We find her at her stately door, and in her ancient chair, Dressed in the robes of red and green she always loved to wear.

Her eye has all its radiant youth, her cheek its morning flame; We drop our roses as we go, hers flourish still the same.

We have been playing many an hour, and far away we've strayed, Some laughing in the cheerful sun, some lingering in the shade; And some have tired, and laid them down where darker shadows fall, Dear as her loving voice may be, they cannot hear its call.

What miles we 've travelled since we shook the dew-drops from our shoes We gathered on this cla.s.sic green, so famed for heavy dues!

How many boys have joined the game, how many slipped away, Since we've been running up and down, and having out our play!

One boy at work with book and brief, and one with gown and band, One sailing vessels on the pool, one digging sand, One flying paper kites on change, one planting little pills,-- The seeds of certain annual flowers well known as little bills.

What maidens met us on our way, and clasped us hand in hand!

What cherubs,--not the legless kind, that fly, but never stand!

How many a youthful head we've seen put on its silver crown What sudden changes back again to youth's empurpled brown!

But fairer sights have met our eyes, and broader lights have shone, Since others lit their midnight lamps where once we trimmed our own; A thousand trains that flap the sky with flags of rushing fire, And, throbbing in the Thunderer's hand, Thought's million-chorded lyre.

We've seen the sparks of Empire fly beyond the mountain bars, Till, glittering o'er the Western wave, they joined the setting stars; And ocean trodden into paths that trampling giants ford, To find the planet's vertebrae and sink its spinal cord.

We've tried reform,--and chloroform,--and both have turned our brain; When France called up the photograph, we roused the foe to pain; Just so those earlier sages shared the chaplet of renown,-- Hers sent a bladder to the clouds, ours brought their lightning down.

We've seen the little tricks of life, its varnish and veneer, Its stucco-fronts of character flake off and disappear, We 've learned that oft the brownest hands will heap the biggest pile, And met with many a "perfect brick" beneath a rimless "tile."

What dreams we 've had of deathless name, as scholars, statesmen, bards, While Fame, the lady with the trump, held up her picture cards!

Till, having nearly played our game, she gayly whispered, "Ah!

I said you should be something grand,--you'll soon be grandpapa."

Well, well, the old have had their day, the young must take their turn; There's something always to forget, and something still to learn; But how to tell what's old or young, the tap-root from the sprigs, Since Florida revealed her fount to Ponce de Leon Twiggs?

The wisest was a Freshman once, just freed from bar and bolt, As noisy as a kettle-drum, as leggy as a colt; Don't be too savage with the boys,--the Primer does not say The kitten ought to go to church because the cat doth prey.

The law of merit and of age is not the rule of three; Non constat that A. M. must prove as busy as A. B.

When Wise the father tracked the son, ballooning through the skies, He taught a lesson to the old,--go thou and do like Wise!

Now then, old boys, and reverend youth, of high or low degree, Remember how we only get one annual out of three, And such as dare to simmer down three dinners into one Must cut their salads mighty short, and pepper well with fun.

I've pa.s.sed my zenith long ago, it's time for me to set; A dozen planets wait to shine, and I am lingering yet, As sometimes in the blaze of day a milk-and-watery moon Stains with its dim and fading ray the l.u.s.trous blue of noon.

Farewell! yet let one echo rise to shake our ancient hall; G.o.d save the Queen,--whose throne is here,--the Mother of us all Till dawns the great commencement-day on every sh.o.r.e and sea, And "Expectantur" all mankind, to take their last Degree!

THE PARTING SONG

FESTIVAL OF THE ALUMNI, 1857

THE noon of summer sheds its ray On Harvard's holy ground; The Matron calls, the sons obey, And gather smiling round.

CHORUS.

Then old and young together stand, The sunshine and the snow, As heart to heart, and hand in hand, We sing before we go!

Her hundred opening doors have swung Through every storied hall The pealing echoes loud have rung, "Thrice welcome one and all!"

Then old and young, etc.

We floated through her peaceful bay, To sail life's stormy seas But left our anchor where it lay Beneath her green old trees.

Then old and young, etc.

As now we lift its lengthening chain, That held us fast of old, The rusted rings grow bright again,-- Their iron turns to gold.

Then old and young, etc.

Though scattered ere the setting sun, As leaves when wild winds blow, Our home is here, our hearts are one, Till Charles forgets to flow.

Then old and young, etc.

FOR THE MEETING OF THE NATIONAL SANITARY a.s.sOCIATION

1860

WHAT makes the Healing Art divine?

The bitter drug we buy and sell, The brands that scorch, the blades that shine, The scars we leave, the "cures" we tell?

Are these thy glories, holiest Art,-- The trophies that adorn thee best,-- Or but thy triumph's meanest part,-- Where mortal weakness stands confessed?

We take the arms that Heaven supplies For Life's long battle with Disease, Taught by our various need to prize Our frailest weapons, even these.

But ah! when Science drops her shield-- Its peaceful shelter proved in vain-- And bares her snow-white arm to wield The sad, stern ministry of pain;

When shuddering o'er the fount of life, She folds her heaven-anointed wings, To lift unmoved the glittering knife That searches all its crimson springs;

When, faithful to her ancient lore, She thrusts aside her fragrant balm For blistering juice, or cankering ore, And tames them till they cure or calm;

When in her gracious hand are seen The dregs and sc.u.m of earth and seas, Her kindness counting all things clean That lend the sighing sufferer ease;

Though on the field that Death has won, She save some stragglers in retreat;-- These single acts of mercy done Are but confessions of defeat.

What though our tempered poisons save Some wrecks of life from aches and ails; Those grand specifics Nature gave Were never poised by weights or scales!

G.o.d lent his creatures light and air, And waters open to the skies; Man locks him in a stifling lair, And wonders why his brother dies!

In vain our pitying tears are shed, In vain we rear the sheltering pile Where Art weeds out from bed to bed The plagues we planted by the mile!

Be that the glory of the past; With these our sacred toils begin So flies in tatters from its mast The yellow flag of sloth and sin,