J.K.

W.
1873 THE dirge is played, the throbbing death-peal rung, The sad-voiced requiem sung; On each white urn where memory dwells The wreath of rustling immortelles Our loving hands have hung, And balmiest leaves have strown and tenderest blossoms flung.
The birds that filled the air with songs have flown, The wintry blasts have blown, And these for whom the voice of spring Bade the sweet choirs their carols sing Sleep in those chambers lone Where snows untrodden lie, unheard the night-winds moan.
We clasp them all in memory, as the vine Whose running stems intwine The marble shaft, and steal around The lowly stone, the nameless mound; With sorrowing hearts resign Our brothers true and tried, and close our broken line.
How fast the lamps of life grow dim and die Beneath our sunset sky! Still fading, as along our track We cast our saddened glances back, And while we vainly sigh The shadowy day recedes, the starry night draws nigh.
As when from pier to pier across the tide With even keel we glide, The lights we left along the shore Grow less and less, while more, yet more New vistas open wide Of fair illumined streets and casements golden-eyed.
Each closing circle of our sunlit sphere Seems to bring heaven more near Can we not dream that those we love Are listening in the world above And smiling as they hear The voices known so well of friends that still are dear?
Does all that made us human fade away With this dissolving clay?
Nay, rather deem the blessed isles Are bright and gay with joyous smiles, That angels have their play, And saints that tire of song may claim their holiday.
All else of earth may perish; love alone Not heaven shall find outgrown! Are they not here, our spirit guests, With love still throbbing in their breasts?
Once more let flowers be strown.
Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count you still our own! WHAT I HAVE COME FOR 1873 I HAVE come with my verses--I think I may claim It is not the first time I have tried on the same.
They were puckered in rhyme, they were wrinkled in wit; But your hearts were so large that they made them a fit.
I have come--not to tease you with more of my rhyme, But to feel as I did in the blessed old time; I want to hear him with the Brobdingnag laugh-- We count him at least as three men and a half.
I have come to meet judges so wise and so grand That I shake in my shoes while they're shaking my hand; And the prince among merchants who put back the crown When they tried to enthrone him the King of the Town.
I have come to see George--Yes, I think there are four, If they all were like these I could wish there were more.
I have come to see one whom we used to call "Jim," I want to see--oh, don't I want to see him?
I have come to grow young--on my word I declare I have thought I detected a change in my hair! One hour with "The Boys" will restore it to brown-- And a wrinkle or two I expect to rub down.
Yes, that's what I've come for, as all of us come; When I meet the dear Boys I could wish I were dumb.
You asked me, you know, but it's spoiling the fun; I have told what I came for; my ditty is done.
OUR BANKER 1874 OLD TIME, in whose bank we deposit our notes, Is a miser who always wants guineas for groats; He keeps all his customers still in arrears By lending them minutes and charging them years.
The twelvemonth rolls round and we never forget On the counter before us to pay him our debt.
We reckon the marks he has chalked on the door, Pay up and shake hands and begin a new score.
How long he will lend us, how much we may owe, No angel will tell us, no mortal may know.
At fivescore, at fourscore, at threescore and ten, He may close the account with a stroke of his pen.
This only we know,--amid sorrows and joys Old Time has been easy and kind with "The Boys." Though he must have and will have and does have his pay, We have found him good-natured enough in his way.
He never forgets us, as others will do,-- I am sure he knows me, and I think he knows you, For I see on your foreheads a mark that he lends As a sign he remembers to visit his friends.
In the shape of a classmate (a wig on his crown,-- His day-book and ledger laid carefully down) He has welcomed us yearly, a glass in his hand, And pledged the good health of our brotherly band.
He 's a thief, we must own, but how many there be That rob us less gently and fairly than he He has stripped the green leaves that were over us all, But they let in the sunshine as fast as they fall.
Young beauties may ravish the world with a glance As they languish in song, as they float in the dance,-- They are grandmothers now we remember as girls, And the comely white cap takes the place of the curls.
