Joe, give us a song! Go harness up "Dolly," and fetch her along!-- Dead! Dead! You false graybeard, I swear they are not! Hurrah for Old Hickory!--Oh, I forgot! Well, _one_ we have with us (how could he contrive To deal with us youngsters and still to survive ?) Who wore for our guidance authority's robe,-- No wonder he took to the study of Job! And now, as my load was uncommonly large, Let me taper it off with a classical charge; When that has gone off, I shall drop my old gun-- And then stand at ease, for my service is done.
_Bibamus ad Classem vocatam_ "The Boys" _Et eorum Tutorem cui nomen est "Noyes";_ _Et floreant, valeant, vigeant tam,_ _Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam!_ THE OLD CRUISER 1869 HERE 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine, Forty times she 's crossed the line; Same old masts and sails and crew, Tight and tough and as good as new.
Into the harbor she bravely steers Just as she 's done for these forty years, Over her anchor goes, splash and clang! Down her sails drop, rattle and bang! Comes a vessel out of the dock Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock, Feathered with sails and spurred with steam, Heading out of the classic stream.
Crew of a hundred all aboard, Every man as fine as a lord.
Gay they look and proud they feel, Bowling along on even keel.
On they float with wind and tide,-- Gain at last the old ship's side; Every man looks down in turn,-- Reads the name that's on her stern.
"Twenty-nine!--Diable you say! That was in Skipper Kirkland's day! What was the Flying Dutchman's name?
This old rover must be the same.
"Ho! you Boatswain that walks the deck, How does it happen you're not a wreck?
One and another have come to grief, How have you dodged by rock and reef ?" Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid, Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid "Hey?
What is it?
Who 's come to grief Louder, young swab, I 'm a little deaf." "I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat With all you jolly old boys afloat, When scores of vessels as good as she Have swallowed the salt of the bitter sea?
"Many a crew from many a craft Goes drifting by on a broken raft Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine Taller and prouder than 'Twenty-nine.
"Some capsized in an angry breeze, Some were lost in the narrow seas, Some on snags and some on sands Struck and perished and lost their hands.
"Tell us young ones, you gray old man, What is your secret, if you can.
We have a ship as good as you, Show us how to keep our crew." So in his ear the youngster cries; Then the gray Boatswain straight replies:-- "All your crew be sure you know,-- Never let one of your shipmates go.
"If he leaves you, change your tack, Follow him close and fetch him back; When you've hauled him in at last, Grapple his flipper and hold him fast.
"If you've wronged him, speak him fair, Say you're sorry and make it square; If he's wronged you, wink so tight None of you see what 's plain in sight.
"When the world goes hard and wrong, Lend a hand to help him along; When his stockings have holes to darn, Don't you grudge him your ball of yarn.
"Once in a twelvemonth, come what may, Anchor your ship in a quiet bay, Call all hands and read the log, And give 'em a taste of grub and grog.
"Stick to each other through thick and thin; All the closer as age leaks in; Squalls will blow and clouds will frown, But stay by your ship till you all go down!" ADDED FOR THE ALUMNI MEETING, JUNE 29, 1869.
So the gray Boatswain of 'Twenty-nine Piped to "The Boys" as they crossed the line; Round the cabin sat thirty guests, Babes of the nurse with a thousand breasts.
There were the judges, grave and grand, Flanked by the priests on either hand; There was the lord of wealth untold, And the dear good fellow in broadcloth old.
Thirty men, from twenty towns, Sires and grandsires with silvered crowns,-- Thirty school-boys all in a row,-- Bens and Georges and Bill and Joe.
In thirty goblets the wine was poured, But threescore gathered around the board,-- For lo! at the side of every chair A shadow hovered--we all were there! HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING 1869 THOU Gracious Power, whose mercy lends The light of home, the smile of friends, Our gathered flock thine arms infold As in the peaceful days of old.
Wilt thou not hear us while we raise, In sweet accord of solemn praise, The voices that have mingled long In joyous flow of mirth and song?
For all the blessings life has brought, For all its sorrowing hours have taught, For all we mourn, for all we keep, The hands we clasp, the loved that sleep; The noontide sunshine of the past, These brief, bright moments fading fast, The stars that gild our darkening years, The twilight ray from holier spheres; We thank thee, Father! let thy grace Our narrowing circle still embrace, Thy mercy shed its heavenly store, Thy peace be with us evermore! EVEN-SONG.
