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 cl.u.s.tered 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 sh.e.l.l 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!