Is kept in the College there.
Seems but little the worse for wear.
That 's remarkable when I say It was old in President Holyoke's day.
(One of his boys, perhaps you know, Died, _at one hundred_, years ago.) He took lodgings for rain or shine Under green bed-clothes in '69.
Know old Cambridge?
Hope you do .-- Born there?
Don't say so! I was, too.
(Born in a house with a gambrel-roof,-- Standing still, if you must have proof .-- "Gambrel ?--Gambrel ?"--Let me beg You'll look at a horse's hinder leg,-- First great angle above the hoof,-- That 's the gambrel; hence gambrel-roof.) Nicest place that ever was seen,-- Colleges red and Common green, Sidewalks brownish with trees between.
Sweetest spot beneath the skies When the canker-worms don't rise,-- When the dust, that sometimes flies Into your mouth and ears and eyes, In a quiet slumber lies, _Not_ in the shape of umbaked pies Such as barefoot children prize.
A kind of harbor it seems to be, Facing the flow of a boundless sea.
Rows of gray old Tutors stand Ranged like rocks above the sand; Rolling beneath them, soft and green, Breaks the tide of bright sixteen,-- One wave, two waves, three waves, four,-- Sliding up the sparkling floor.
Then it ebbs to flow no more, Wandering off from shore to shore With its freight of golden ore! Pleasant place for boys to play;-- Better keep your girls away; Hearts get rolled as pebbles do Which countless fingering waves pursue, And every classic beach is strown With heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red stone.
But this is neither here nor there; I'm talking about an old arm-chair.
You 've heard, no doubt, of PARSON TURELL?
Over at Medford he used to dwell; Married one of the Mathers' folk; Got with his wife a chair of oak,-- Funny old chair with seat like wedge, Sharp behind and broad front edge,-- One of the oddest of human things, Turned all over with knobs and rings,-- But heavy, and wide, and deep, and grand,-- Fit for the worthies of the land,-- Chief Justice Sewall a cause to try in, Or Cotton Mather to sit--and lie--in.
Parson Turell bequeathed the same To a certain student,--SMITH by name; These were the terms, as we are told: "Saide Smith saide Chaire to have and holde; When he doth graduate, then to passe To ye oldest Youth in ye Senior Classe.
On payment of "-- (naming a certain sum)-- "By him to whom ye Chaire shall come; He to ye oldest Senior next, And soe forever,"-- (thus runs the text,)-- "But one Crown lesse then he gave to claime, That being his Debte for use of same." Smith transferred it to one of the BROWNS, And took his money,--five silver crowns.
Brown delivered it up to MOORE, Who paid, it is plain, not five, but four.
Moore made over the chair to LEE, Who gave him crowns of silver three.
Lee conveyed it unto DREW, And now the payment, of course, was two.
Drew gave up the chair to DUNN,-- All he got, as you see, was one.
Dunn released the chair to HALL, And got by the bargain no crown at all.
And now it passed to a second BROWN, Who took it and likewise claimed a crown.
When Brown conveyed it unto WARE, Having had one crown, to make it fair, He paid him two crowns to take the chair; And Ware, being honest, (as all Wares be,) He paid one POTTER, who took it, three.
Four got ROBINSON; five got Dix; JOHNSON primus demanded six; And so the sum kept gathering still Till after the battle of Bunker's Hill.
When paper money became so cheap, Folks would n't count it, but said "a heap," A certain RICHARDS,--the books declare,-- (A.M.in '90?
I've looked with care Through the Triennial,--name not there,)-- This person, Richards, was offered then Eightscore pounds, but would have ten; Nine, I think, was the sum he took,-- Not quite certain,--but see the book.
By and by the wars were still, But nothing had altered the Parson's will.
The old arm-chair was solid yet, But saddled with such a monstrous debt! Things grew quite too bad to bear, Paying such sums to get rid of the chair But dead men's fingers hold awful tight, And there was the will in black and white, Plain enough for a child to spell.
What should be done no man could tell, For the chair was a kind of nightmare curse, And every season but made it worse.
As a last resort, to clear the doubt, They got old GOVERNOR HANCOCK out.
The Governor came with his Lighthorse Troop And his mounted truckmen, all cock-a-hoop; Halberds glittered and colors flew, French horns whinnied and trumpets blew, The yellow fifes whistled between their teeth, And the bumble-bee bass-drums boomed beneath; So he rode with all his band, Till the President met him, cap in hand.
The Governor "hefted" the crowns, and said,-- "A will is a will, and the Parson's dead." The Governor hefted the crowns.

Said he,-- "There is your p'int.

And here 's my fee.
"These are the terms you must fulfil,-- On such conditions I BREAK THE WILL!" The Governor mentioned what these should be.
(Just wait a minute and then you 'll see.) The President prayed.