1870 IT may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings An end to mortal things, That sends the beggar Winter in the train Of Autumn's burdened wain,-- Time, that is heir of all our earthly state, And knoweth well to wait Till sea hath turned to shore and shore to sea, If so it need must be, Ere he make good his claim and call his own Old empires overthrown,-- Time, who can find no heavenly orb too large To hold its fee in charge, Nor any motes that fill its beam so small, But he shall care for all,-- It may be, must be,--yes, he soon shall tire This hand that holds the lyre.
Then ye who listened in that earlier day When to my careless lay I matched its chords and stole their first-born thrill, With untaught rudest skill Vexing a treble from the slender strings Thin as the locust sings When the shrill-crying child of summer's heat Pipes from its leafy seat, The dim pavilion of embowering green Beneath whose shadowy screen The small sopranist tries his single note Against the song-bird's throat, And all the echoes listen, but in vain; They hear no answering strain,-- Then ye who listened in that earlier day Shall sadly turn away, Saying, "The fire burns low, the hearth is cold That warmed our blood of old; Cover its embers and its half-burnt brands, And let us stretch our hands Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame; Lo, this is not the same, The joyous singer of our morning time, Flushed high with lusty rhyme! Speak kindly, for he bears a human heart, But whisper him apart,-- Tell him the woods their autumn robes have shed And all their birds have fled, And shouting winds unbuild the naked nests They warmed with patient breasts; Tell him the sky is dark, the summer o'er, And bid him sing no more!" Ah, welladay! if words so cruel-kind A listening ear might find! But who that hears the music in his soul Of rhythmic waves that roll Crested with gleams of fire, and as they flow Stir all the deeps below Till the great pearls no calm might ever reach Leap glistening on the beach,-- Who that has known the passion and the pain, The rush through heart and brain, The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed Hard on his throbbing breast, When thou, whose smile is life and bliss and fame Hast set his pulse aflame, Muse of the lyre! can say farewell to thee?
Alas! and must it be?
In many a clime, in many a stately tongue, The mighty bards have sung; To these the immemorial thrones belong And purple robes of song; Yet the slight minstrel loves the slender tone His lips may call his own, And finds the measure of the verse more sweet, Timed by his pulse's beat, Than all the hymnings of the laurelled throng.
Say not I do him wrong, For Nature spoils her warblers,--them she feeds In lotus-growing meads And pours them subtle draughts from haunted streams That fill their souls with dreams.
Full well I know the gracious mother's wiles And dear delusive smiles! No callow fledgling of her singing brood But tastes that witching food, And hearing overhead the eagle's wing, And how the thrushes sing, Vents his exiguous chirp, and from his nest Flaps forth--we know the rest.
I own the weakness of the tuneful kind,-- Are not all harpers blind?
I sang too early, must I sing too late?
The lengthening shadows wait The first pale stars of twilight,--yet how sweet The flattering whisper's cheat,-- "Thou hast the fire no evening chill can tame, Whose coals outlast its flame!" Farewell, ye carols of the laughing morn, Of earliest sunshine born! The sower flings the seed and looks not back Along his furrowed track; The reaper leaves the stalks for other hands To gird with circling bands; The wind, earth's careless servant, truant-born, Blows clean the beaten corn And quits the thresher's floor, and goes his way To sport with ocean's spray; The headlong-stumbling rivulet scrambling down To wash the sea-girt town, Still babbling of the green and billowy waste Whose salt he longs to taste, Ere his warm wave its chilling clasp may feel Has twirled the miller's wheel.
The song has done its task that makes us bold With secrets else untold,-- And mine has run its errand; through the dews I tracked the flying Muse; The daughter of the morning touched my lips With roseate finger-tips; Whether I would or would not, I must sing With the new choirs of spring; Now, as I watch the fading autumn day And trill my softened lay, I think of all that listened, and of one For whom a brighter sun Dawned at high summer's noon.

Ah, comrades dear, Are not all gathered here?
Our hearts have answered .-- Yes! they hear our call: All gathered here! all! all! THE SMILING LISTENER 1871 PRECISELY.

I see it.

You all want to say That a tear is too sad and a laugh is too gay; You could stand a faint smile, you could manage a sigh, But you value your ribs, and you don't want to cry.
And why at our feast of the clasping of hands Need we turn on the stream of our lachrymal glands?
