_Hic jacet_ Bill.
A SONG OF "TWENTY-NINE" 1851 THE summer dawn is breaking On Auburn's tangled bowers, The golden light is waking On Harvard's ancient towers; The sun is in the sky That must see us do or die, Ere it shine on the line Of the CLASS OF '29.
At last the day is ended, The tutor screws no more, By doubt and fear attended Each hovers round the door, Till the good old Praeses cries, While the tears stand in his eyes, "You have passed, and are classed With the Boys of '29." Not long are they in making The college halls their own, Instead of standing shaking, Too bashful to be known; But they kick the Seniors' shins Ere the second week begins, When they stray in the way Of the BOYS OF '29.
If a jolly set is trolling The last _Der Freischutz_ airs, Or a "cannon bullet" rolling Comes bouncing down the stairs, The tutors, looking out, Sigh, "Alas! there is no doubt, 'T is the noise of the Boys Of the CLASS OF '29." Four happy years together, By storm and sunshine tried, In changing wind and weather, They rough it side by side, Till they hear their Mother cry, "You are fledged, and you must fly," And the bell tolls the knell Of the days of '29.
Since then, in peace or trouble, Full many a year has rolled, And life has counted double The days that then we told; Yet we'll end as we've begun, For though scattered, we are one, While each year sees us here, Round the board of '29.
Though fate may throw between us The mountains or the sea, No time shall ever wean us, No distance set us free; But around the yearly board, When the flaming pledge is poured, It shall claim every name On the roll of '29.
To yonder peaceful ocean That glows with sunset fires, Shall reach the warm emotion This welcome day inspires, Beyond the ridges cold Where a brother toils for gold, Till it shine through the mine Round the Boy of '29.
If one whom fate has broken Shall lift a moistened eye, We'll say, before he 's spoken-- "Old Classmate, don't you cry! Here, take the purse I hold, There 's a tear upon the gold-- It was mine-it is thine-- A'n't we BOYS OF '29 ?" As nearer still and nearer The fatal stars appear, The living shall be dearer With each encircling year, Till a few old men shall say, "We remember 't is the day-- Let it pass with a glass For the CLASS OF '29." As one by one is falling Beneath the leaves or snows, Each memory still recalling, The broken ring shall close, Till the nightwinds softly pass O'er the green and growing grass, Where it waves on the graves Of the BOYS OF '29! QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 1852 WHERE, oh where are the visions of morning, Fresh as the dews of our prime?
Gone, like tenants that quit without warning, Down the back entry of time.
Where, oh where are life's lilies and roses, Nursed in the golden dawn's smile?
Dead as the bulrushes round little Moses, On the old banks of the Nile.
Where are the Marys, and Anns, and Elizas, Loving and lovely of yore?
Look in the columns of old Advertisers,-- Married and dead by the score.
Where the gray colts and the ten-year-old fillies, Saturday's triumph and joy?
Gone, like our friend (-- Greek--) Achilles, Homer's ferocious old boy.
Die-away dreams of ecstatic emotion, Hopes like young eagles at play, Vows of unheard-of and endless devotion, How ye have faded away! Yet, through the ebbing of Time's mighty river Leave our young blossoms to die, Let him roll smooth in his current forever, Till the last pebble is dry.
AN IMPROMPTU Not premeditated 1853 THE clock has struck noon; ere it thrice tell the hours We shall meet round the table that blushes with flowers, And I shall blush deeper with shame-driven blood That I came to the banquet and brought not a bud.
Who cares that his verse is a beggar in art If you see through its rags the full throb of his heart?
Who asks if his comrade is battered and tanned When he feels his warm soul in the clasp of his hand?
No! be it an epic, or be it a line, The Boys will all love it because it is mine; I sung their last song on the morn of the day That tore from their lives the last blossom of May.
It is not the sunset that glows in the wine, But the smile that beams over it, makes it divine; I scatter these drops, and behold, as they fall, The day-star of memory shines through them all! And these are the last; they are drops that I stole From a wine-press that crushes the life from the soul, But they ran through my heart and they sprang to my brain Till our twentieth sweet summer was smiling again! THE OLD MAN DREAMS 1854 OH for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring! I'd rather laugh, a bright-haired boy, Than reign, a gray-beard king.