Then all was still, And the Governor rose and BROKE THE WILL! "About those conditions ?" Well, now you go And do as I tell you, and then you'll know.
Once a year, on Commencement day, If you 'll only take the pains to stay, You'll see the President in the CHAIR, Likewise the Governor sitting there.
The President rises; both old and young May hear his speech in a foreign tongue, The meaning whereof, as lawyers swear, Is this: Can I keep this old arm-chair?
And then his Excellency bows, As much as to say that he allows.
The Vice-Gub.

next is called by name; He bows like t' other, which means the same.
And all the officers round 'em bow, As much as to say that they allow.
And a lot of parchments about the chair Are handed to witnesses then and there, And then the lawyers hold it clear That the chair is safe for another year.
God bless you, Gentlemen! Learn to give Money to colleges while you live.
Don't be silly and think you'll try To bother the colleges, when you die, With codicil this, and codicil that, That Knowledge may starve while Law grows fat; For there never was pitcher that wouldn't spill, And there's always a flaw in a donkey's will! ODE FOR A SOCIAL MEETING WITH SLIGHT ALTERATIONS BY A TEETOTALER--( ...) COME! fill a fresh bumper, for why should we go While the nectar (logwood) still reddens our cups as they flow?
Pour out the rich juices (decoction) still bright with the sun, Till o'er the brimmed crystal the rubies (dye-stuff) shall run.
The purple-globed clusters (half-ripened apples) their life-dews have bled; How sweet is the breath (taste) of the fragrance they shed!( sugar of lead) For summer's last roses (rank poisons) lie hid in the wines (wines!!!) That were garnered by maidens who laughed through the vines (stable-boys smoking long-nines) Then a smile (scowl) and a glass (howl) and a toast (scoff) and a cheer (sneer); For all the good wine, and we 've some of it here! (strychnine and whiskey, and ratsbane and beer!) In cellar, in pantry, in attic, in hall, Long live the gay servant that laughs for us all! (Down, down with the tyrant that masters us all!) POEMS FROM THE PROFESSOR AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE 1858-1859 UNDER THE VIOLETS HER hands are cold; her face is white; No more her pulses come and go; Her eyes are shut to life and light;-- Fold the white vesture, snow on snow, And lay her where the violets blow.
But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies.
And gray old trees of hugest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drop their dead leaves on her mound.
When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, And through their leaves the robins call, And, ripening in the autumn sun, The acorns and the chestnuts fall, Doubt not that she will heed them all.
For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high, And every minstrel-voice of Spring, That trills beneath the April sky, Shall greet her with its earliest cry.
When, turning round their dial-track, Eastward the lengthening shadows pass, Her little mourners, clad in black, The crickets, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass.
At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies, And bear the buried dust they seize In leaves and blossoms to the skies.
So may the soul that warmed it rise! If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask, What maiden lies below?
Say only this: A tender bud, That tried to blossom in the snow, Lies withered where the violets blow.
HYMN OF TRUST O Love Divine, that stooped to share Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, On Thee we cast each earth-born care, We smile at pain while Thou art near! Though long the weary way we tread, And sorrow crown each lingering year, No path we shun, no darkness dread, Our hearts still whispering, Thou art near! When drooping pleasure turns to grief, And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf, Shall softly tell us, Thou art near! On Thee we fling our burdening woe, O Love Divine, forever dear, Content to suffer while we know, Living and dying, Thou art near! A SUN-DAY HYMN LORD of all being! throned afar, Thy glory flames from sun and star; Centre and soul of every sphere, Yet to each loving heart how near! Sun of our life, thy quickening ray Sheds on our path the glow of day; Star of our hope, thy softened light Cheers the long watches of the night.
Our midnight is thy smile withdrawn; Our noontide is thy gracious dawn; Our rainbow arch thy mercy's sign; All, save the clouds of sin, are thin! Lord of all life, below, above, Whose light is truth, whose warmth is love, Before thy ever-blazing throne We ask no lustre of our own.
Grant us thy truth to make us free, And kindling hearts that burn for thee, Till all thy living altars claim One holy light, one heavenly flame! THE CROOKED FOOTPATH AH, here it is! the sliding rail That marks the old remembered spot,-- The gap that struck our school-boy trail,-- The crooked path across the lot.
It left the road by school and church, A pencilled shadow, nothing more, That parted from the silver-birch And ended at the farm-house door.
No line or compass traced its plan; With frequent bends to left or right, In aimless, wayward curves it ran, But always kept the door in sight.
The gabled porch, with woodbine green,-- The broken millstone at the sill,-- Though many a rood might stretch between, The truant child could see them still.
No rocks across the pathway lie,-- No fallen trunk is o'er it thrown,-- And yet it winds, we know not why, And turns as if for tree or stone.
Perhaps some lover trod the way With shaking knees and leaping heart,-- And so it often runs astray With sinuous sweep or sudden start.
Or one, perchance, with clouded brain From some unholy banquet reeled,-- And since, our devious steps maintain His track across the trodden field.
Nay, deem not thus,--no earthborn will Could ever trace a faultless line; Our truest steps are human still,-- To walk unswerving were divine! Truants from love, we dream of wrath; Oh, rather let us trust the more! Through all the wanderings of the path, We still can see our Father's door! IRIS, HER BOOK I PRAY thee by the soul of her that bore thee, By thine own sister's spirit I implore thee, Deal gently with the leaves that lie before thee! For Iris had no mother to infold her, Nor ever leaned upon a sister's shoulder, Telling the twilight thoughts that Nature told her.
She had not learned the mystery of awaking Those chorded keys that soothe a sorrow's aching, Giving the dumb heart voice, that else were breaking.
Yet lived, wrought, suffered.