But the sighing and moaning and groaning are o'er, We are pining and moping and sleepless no more, And the hearts that were thumping like ships on the rocks Beat as quiet and steady as meeting-house clocks.
The trump of ambition, loud sounding and shrill, May blow its long blast, but the echoes are still, The spring-tides are past, but no billow may reach The spoils they have landed far up on the beach.
We see that Time robs us, we know that he cheats, But we still find a charm in his pleasant deceits, While he leaves the remembrance of all that was best, Love, friendship, and hope, and the promise of rest.
Sweet shadows of twilight! how calm their repose, While the dewdrops fall soft in the breast of the rose! How blest to the toiler his hour of release When the vesper is heard with its whisper of peace! Then here's to the wrinkled old miser, our friend; May he send us his bills to the century's end, And lend us the moments no sorrow alloys, Till he squares his account with the last of "The Boys." FOR CLASS MEETING 1875 IT is a pity and a shame--alas! alas! I know it is, To tread the trodden grapes again, but so it has been, so it is; The purple vintage long is past, with ripened clusters bursting so They filled the wine-vats to the brim,-'t is strange you will be thirsting so! Too well our faithful memory tells what might be rhymed or sung about, For all have sighed and some have wept since last year's snows were flung about; The beacon flame that fired the sky, the modest ray that gladdened us, A little breath has quenched their light, and deepening shades have saddened us.
No more our brother's life is ours for cheering or for grieving us, One only sadness they bequeathed, the sorrow of their leaving us; Farewell! Farewell!--I turn the leaf I read my chiming measure in; Who knows but something still is there a friend may find a pleasure in?
For who can tell by what he likes what other people's fancies are?
How all men think the best of wives their own particular Nancies are?
If what I sing you brings a smile, you will not stop to catechise, Nor read Bceotia's lumbering line with nicely scanning Attic eyes.
Perhaps the alabaster box that Mary broke so lovingly, While Judas looked so sternly on, the Master so approvingly, Was not so fairly wrought as those that Pilate's wife and daughters had, Or many a dame of Judah's line that drank of Jordan's waters had.
Perhaps the balm that cost so dear, as some remarked officiously, The precious nard that filled the room with fragrance so deliciously, So oft recalled in storied page and sung in verse melodious, The dancing girl had thought too cheap,--that daughter of Herodias.
Where now are all the mighty deeds that Herod boasted loudest of?
Where now the flashing jewelry the tetrarch's wife was proudest of?
Yet still to hear how Mary loved, all tribes of men are listening, And still the sinful woman's tears like stars heaven are glistening.
'T is not the gift our hands have brought, the love it is we bring with it,-- The minstrel's lips may shape the song, his heart in tune must sing with it; And so we love the simple lays, and wish we might have more of them, Our poet brothers sing for us,--there must be half a score of them.
It may be that of fame and name our voices once were emulous,-- With deeper thoughts, with tenderer throbs their softening tones are tremulous; The dead seem listening as of old, ere friendship was bereft of them; The living wear a kinder smile, the remnant that is left of them.
Though on the once unfurrowed brows the harrow- teeth of Time may show, Though all the strain of crippling years the halting feet of rhyme may show, We look and hear with melting hearts, for what we all remember is The morn of Spring, nor heed how chill the sky of gray November is.
Thanks to the gracious powers above from all mankind that singled us, And dropped the pearl of friendship in the cup they kindly mingled us, And bound us in a wreath of flowers with hoops of steel knit under it;-- Nor time, nor space, nor chance, nor change, nor death himself shall sunder it! "AD AMICOS" 1876 "Dumque virent genua Et decet, obducta solvatur fonte senectus." THE muse of boyhood's fervid hour Grows tame as skies get chill and hazy; Where once she sought a passion-flower, She only hopes to find a daisy.
Well, who the changing world bewails?
Who asks to have it stay unaltered?
Shall grown-up kittens chase their tails?
Shall colts be never shod or haltered?
Are we "The Boys" that used to make The tables ring with noisy follies?
Whose deep-lunged laughter oft would shake The ceiling with its thunder-volleys?