Though we see the white breakers of age on our bow, Let us take a good pull in the jolly-boat now! It's hard if a fellow cannot feel content When a banquet like this does n't cost him a cent, When his goblet and plate he may empty at will, And our kind Class Committee will settle the bill.
And here's your old friend, the identical bard Who has rhymed and recited you verse by the yard Since the days of the empire of Andrew the First Till you 're full to the brim and feel ready to burst.
It's awful to think of,--how year after year With his piece in his pocket he waits for you here; No matter who's missing, there always is one To lug out his manuscript, sure as a gun.
"Why won't he stop writing ?" Humanity cries The answer is briefly, "He can't if he tries; He has played with his foolish old feather so long, That the goose-quill in spite of him cackles in song." You have watched him with patience from morning to dusk Since the tassel was bright o'er the green of the husk, And now--it 's too bad--it 's a pitiful job-- He has shelled the ripe ear till he's come to the cob.
I see one face beaming--it listens so well There must be some music yet left in my shell-- The wine of my soul is not thick on the lees; One string is unbroken, one friend I can please! Dear comrade, the sunshine of seasons gone by Looks out from your tender and tear-moistened eye, A pharos of love on an ice-girdled coast,-- Kind soul!--Don't you hear me ?--He's deaf as a post! Can it be one of Nature's benevolent tricks That you grow hard of hearing as I grow prolix?
And that look of delight which would angels beguile Is the deaf man's prolonged unintelligent smile?
Ah! the ear may grow dull, and the eye may wax dim, But they still know a classmate--they can't mistake him; There is something to tell us, "That's one of our band," Though we groped in the dark for a touch of his hand.
Well, Time with his snuffers is prowling about And his shaky old fingers will soon snuff us out; There's a hint for us all in each pendulum tick, For we're low in the tallow and long in the wick.
You remember Rossini--you 've been at the play?
How his overture-endings keep crashing away Till you think, "It 's all over--it can't but stop now-- That 's the screech and the bang of the final bow-wow." And you find you 're mistaken; there 's lots more to come, More banging, more screeching of fiddle and drum, Till when the last ending is finished and done, You feel like a horse when the winning-post 's won.
So I, who have sung to you, merry or sad, Since the days when they called me a promising lad, Though I 've made you more rhymes than a tutor could scan, Have a few more still left, like the razor-strop man.
Now pray don't be frightened--I 'm ready to stop My galloping anapests' clatter and pop-- In fact, if you say so, retire from to-day To the garret I left, on a poet's half-pay.
And yet--I can't help it--perhaps--who can tell?
You might miss the poor singer you treated so well, And confess you could stand him five minutes or so, "It was so like old times we remember, you know." 'T is not that the music can signify much, But then there are chords that awake with a touch,-- And our hearts can find echoes of sorrow and joy To the winch of the minstrel who hails from Savoy.
So this hand-organ tune that I cheerfully grind May bring the old places and faces to mind, And seen in the light of the past we recall The flowers that have faded bloom fairest of all! OUR SWEET SINGER J.A.
1872 ONE memory trembles on our lips; It throbs in every breast; In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse, The shadow stands confessed.
O silent voice, that cheered so long Our manhood's marching day, Without thy breath of heavenly song, How weary seems the way! Vain every pictured phrase to tell Our sorrowing heart's desire,-- The shattered harp, the broken shell, The silent unstrung lyre; For youth was round us while he sang; It glowed in every tone; With bridal chimes the echoes rang, And made the past our own.
Oh blissful dream! Our nursery joys We know must have an end, But love and friendship's broken toys May God's good angels mend! The cheering smile, the voice of mirth And laughter's gay surprise That please the children born of earth.
Why deem that Heaven denies?
Methinks in that refulgent sphere That knows not sun or moon, An earth-born saint might long to hear One verse of "Bonny Doon"; Or walking through the streets of gold In heaven's unclouded light, His lips recall the song of old And hum "The sky is bright." And can we smile when thou art dead?
Ah, brothers, even so! The rose of summer will be red, In spite of winter's snow.
Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom Because thy song is still, Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom With grief's untimely chill.
The sighing wintry winds complain,-- The singing bird has flown,-- Hark! heard I not that ringing strain, That clear celestial tone?
How poor these pallid phrases seem, How weak this tinkling line, As warbles through my waking dream That angel voice of thine! Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay; It falters on my tongue; For all we vainly strive to say, Thou shouldst thyself have sung! H.C.M.

H.S.