Off with the spoils of wrinkled age! Away with Learning's crown! Tear out life's Wisdom-written page, And dash its trophies down! One moment let my life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream Of life all love and fame.
My listening angel heard the prayer, And, calmly smiling, said, "If I but touch thy silvered hair Thy hasty wish hath sped.
"But is there nothing in thy track, To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back To find the wished-for day ?" "Ah, truest soul of womankind! Without thee what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind: I'll take--my--precious--wife!" The angel took a sapphire pen And wrote in rainbow dew, _The man would be a boy again, And be a husband too!_ "And is there nothing yet unsaid, Before the change appears?
Remember, all their gifts have fled With those dissolving years." "Why, yes;" for memory would recall My fond paternal joys; "I could not bear to leave them all I'll take--my--girl--and--boys." The smiling angel dropped his pen,-- "Why, this will never do; The man would be a boy again, And be a father too!" And so I laughed,--my laughter woke The household with its noise,-- And wrote my dream, when morning broke, To please the gray-haired boys.
REMEMBER--FORGET 1855 AND what shall be the song to-night, If song there needs must be?
If every year that brings us here Must steal an hour from me?
Say, shall it ring a merry peal, Or heave a mourning sigh O'er shadows cast, by years long past, On moments flitting by?
Nay, take the first unbidden line The idle hour may send, No studied grace can mend the face That smiles as friend on friend; The balsam oozes from the pine, The sweetness from the rose, And so, unsought, a kindly thought Finds language as it flows.
The years rush by in sounding flight, I hear their ceaseless wings; Their songs I hear, some far, some near, And thus the burden rings "The morn has fled, the noon has past, The sun will soon be set, The twilight fade to midnight shade; Remember-and Forget!" Remember all that time has brought-- The starry hope on high, The strength attained, the courage gained, The love that cannot die.
Forget the bitter, brooding thought,-- The word too harshly said, The living blame love hates to name, The frailties of the dead! We have been younger, so they say, But let the seasons roll, He doth not lack an almanac Whose youth is in his soul.
The snows may clog life's iron track, But does the axle tire, While bearing swift through bank and drift The engine's heart of fire?
I lift a goblet in my hand; If good old wine it hold, An ancient skin to keep it in Is just the thing, we 're told.
We 're grayer than the dusty flask,-- We 're older than our wine; Our corks reveal the "white top" seal, The stamp of '29.
Ah, Boys! we clustered in the dawn, To sever in the dark; A merry crew, with loud halloo, We climbed our painted bark; We sailed her through the four years' cruise, We 'll sail her to the last, Our dear old flag, though but a rag, Still flying on her mast.
So gliding on, each winter's gale Shall pipe us all on deck, Till, faint and few, the gathering crew Creep o'er the parting wreck, Her sails and streamers spread aloft To fortune's rain or shine, Till storm or sun shall all be one, And down goes TWENTY-NINE! OUR INDIAN SUMMER 1856 You 'll believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise, With a welcome like this in your darling old eyes; To meet the same smiles and to hear the same tone Which have greeted me oft in the years that have flown.
Were I gray as the grayest old rat in the wall, My locks would turn brown at the sight of you all; If my heart were as dry as the shell on the sand, It would fill like the goblet I hold in my hand.
There are noontides of autumn when summer returns.
Though the leaves are all garnered and sealed in their urns, And the bird on his perch, that was silent so long, Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks into song.
We have caged the young birds of our beautiful June; Their plumes are still bright and their voices in tune; One moment of sunshine from faces like these And they sing as they sung in the green-growing trees.
The voices of morning! how sweet is their thrill When the shadows have turned, and the evening grows still! The text of our lives may get wiser with age, But the print was so fair on its twentieth page! Look off from your goblet and up from your plate, Come, take the last journal, and glance at its date: Then think what we fellows should say and should do, If the 6 were a 9 and the 5 were a 2.