Are we the youths with lips unshorn, At beauty's feet unwrinkled suitors, Whose memories reach tradition's morn,-- The days of prehistoric tutors?
"The Boys" we knew,--but who are these Whose heads might serve for Plutarch's sages, Or Fox's martyrs, if you please, Or hermits of the dismal ages?
"The Boys" we knew--can these be those?
Their cheeks with morning's blush were painted;-- Where are the Harrys, Jims, and Joes With whom we once were well acquainted?
If we are they, we're not the same; If they are we, why then they're masking; Do tell us, neighbor What 's--your--name, Who are you ?--What's the use of asking?
You once were George, or Bill, or Ben; There's you, yourself--there 's you, that other-- I know you now--I knew you then-- You used to be your younger brother! You both are all our own to-day,-- But ah! I hear a warning whisper; Yon roseate hour that flits away Repeats the Roman's sad _paulisper_.
Come back! come back! we've need of you To pay you for your word of warning; We'll bathe your wings in brighter dew Than ever wet the lids of morning! Behold this cup; its mystic wine No alien's lip has ever tasted; The blood of friendship's clinging vine, Still flowing, flowing, yet unwasted Old Time forgot his running sand And laid his hour-glass down to fill it, And Death himself with gentle hand Has touched the chalice, not to spill it.
Each bubble rounding at the brim Is rainbowed with its magic story; The shining days with age grown dim Are dressed again in robes of glory; In all its freshness spring returns With song of birds and blossoms tender; Once more the torch of passion burns, And youth is here in all its splendor! Hope swings her anchor like a toy, Love laughs and shows the silver arrow We knew so well as man and boy,-- The shaft that stings through bone and marrow; Again our kindling pulses beat, With tangled curls our fingers dally, And bygone beauties smile as sweet As fresh-blown lilies of the valley.
O blessed hour! we may forget Its wreaths, its rhymes, its songs, its laughter, But not the loving eyes we met, Whose light shall gild the dim hereafter.
How every heart to each grows warm! Is one in sunshine's ray?
We share it.
Is one in sorrow's blinding storm?
A look, a word, shall help him bear it.
"The Boys" we were, "The Boys" we 'll be As long as three, as two, are creeping; Then here 's to him--ah! which is he ?-- Who lives till all the rest are sleeping; A life with tranquil comfort blest, The young man's health, the rich man's plenty, All earth can give that earth has best, And heaven at fourscore years and twenty.
HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT 1877 I LIKE, at times, to hear the steeples' chimes With sober thoughts impressively that mingle; But sometimes, too, I rather like--don't you ?-- To hear the music of the sleigh bells' jingle.
I like full well the deep resounding swell Of mighty symphonies with chords inwoven; But sometimes, too, a song of Burns--don't you?
After a solemn storm-blast of Beethoven.
Good to the heels the well-worn slipper feels When the tired player shuffles off the buskin; A page of Hood may do a fellow good After a scolding from Carlyle or Ruskin.
Some works I find,--say Watts upon the Mind,-- No matter though at first they seemed amusing, Not quite the same, but just a little tame After some five or six times' reperusing.
So, too, at times when melancholy rhymes Or solemn speeches sober down a dinner, I've seen it 's true, quite often,--have n't you ?-- The best-fed guests perceptibly grow thinner.
Better some jest (in proper terms expressed) Or story (strictly moral) even if musty, Or song we sung when these old throats were young,-- Something to keep our souls from getting rusty.
The poorest scrap from memory's ragged lap Comes like an heirloom from a dear dead mother-- Hush! there's a tear that has no business here, A half-formed sigh that ere its birth we smother.
We cry, we laugh; ah, life is half and half, Now bright and joyous as a song of Herrick's, Then chill and bare as funeral-minded Blair; As fickle as a female in hysterics.
If I could make you cry I would n't try; If you have hidden smiles I'd like to find them, And that although, as well I ought to know, The lips of laughter have a skull behind them.
