my word I declare I have thought I detected a change in my hair ! One hour with " The Boys " will restore it to brown — And a wrinkle or two I expect to rub down. Yes, that 's what I 've come for, as all of us come ; When I meet the dear Boys I could wish I were dumb. You asked me, you know, but it 's spoiling the fun ; I have told what I came for ; my ditty is done. 1874. OUR BANKER. Old Time, in whose bank we deposit our notes, Is a miser who always wants guineas for groats ; He keeps all his customers still in arrears By lending them minutes and charging them years. The twelvemonth rolls round and we never forget On the counter before us to pay him our debt. We reckon the marks he has chalked on the door, Pay up and shake hands and begin a new score. How long he will lend us, how much we may owe, No angel will tell us, no mortal may know. At fivescore, at fourscore, at threescore and ten. He may close the account with a stroke of his pen. 214 OUR BANKER. This only we know, — amid sorrows and joys Old Time has been easy and kind with " The Boys." Though he must have and will have and does have his pay, We have found him good-natured enough in his way. He never forgets us, as others will do, — I am sure he knows me, and I think he knows you, For I see on your foreheads a mark that he lends As a sign he remembers to visit his friends. In the shape of a classmate (a wig on his crown, — His day-book and ledger laid carefully down) He has welcomed us yearly, a glass in his hand, And pledged the good health of our brotherly band. He 's a thief, we must own, but how many there be That rob us less gently and fairly than he : He has stripped the green leaves that were over us all, But they let in the sunshine as fast as they fall. Young beauties may ravish the world with a glance As they languish in song, as they float in the dance, — OUR BANKER. 215 They are grandmothers now we remember as girls, And the comely white cap takes the place of the curls. But the sighing and moaning and groaning are o'er, We are pining and moping and sleepless no more, And the hearts that were thumping like ships on the rocks Beat as quiet and steady as meeting-house clocks. The trump of ambition, loud sounding and shrill, May blow its long blast, but the echoes are still. The spring-tides are past, but no billow may reach The spoils they have landed far up on the beach. We see that Time robs us, we know that he cheats. But we still find a charm in his pleasant deceits, While he leaves the remembrance of all that was best. Love, friendship, and hope, and the promise of rest. Sweet shadows of twilight ! how calm their repose, While the dewdrops fall soft in the breast of the rose ! How blest to the toiler his hour of release When the vesper is heard with its whisper of peace ! 216 OUR BANKER. Then here 's to the wrinkled old miser, our friend ; May he send us his bills to the century's end, And lend us the moments no sorrow aUoys, Till he squares his account with the last of " The Boys." THE END. Cambridge : Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.