Ah, no! for the shapes that would meet with as here, From the far land of shadows, are ever too dear! Though youth flung around us its pride and its charms, We should see but the comrades we clasped in our arms.
A health to our future--a sigh for our past, We love, we remember, we hope to the last; And for all the base lies that the almanacs hold, While we've youth in our hearts we can never grow old! MARE RUBRUM 1858 FLASH out a stream of blood-red wine, For I would drink to other days, And brighter shall their memory shine, Seen flaming through its crimson blaze! The roses die, the summers fade, But every ghost of boyhood's dream By nature's magic power is laid To sleep beneath this blood-red stream! It filled the purple grapes that lay, And drank the splendors of the sun, Where the long summer's cloudless day Is mirrored in the broad Garonne; It pictures still the bacchant shapes That saw their hoarded sunlight shed,-- The maidens dancing on the grapes,-- Their milk-white ankles splashed with red.
Beneath these waves of crimson lie, In rosy fetters prisoned fast, Those flitting shapes that never die,-- The swift-winged visions of the past.
Kiss but the crystal's mystic rim, Each shadow rends its flowery chain, Springs in a bubble from its brim, And walks the chambers of the brain.
Poor beauty! Time and fortune's wrong No shape nor feature may withstand; Thy wrecks are scattered all along, Like emptied sea-shells on the sand; Yet, sprinkled with this blushing rain, The dust restores each blooming girl, As if the sea-shells moved again Their glistening lips of pink and pearl.
Here lies the home of school-boy life, With creaking stair and wind-swept hall, And, scarred by many a truant knife, Our old initials on the wall; Here rest, their keen vibrations mute, The shout of voices known so well, The ringing laugh, the wailing flute, The chiding of the sharp-tongued bell.
Here, clad in burning robes, are laid Life's blossomed joys, untimely shed, And here those cherished forms have strayed We miss awhile, and call them dead.
What wizard fills the wondrous glass?
What soil the enchanted clusters grew?
That buried passions wake and pass In beaded drops of fiery dew?
Nay, take the cup of blood-red wine,-- Our hearts can boast a warmer glow, Filled from a vintage more divine, Calmed, but not chilled, by winter's snow! To-night the palest wave we sip Rich as the priceless draught shall be That wet the bride of Cana's lip,-- The wedding wine of Galilee! THE BOYS 1859 HAS there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?
If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the Almanac's cheat and the Catalogue's spite! Old Time is a liar! We're twenty to-night! We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsy,--young jackanapes!--show him the door! "Gray temples at twenty ?"--Yes! white if we please; Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze! Was it snowing I spoke of?
Excuse the mistake! Look close,--you will see not a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have shed,-- And these are white roses in place of the red.
We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told, Of talking (in public) as if we were old:-- That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge;" It 's a neat little fiction,--of course it 's all fudge.
That fellow's the "Speaker,"-- the one on the right; "Mr.Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?
That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff; There's the "Reverend" What's his name ?--don't make me laugh.
That boy with the grave mathematical look Made believe he had written a wonderful book, And the ROYAL SOCIETY thought it was _true_! So they chose him right in; a good joke it was, too! There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain, That could harness a team with a logical chain; When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire, We called him "The Justice," but now he's "The Squire." And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith,-- Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith; But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,-- Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee!" You hear that boy laughing ?--You think he's all fun; But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done; The children laugh loud as they troop to his call, And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all! Yes, we 're boys,--always playing with tongue or with pen,-- And I sometimes have asked,--Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay, Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?
Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray! The stars of its winter, the dews of its May! And when we have done with our life-lasting toys, Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS! LINES 1860 I 'm ashamed,--that 's the fact,--it 's a pitiful case,-- Won't any kind classmate get up in my place?
Just remember how often I've risen before,-- I blush as I straighten my legs on the floor! There are stories, once pleasing, too many times told,-- There are beauties once charming, too fearfully old,-- There are voices we've heard till we know them so well, Though they talked for an hour they'd have nothing to tell.