Yet when I think we may be on the brink Of having Freedom's banner to dispose of, All crimson-hued, because the Nation would Insist on cutting its own precious nose off, I feel indeed as if we rather need A sermon such as preachers tie a text on.
If Freedom dies because a ballot lies, She earns her grave; 't is time to call the sexton! But if a fight can make the matter right, Here are we, classmates, thirty men of mettle; We're strong and tough, we've lived nigh long enough,-- What if the Nation gave it us to settle?
The tale would read like that illustrious deed When Curtius took the leap the gap that filled in, Thus: "Fivescore years, good friends, as it appears, At last this people split on Hayes and Tilden.
"One half cried, 'See! the choice is S.J.T.!' And one half swore as stoutly it was t' other; Both drew the knife to save the Nation's life By wholesale vivisection of each other.
"Then rose in mass that monumental Class,-- 'Hold! hold!' they cried, 'give us, give us the daggers!' 'Content! content!' exclaimed with one consent The gaunt ex-rebels and the carpet-baggers.
"Fifteen each side, the combatants divide, So nicely balanced are their predilections; And first of all a tear-drop each lets fall, A tribute to their obsolete affections.
"Man facing man, the sanguine strife began, Jack, Jim and Joe against Tom, Dick and Harry, Each several pair its own account to square, Till both were down or one stood solitary.
"And the great fight raged furious all the night Till every integer was made a fraction; Reader, wouldst know what history has to show As net result of the above transaction?
"Whole coat-tails, four; stray fragments, several score; A heap of spectacles; a deaf man's trumpet; Six lawyers' briefs; seven pocket-handkerchiefs; Twelve canes wherewith the owners used to stump it; "Odd rubber-shoes; old gloves of different hues; Tax--bills,--unpaid,--and several empty purses; And, saved from harm by some protecting charm, A printed page with Smith's immortal verses; "Trifles that claim no very special name,-- Some useful, others chiefly ornamental; Pins, buttons, rings, and other trivial things, With various wrecks, capillary and dental.
"Also, one flag,--'t was nothing but a rag, And what device it bore it little matters; Red, white, and blue, but rent all through and through, 'Union forever' torn to shreds and tatters.
"They fought so well not one was left to tell Which got the largest share of cuts and slashes; When heroes meet, both sides are bound to beat; They telescoped like cars in railroad smashes.
"So the great split that baffled human wit And might have cost the lives of twenty millions, As all may see that know the rule of three, Was settled just as well by these civilians.
"As well.

Just so.

Not worse, not better.

No, Next morning found the Nation still divided; Since all were slain, the inference is plain They left the point they fought for undecided." If not quite true, as I have told it you, This tale of mutual extermination, To minds perplexed with threats of what comes next, Perhaps may furnish food for contemplation.
To cut men's throats to help them count their votes Is asinine--nay, worse--ascidian folly; Blindness like that would scare the mole and bat, And make the liveliest monkey melancholy.
I say once more, as I have said before, If voting for our Tildens and our Hayeses Means only fight, then, Liberty, good night! Pack up your ballot-box and go to blazes.
Unfurl your blood-red flags, you murderous hags, You petroleuses of Paris, fierce and foamy; We'll sell our stock in Plymouth's blasted rock, Pull up our stakes and migrate to Dahomey! THE LAST SURVIVOR 1878 YES! the vacant chairs tell sadly we are going, going fast, And the thought comes strangely o'er me, who will live to be the last?
When the twentieth century's sunbeams climb the far-off eastern hill, With his ninety winters burdened, will he greet the morning still?
Will he stand with Harvard's nurslings when they hear their mother's call And the old and young are gathered in the many alcoved hall?
Will he answer to the summons when they range themselves in line And the young mustachioed marshal calls out "Class of '29 "?
Methinks I see the column as its lengthened ranks appear In the sunshine of the morrow of the nineteen hundredth year; Through the yard 't is creeping, winding, by the walls of dusky red,-- What shape is that which totters at the long procession's head?
Who knows this ancient graduate of fourscore years and ten,-- What place he held, what name he bore among the sons of men?
