Chapter 3

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. 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.