Yet, Classmates! Friends! Brothers! Dear blessed old boys! Made one by a lifetime of sorrows and joys, What lips have such sounds as the poorest of these, Though honeyed, like Plato's, by musical bees?
What voice is so sweet and what greeting so dear As the simple, warm welcome that waits for us here?
The love of our boyhood still breathes in its tone, And our hearts throb the answer, "He's one of our own!" Nay! count not our numbers; some sixty we know, But these are above, and those under the snow; And thoughts are still mingled wherever we meet For those we remember with those that we greet.
We have rolled on life's journey,--how fast and how far! One round of humanity's many-wheeled car, But up-hill and down-hill, through rattle and rub, Old, true Twenty-niners! we've stuck to our hub! While a brain lives to think, or a bosom to feel, We will cling to it still like the spokes of a wheel! And age, as it chills us, shall fasten the tire That youth fitted round in his circle of fire! A VOICE OF THE LOYAL NORTH 1861 JANUARY THIRD WE sing "Our Country's" song to-night With saddened voice and eye; Her banner droops in clouded light Beneath the wintry sky.
We'll pledge her once in golden wine Before her stars have set Though dim one reddening orb may shine, We have a Country yet.
'T were vain to sigh o'er errors past, The fault of sires or sons; Our soldier heard the threatening blast, And spiked his useless guns; He saw the star-wreathed ensign fall, By mad invaders torn; But saw it from the bastioned wall That laughed their rage to scorn! What though their angry cry is flung Across the howling wave,-- They smite the air with idle tongue The gathering storm who brave; Enough of speech! the trumpet rings; Be silent, patient, calm,-- God help them if the tempest swings The pine against the palm! Our toilsome years have made us tame; Our strength has slept unfelt; The furnace-fire is slow to flame That bids our ploughshares melt; 'T is hard to lose the bread they win In spite of Nature's frowns,-- To drop the iron threads we spin That weave our web of towns, To see the rusting turbines stand Before the emptied flumes, To fold the arms that flood the land With rivers from their looms,-- But harder still for those who learn The truth forgot so long; When once their slumbering passions burn, The peaceful are the strong! The Lord have mercy on the weak, And calm their frenzied ire, And save our brothers ere they shriek, "We played with Northern fire!" The eagle hold his mountain height,-- The tiger pace his den Give all their country, each his right! God keep us all! Amen! J.D.R.
1862 THE friends that are, and friends that were, What shallow waves divide! I miss the form for many a year Still seated at my side.
I miss him, yet I feel him still Amidst our faithful band, As if not death itself could chill The warmth of friendship's hand.
His story other lips may tell,-- For me the veil is drawn; I only knew he loved me well, He loved me--and is gone! VOYAGE OF THE GOOD SHIP UNION 1862 'T is midnight: through my troubled dream Loud wails the tempest's cry; Before the gale, with tattered sail, A ship goes plunging by.
What name?
Where bound ?--The rocks around Repeat the loud halloo.
-- The good ship Union, Southward bound: God help her and her crew! And is the old flag flying still That o'er your fathers flew, With bands of white and rosy light, And field of starry blue?
-- Ay! look aloft! its folds full oft Have braved the roaring blast, And still shall fly when from the sky This black typhoon has past! Speak, pilot of the storm-tost bark! May I thy peril share?
-- O landsman, there are fearful seas The brave alone may dare! -- Nay, ruler of the rebel deep, What matters wind or wave?
The rocks that wreck your reeling deck Will leave me naught to save! O landsman, art thou false or true?
What sign hast thou to show?
-- The crimson stains from loyal veins That hold my heart-blood's flow -- Enough! what more shall honor claim?
I know the sacred sign; Above thy head our flag shall spread, Our ocean path be thine! The bark sails on; the Pilgrim's Cape Lies low along her lee, Whose headland crooks its anchor-flukes To lock the shore and sea.
No treason here! it cost too dear To win this barren realm And true and free the hands must be That hold the whaler's helm! Still on! Manhattan's narrowing bay No rebel cruiser scars; Her waters feel no pirate's keel That flaunts the fallen stars! -- But watch the light on yonder height,-- Ay, pilot, have a care! Some lingering cloud in mist may shroud The capes of Delaware! Say, pilot, what this fort may be, Whose sentinels look down From moated walls that show the sea Their deep embrasures' frown?