So speeds the curious question; its answer travels slow; "'T is the last of sixty classmates of seventy years ago." His figure shows but dimly, his face I scarce can see,-- There's something that reminds me,--it looks like--is it he?
He?
Who?
No voice may whisper what wrinkled brow shall claim The wreath of stars that circles our last survivor's name.
Will he be some veteran minstrel, left to pipe in feeble rhyme All the stories and the glories of our gay and golden time?
Or some quiet, voiceless brother in whose lonely,loving breast Fond memory broods in silence, like a dove upon her nest?
Will it be some old Emeritus, who taught so long ago The boys that heard him lecture have heads as white as snow?
Or a pious, painful preacher, holding forth from year to year Till his colleague got a colleague whom the young folks flocked to hear?
Will it be a rich old merchant in a square-tied white cravat, Or select-man of a village in a pre-historic hat?
Will his dwelling be a mansion in a marble-fronted row, Or a homestead by a hillside where the huckleberries grow?
I can see our one survivor, sitting lonely by himself,-- All his college text-books round him, ranged in order on their shelf; There are classic "interliners" filled with learning's choicest pith, Each _cum notis variorum, quas recensuit doctus_ Smith; Physics, metaphysics, logic, mathematics--all the lot Every wisdom--crammed octavo he has mastered and forgot, With the ghosts of dead professors standing guard beside them all; And the room is fall of shadows which their lettered backs recall.
How the past spreads out in vision with its far receding train, Like a long embroidered arras in the chambers of the brain, From opening manhood's morning when first we learned to grieve To the fond regretful moments of our sorrow-saddened eve! What early shadows darkened our idle summer's joy When death snatched roughly from us that lovely bright-eyed boy! The years move swiftly onwards; the deadly shafts fall fast,-- Till all have dropped around him--lo, there he stands,--the last! Their faces flit before him, some rosy-hued and fair, Some strong in iron manhood, some worn with toil and care; Their smiles no more shall greet him on cheeks with pleasure flushed! The friendly hands are folded, the pleasant voices hushed! My picture sets me dreaming; alas! and can it be Those two familiar faces we never more may see?
In every entering footfall I think them drawing near, With every door that opens I say, "At last they 're here!" The willow bends unbroken when angry tempests blow, The stately oak is levelled and all its strength laid low; So fell that tower of manhood, undaunted, patient, strong, White with the gathering snowflakes, who faced the storm so long.
And he,--what subtle phrases their varying light must blend To paint as each remembers our many-featured friend! His wit a flash auroral that laughed in every look, His talk a sunbeam broken on the ripples of a brook, Or, fed from thousand sources, a fountain's glittering jet, Or careless handfuls scattered of diamond sparks unset; Ah, sketch him, paint him, mould him in every shape you will, He was himself--the only--the one unpictured still! Farewell! our skies are darkened and--yet the stars will shine, We 'll close our ranks together and still fall into line Till one is left, one only, to mourn for all the rest; And Heaven bequeath their memories to him who loves us best! THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS A MODERNIZED VERSION 1879 I DON'T think I feel much older; I'm aware I'm rather gray, But so are many young folks; I meet 'em every day.
I confess I 'm more particular in what I eat and drink, But one's taste improves with culture; that is all it means, I think.
_Can you read as once you used to ?_ Well, the printing is so bad, No young folks' eyes can read it like the books that once we had.
_Are you quite as quick of hearing ?_ Please to say that once again.
_Don't I use plain words, your Reverence ?_ Yes, I often use a cane, But it's not because I need it,--no, I always liked a stick; And as one might lean upon it, 't is as well it should be thick.
Oh, I'm smart, I'm spry, I'm lively,--I can walk, yes, that I can, On the days I feel like walking, just as well as you, young man! _Don't you get a little sleepy after dinner every day ?_ Well, I doze a little, sometimes, but that always was my way.
_Don't you cry a little easier than some twenty years ago ?_ Well, my heart is very tender, but I think 't was always so.
