Part 5

Adieu! I 've trod my annual track How long!--let others count the miles,-- And peddled out my rhyming pack To friends who always paid in smiles. So, laissez-moi! some youthful wit No doubt has wares he wants to show; And I am asking, "Let me sit," Dum ille clamat, "Dos pou sto!"

FOR THE CENTENNIAL DINNER

OF THE PROPRIETORS OF BOSTON PIER, OR THE LONG WHARF, APRIL 16, 1873

DEAR friends, we are strangers; we never before Have suspected what love to each other we bore; But each of us all to his neighbor is dear, Whose heart has a throb for our time-honored pier.

As I look on each brother proprietor's face, I could open my arms in a loving embrace; What wonder that feelings, undreamed of so long, Should burst all at once in a blossom of song!

While I turn my fond glance on the monarch of piers, Whose throne has stood firm through his eightscore of years, My thought travels backward and reaches the day When they drove the first pile on the edge of the bay.

See! The joiner, the shipwright, the smith from his forge, The redcoat, who shoulders his gun for King George, The shopman, the 'prentice, the boys from the lane, The parson, the doctor with gold-headed cane,

Come trooping down King Street, where now may be seen The pulleys and ropes of a mighty machine; The weight rises slowly; it drops with a thud; And, to! the great timber sinks deep in the mud!

They are gone, the stout craftsmen that hammered the piles, And the square-toed old boys in the three-cornered tiles; The breeches, the buckles, have faded from view, And the parson's white wig and the ribbon-tied queue.

The redcoats have vanished; the last grenadier Stepped into the boat from the end of our pier; They found that our hills were not easy to climb, And the order came, "Countermarch, double-quick time!"

They are gone, friend and foe,--anchored fast at the pier, Whence no vessel brings back its pale passengers here; But our wharf, like a lily, still floats on the flood, Its breast in the sunshine, its roots in the mud.

Who--who that has loved it so long and so well-- The flower of his birthright would barter or sell? No: pride of the bay, while its ripples shall run, You shall pass, as an heirloom, from father to son!

Let me part with the acres my grandfather bought, With the bonds that my uncle's kind legacy brought, With my bank-shares,--old "Union," whose ten per cent stock Stands stiff through the storms as the Eddystone rock;

With my rights (or my wrongs) in the "Erie,"--alas! With my claims on the mournful and "Mutual Mass.;" With my "Phil. Wil. and Balt.," with my "C. B. and Q.;" But I never, no never, will sell out of you.

We drink to thy past and thy future to-day, Strong right arm of Boston, stretched out o'er the bay. May the winds waft the wealth of all nations to thee, And thy dividends flow like the waves of the sea!

A POEM SERVED TO ORDER

PHI BETA KAPPA, JUNE 26, 1873

THE Caliph ordered up his cook, And, scowling with a fearful look That meant,--We stand no gammon,-- "To-morrow, just at two," he said, "Hassan, our cook, will lose his head, Or serve us up a salmon."

"Great sire," the trembling chef replied, "Lord of the Earth and all beside, Sun, Moon, and Stars, and so on (Look in Eothen,-there you'll find A list of titles. Never mind; I have n't time to go on:)

"Great sire," and so forth, thus he spoke, "Your Highness must intend a joke; It doesn't stand to reason For one to order salmon brought, Unless that fish is sometimes caught, And also is in season.

"Our luck of late is shocking bad, In fact, the latest catch we had (We kept the matter shady), But, hauling in our nets,--alack! We found no salmon, but a sack That held your honored Lady!"

"Allah is great!" the Caliph said, "My poor Zuleika, you are dead, I once took interest in you." "Perhaps, my Lord, you'd like to know We cut the lines and let her go." "Allah be praised! Continue."

"It is n't hard one's hook to bait, And, squatting down, to watch and wait, To see the cork go under; At last suppose you've got your bite, You twitch away with all your might,-- You've hooked an eel, by thunder!"

The Caliph patted Hassan's head "Slave, thou hast spoken well," he said, "And won thy master's favor. Yes; since what happened t' other morn The salmon of the Golden Horn Might have a doubtful flavor.

"That last remark about the eel Has also justice that we feel Quite to our satisfaction. To-morrow we dispense with fish, And, for the present, if you wish, You'll keep your bulbous fraction."

"Thanks! thanks!" the grateful chef replied, His nutrient feature showing wide The gleam of arches dental: "To cut my head off wouldn't pay, I find it useful every day, As well as ornamental."

. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Brothers, I hope you will not fail To see the moral of my tale And kindly to receive it. You know your anniversary pie Must have its crust, though hard and dry, And some prefer to leave it.

How oft before these youths were born I've fished in Fancy's Golden Horn For what the Muse might send me! How gayly then I cast the line, When all the morning sky was mine, And Hope her flies would lend me!

And now I hear our despot's call, And come, like Hassan, to the hall,-- If there's a slave, I am one,-- My bait no longer flies, but worms! I 've caught--Lord bless me! how he squirms! An eel, and not a salmon!

THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH

READ AT THE MEETING OF THE HARVARD ALUMNI ASSOCIATION, JUNE 25, 1873

THE fount the Spaniard sought in vain Through all the land of flowers Leaps glittering from the sandy plain Our classic grove embowers; Here youth, unchanging, blooms and smiles, Here dwells eternal spring, And warm from Hope's elysian isles The winds their perfume bring.

Here every leaf is in the bud, Each singing throat in tune, And bright o'er evening's silver flood Shines the young crescent moon. What wonder Age forgets his staff And lays his glasses down, And gray-haired grandsires look and laugh As when their locks were brown!

With ears grown dull and eyes grown dim They greet the joyous day That calls them to the fountain's brim To wash their years away. What change has clothed the ancient sire In sudden youth? For, to! The Judge, the Doctor, and the Squire Are Jack and Bill and Joe!

And be his titles what they will, In spite of manhood's claim The graybeard is a school-boy still And loves his school-boy name; It calms the ruler's stormy breast Whom hurrying care pursues, And brings a sense of peace and rest, Like slippers after shoes.--

And what are all the prizes won To youth's enchanted view? And what is all the man has done To what the boy may do? O blessed fount, whose waters flow Alike for sire and son, That melts our winter's frost and snow And makes all ages one!

I pledge the sparkling fountain's tide, That flings its golden shower With age to fill and youth to guide, Still fresh in morning flower Flow on with ever-widening stream, In ever-brightening morn,-- Our story's pride, our future's dream, The hope of times unborn!

NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME

THERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were young, When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of spring-time sung! The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, But oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first!

There is no place like the old place, where you and I were born, Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the morn From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore, Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us no more!

There is no friend like the old friend, who has shared our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold; But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.

There is no love like the old love, that we courted in our pride; Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by side, There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our dawn, And we live in borrowed sunshine when the day-star is withdrawn.

There are no times like the old times,--they shall never be forgot! There is no place like the old place,--keep green the dear old spot! There are no friends like our old friends,--may Heaven prolong their lives There are no loves like our old loves,--God bless our loving wives!

1865.

A HYMN OF PEACE

SUNG AT THE "JUBILEE," JUNE 15, 1869, TO THE MUSIC OF KELLER'S "AMERICAN HYMN"

ANGEL of Peace, thou hast wandered too long! Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love! Come while our voices are blended in song,-- Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove! Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove,-- Speed o'er the far-sounding billows of song, Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love,-- Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long!

Joyous we meet, on this altar of thine Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine, Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea,-- Meadow and mountain and forest and sea! Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine, Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, Brothers once more round this altar of thine!

Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain! Hark! a new birth-song is filling the sky!-- Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main Bid the full breath of the organ reply,-- Let the loud tempest of voices reply,-- Roll its long surge like the-earth-shaking main! Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky! Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain!

NOTES.

THE BOYS. The members of the Harvard College class of 1829 referred to in this poem are: "Doctor," Francis Thomas; "Judge," G. T. Bigelow, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Massachusetts; "O Speaker," Hon. Francis B. Crowninshield, Speaker of the Massachusetts House of Representatives; "Mr. Mayor," G. W. Richardson, of Worcester,Mass.; "Member of Congress," Hon. George T. Davis; "Reverend," James Freeman Clarke; "boy with the grave mathematical look," Benjamin Peirce; "boy with a three-decker brain," Judge Benjamin R. Curtis, of the Supreme Court of the United States; "nice youngster of excellent pith," S. F. Smith, author of "My Country, 't is of Thee."

"That lovely, bright-eyed boy." William Sturgis.

"Who faced the storm so long." Francis B. Crowninshield.

"Our many featured friend." George T. Davis.

"The close-clinging dulcamara." The "bitter-sweet" of New England is the _Celastrus scandens_, "bourreau des arbres" of the Canadian French.

"All armed with picks and spades." The captured slaves were at this time organized as pioneers.