The Rebel host claims all the coast, But these are friends, we know, Whose footprints spoil the "sacred soil," And this is ?--Fort Monroe! The breakers roar,--how bears the shore?
-- The traitorous wreckers' hands Have quenched the blaze that poured its rays Along the Hatteras sands.
-- Ha! say not so! I see its glow! Again the shoals display The beacon light that shines by night, The Union Stars by day! The good ship flies to milder skies, The wave more gently flows, The softening breeze wafts o'er the seas The breath of Beaufort's rose.
What fold is this the sweet winds kiss, Fair-striped and many-starred, Whose shadow palls these orphaned walls, The twins of Beauregard?
What! heard you not Port Royal's doom?
How the black war-ships came And turned the Beaufort roses' bloom To redder wreaths of flame?
How from Rebellion's broken reed We saw his emblem fall, As soon his cursed poison-weed Shall drop from Sumter's wall?
On! on! Pulaski's iron hail Falls harmless on Tybee! The good ship feels the freshening gales, She strikes the open sea; She rounds the point, she threads the keys That guard the Land of Flowers, And rides at last where firm and fast Her own Gibraltar towers! The good ship Union's voyage is o'er, At anchor safe she swings, And loud and clear with cheer on cheer Her joyous welcome rings: Hurrah! Hurrah! it shakes the wave, It thunders on the shore,-- One flag, one land, one heart, one hand, One Nation, evermore! "CHOOSE YOU THIS DAY WHOM YE WILL SERVE" 1863 YES, tyrants, you hate us, and fear while you hate The self-ruling, chain-breaking, throne-shaking State! The night-birds dread morning,--your instinct is true,-- The day-star of Freedom brings midnight for you! Why plead with the deaf for the cause of mankind?
The owl hoots at noon that the eagle is blind! We ask not your reasons,--'t were wasting our time,-- Our life is a menace, our welfare a crime! We have battles to fight, we have foes to subdue,-- Time waits not for us, and we wait not for you! The mower mows on, though the adder may writhe And the copper-head coil round the blade of his scythe! "No sides in this quarrel," your statesmen may urge, Of school-house and wages with slave-pen scourge!-- No sides in the quarrel! proclaim it as well To the angels that fight with the legions of hell! They kneel in God's temple, the North and the South, With blood on each weapon and prayers in each mouth.
Whose cry shall be answered?
Ye Heavens, attend The lords of the lash as their voices ascend! "O Lord, we are shaped in the image of Thee,-- Smite down the base millions that claim to be free, And lend thy strong arm to the soft-handed race Who eat not their bread in the sweat of their face!" So pleads the proud planter.

What echoes are these?
The bay of his bloodhound is borne on the breeze, And, lost in the shriek of his victim's despair, His voice dies unheard .-- Hear the Puritan's prayer! "O Lord, that didst smother mankind in thy flood, The sun is as sackcloth, the moon is as blood, The stars fall to earth as untimely are cast The figs from the fig-tree that shakes in the blast! "All nations, all tribes in whose nostrils is breath Stand gazing at Sin as she travails with Death! Lord, strangle the monster that struggles to birth, Or mock us no more with thy 'Kingdom on Earth!' "If Ammon and Moab must reign in the land Thou gavest thine Israel, fresh from thy hand, Call Baal and Ashtaroth out of their graves To be the new gods for the empire of slaves!" Whose God will ye serve, O ye rulers of men?
Will ye build you new shrines in the slave-breeder's den?
Or bow with the children of light, as they call On the Judge of the Earth and the Father of All?
Choose wisely, choose quickly, for time moves apace,-- Each day is an age in the life of our race! Lord, lead them in love, ere they hasten in fear From the fast-rising flood that shall girdle the sphere! F.W.

C.
1864 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--oh, 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; 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 boylike still,-- That life's hard censors could disarm And lead them captive at his will?