_Don't you find it sometimes happens that you can't recall a name ?_ Yes, I know such lots of people,--but my memory 's not to blame.
What! You think my memory's failing! Why, it's just as bright and clear, I remember my great-grandma! She's been dead these sixty year! _Is your voice a little trembly ?_ Well, it may be, now and then, But I write as well as ever with a good old-fashioned pen; It 's the Gillotts make the trouble,--not at all my finger-ends,-- That is why my hand looks shaky when I sign for dividends.
_Don't you stoop a little, walking ?_ It 's a way I 've always had, I have always been round-shouldered, ever since I was a lad.
_Don't you hate to tie your shoe-strings ?_ Yes, I own it--that is true.
_Don't you tell old stories over ?_ I am not aware I do.
_Don't you stay at home of evenings?
Don't you love a cushioned seat_ _In a corner, by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet ?_ _Don't you wear warm fleecy flannels?
Don't you muffle up your throat_ _Don't you like to have one help you when you're putting on your coat ?_ _Don't you like old books you've dogs-eared, you can't remember when ?_ _Don't you call it late at nine o'clock and go to bed at ten ?_ _How many cronies can you count of all you used to know_ _Who called you by your Christian name some fifty years ago ?_ _How look the prizes to you that used to fire your brain ?_ _You've reared your mound-how high is it above the level plain ?_ _You 've drained the brimming golden cup that made your fancy reel,_ _You've slept the giddy potion off,--now tell us how you feel!_ _You've watched the harvest ripening till every stem was cropped,_ _You 've seen the rose of beauty fade till every petal dropped,_ _You've told your thought, you 've done your task, you've tracked your dial round,_ -- I backing down! Thank Heaven, not yet! I'm hale and brisk and sound, And good for many a tussle, as you shall live to see; My shoes are not quite ready yet,--don't think you're rid of me! Old Parr was in his lusty prime when he was older far, And where will you be if I live to beat old Thomas Parr?
_Ah well,--I know,--at every age life has a certain charm,_-- _You're going?
Come, permit me, please, I beg you'll take my arm._ I take your arm! Why take your arm?
I 'd thank you to be told I 'm old enough to walk alone, but not so _very_ old! THE SHADOWS 1880 "How many have gone ?" was the question of old Ere Time our bright ring of its jewels bereft; Alas! for too often the death-bell has tolled, And the question we ask is, "How many are left ?" Bright sparkled the wine; there were fifty that quaffed; For a decade had slipped and had taken but three.
How they frolicked and sung, how they shouted and laughed, Like a school full of boys from their benches set free! There were speeches and toasts, there were stories and rhymes, The hall shook its sides with their merriment's noise; As they talked and lived over the college-day times,-- No wonder they kept their old name of "The Boys"! The seasons moved on in their rhythmical flow With mornings like maidens that pouted or smiled, With the bud and the leaf and the fruit and the snow, And the year-books of Time in his alcoves were piled.
There were forty that gathered where fifty had met; Some locks had got silvered, some lives had grown sere, But the laugh of the laughers was lusty as yet, And the song of the singers rose ringing and clear.
Still flitted the years; there were thirty that came; "The Boys" they were still, and they answered their call; There were foreheads of care, but the smiles were the same, And the chorus rang loud through the garlanded hall.
The hour-hand moved on, and they gathered again; There were twenty that joined in the hymn that was sung; But ah! for our song-bird we listened in vain,-- The crystalline tones like a seraph's that rung! How narrow the circle that holds us to-night! How many the loved ones that greet us no more, As we meet like the stragglers that come from the fight, Like the mariners flung from a wreck on the shore! We look through the twilight for those we have lost; The stream rolls between us, and yet they seem near; Already outnumbered by those who have crossed, Our band is transplanted, its home is not here! They smile on us still--is it only a dream ?-- While fondly or proudly their names we recall; They beckon--they come--they are crossing the stream-- Lo! the Shadows! the Shadows! room--room for them all! BENJAMIN PEIRCE ASTRONOMER, MATHEMATICIAN.