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's lightning's flash, No angry bolt, but harmless flame.
Man judges all, God knoweth each; We read the rule, He sees the law; How oft his laughing children teach The truths his prophets never saw O 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 grief's untimely tears We ask with half-reproachful sigh-- "Couldst thou not watch a few brief years Till Friendship faltered, 'Thou mayst die' ?" Who loved our boyish years so well?
Who knew so well their pleasant tales, And all those livelier freaks could tell Whose oft-told story never fails?
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! 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! THE LAST CHARGE 1864 Now, men of the North! will you join in the strife For country, for freedom, for honor, for life?
The giant grows blind in his fury and spite,-- One blow on his forehead will settle the fight! Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel, And stun him with cannon-bolts, peal upon peal! Mount, troopers, and follow your game to its lair, As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare! Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake! Beat, drums, till the roofs of the faint-hearted shake! Yet, yet, ere the signet is stamped on the scroll, Their names may be traced on the blood-sprinkled roll! Trust not the false herald that painted your shield True honor to-day must be sought on the field! Her scutcheon shows white with a blazon of red,-- The life-drops of crimson for liberty shed.
The hour is at hand, and the moment draws nigh; The dog-star of treason grows dim in the sky; Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light of the morn, Call back the bright hour when the Nation was born! The rivers of peace through our valleys shall run, As the glaciers of tyranny melt in the sun; Smite, smite the proud parricide down from his throne,-- His sceptre once broken, the world is our own! OUR OLDEST FRIEND 1865 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.
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, Put 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 will, 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, wheresoe'er we be, He wants a keepsake from you and me.
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! SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH A HALF-RHYMED IMPROMPTU 1865 LIKE the tribes of Israel, Fed on quails and manna, Sherman and his glorious band Journeyed through the rebel land, Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand, Marching on Savannah! As the moving pillar shone, Streamed the starry banner All day long in rosy light, Flaming splendor all the night, Till it swooped in eagle flight Down on doomed Savannah! Glory be to God on high! Shout the loud Hosanna! Treason's wilderness is past, Canaan's shore is won at last, Peal a nation's trumpet-blast,-- Sherman 's in Savannah! Soon shall Richmond's tough old hide Find a tough old tanner! Soon from every rebel wall Shall the rag of treason fall, Till our banner flaps o'er all As it crowns Savannah! MY ANNUAL 1866 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.
I claim not its music,--each note it affords I strike from your heart-strings, that lend me its chords; 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.
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 rays 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?
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.
Peace, Peace comes at last, with her garland of white; Peace broods in all hearts as we gather to-night; The blazon of Union spreads full in the sun; We echo its words,--We are one! We are one! ALL HERE 1867 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-- Nature's last blossom-need I name The wreath of threescore's silver lilies?
How many, brothers, meet to-night Around our boyhood's covered embers?
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; 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! 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 _ubique--omnes--semper_! 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; The lightning bolts of noon are shot; No fear of evening's idle thunder! Too late! too late!--no graceless hand Shall stretch its cords in vain endeavor To rive the close encircling band That made and keeps us one forever! 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!" ONCE MORE ONCE MORE 1868 "Will I come ?" That is pleasant! I beg to inquire If the gun that I carry has ever missed fire?
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 ?" I'll 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.
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 ?" Of course there were not! And next,--what a load! it wall 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"?
Bump I bump! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes,-- Aha, old Professor! Look out for your toes! Don't think, my poor Tutor, to sleep 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 "Hollis" and "Stoughton" reechoed the call; Till P----- poked his head out of Holworthy Hall! 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! Oh 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?
And dost thou, my brother, remember indeed The days of our dealings with Willard and Read?
When "Dolly" was kicking and running away, And punch came up smoking on Fillebrown's tray?
But where are the Tutors, my brother, oh tell!-- And where the Professors, remembered so well?
The sturdy old Grecian of Holworthy Hall, And Latin, and Logic, and Hebrew, and all?
"They are dead, the old fellows" (we called them so then, Though we since have found out they were lusty young men).
They are dead, do you tell me ?--but how do you know?
You've filled once too often.