Yet bring whate'er your garden grows, Thrice welcome to our smiles and praises; Thanks for the myrtle and the rose, Thanks for the marigolds and daisies; One flower erelong we all shall claim, Alas! unloved of Amaryllis-- Nature's last blossom-need I name The wreath of threescore's silver lilies?

How many, brothers, meet to-night Around our boyhood's covered embers?

Go read the treasured names aright The old triennial list remembers; Though twenty wear the starry sign That tells a life has broke its tether, The fifty-eight of 'twenty-nine-- G.o.d bless THE Boys!--are all together!

These come with joyous look and word, With friendly grasp and cheerful greeting,-- Those smile unseen, and move unheard, The angel guests of every meeting; They cast no shadow in the flame That flushes from the gilded l.u.s.tre, But count us--we are still the same; One earthly band, one heavenly cl.u.s.ter!

Love dies not when he bows his head To pa.s.s beyond the narrow portals,-- The light these glowing moments shed Wakes from their sleep our lost immortals; They come as in their joyous prime, Before their morning days were numbered,-- Death stays the envious hand of Time,-- The eyes have not grown dim that slumbered!

The paths that loving souls have trod Arch o'er the dust where worldlings grovel High as the zenith o'er the sod,-- The cross above the s.e.xton's shovel!

We rise beyond the realms of day; They seem to stoop from spheres of glory With us one happy hour to stray, While youth comes back in song and story.

Ah! ours is friendship true as steel That war has tried in edge and temper; It writes upon its sacred seal The priest's _ubique--omnes--semper_!

It lends the sky a fairer sun That cheers our lives with rays as steady As if our footsteps had begun To print the golden streets already!

The tangling years have clinched its knot Too fast for mortal strength to sunder; The lightning bolts of noon are shot; No fear of evening's idle thunder!

Too late! too late!--no graceless hand Shall stretch its cords in vain endeavor To rive the close encircling band That made and keeps us one forever!

So when upon the fated scroll The falling stars have all descended, And, blotted from the breathing roll, Our little page of life is ended, We ask but one memorial line Traced on thy tablet, Gracious Mother "My children. Boys of '29.

In pace. How they loved each other!"

ONCE MORE

ONCE MORE

1868

"Will I come?" That is pleasant! I beg to inquire If the gun that I carry has ever missed fire?

And which was the muster-roll-mention but one-- That missed your old comrade who carries the gun?

You see me as always, my hand on the lock, The cap on the nipple, the hammer full c.o.c.k; It is rusty, some tell me; I heed not the scoff; It is battered and bruised, but it always goes off!

"Is it loaded?" I'll bet you! What doesn't it hold?

Rammed full to the muzzle with memories untold; Why, it scares me to fire, lest the pieces should fly Like the cannons that burst on the Fourth of July.

One charge is a remnant of College-day dreams (Its wadding is made of forensics and themes); Ah, visions of fame! what a flash in the pan As the trigger was pulled by each clever young man!

And love! Bless my stars, what a cartridge is there!

With a wadding of rose-leaves and ribbons and hair,-- All crammed in one verse to go off at a shot!

"Were there ever such sweethearts?" Of course there were not!

And next,--what a load! it wall split the old gun,-- Three fingers,--four fingers,--five fingers of fun!

Come tell me, gray sages, for mischief and noise Was there ever a lot like us fellows, "The Boys"?

b.u.mp I b.u.mp! down the staircase the cannon-ball goes,-- Aha, old Professor! Look out for your toes!

Don't think, my poor Tutor, to sleep in your bed,-- Two "Boys"--'twenty-niners-room over your head!

Remember the nights when the tar-barrel blazed!

From red "Ma.s.sachusetts" the war-cry was raised; And "Hollis" and "Stoughton" reechoed the call; Till P----- poked his head out of Holworthy Hall!

Old P----, as we called him,--at fifty or so,-- Not exactly a bud, but not quite in full blow; In ripening manhood, suppose we should say, Just nearing his prime, as we boys are to-day!

Oh say, can you look through the vista of age To the time when old Morse drove the regular stage?

When Lyon told tales of the long-vanished years, And Lenox crept round with the rings in his ears?

And dost thou, my brother, remember indeed The days of our dealings with Willard and Read?

When "Dolly" was kicking and running away, And punch came up smoking on Fillebrown's tray?

But where are the Tutors, my brother, oh tell!-- And where the Professors, remembered so well?

The st.u.r.dy old Grecian of Holworthy Hall, And Latin, and Logic, and Hebrew, and all?

"They are dead, the old fellows" (we called them so then, Though we since have found out they were l.u.s.ty young men).

They are dead, do you tell me?--but how do you know?

You've filled once too often. I doubt if it's so.

I'm thinking. I'm thinking. Is this 'sixty-eight?

It's not quite so clear. It admits of debate.

I may have been dreaming. I rather incline To think--yes, I'm certain--it is 'twenty-nine!

"By Zhorzhe!"--as friend Sales is accustomed to cry,-- You tell me they're dead, but I know it's a lie!

Is Jackson not President?--What was 't you said?

It can't be; you're joking; what,--all of 'em dead?

Jim,--Harry,--Fred,--Isaac,--all gone from our side?

They could n't have left us,--no, not if they tried.

Look,--there 's our old Prises,--he can't find his text; See,--P----- rubs his leg, as he growls out "The next!"

I told you 't was nonsense. Joe, give us a song!

Go harness up "Dolly," and fetch her along!-- Dead! Dead! You false graybeard, I swear they are not!

Hurrah for Old Hickory!--Oh, I forgot!

Well, _one_ we have with us (how could he contrive To deal with us youngsters and still to survive?) Who wore for our guidance authority's robe,-- No wonder he took to the study of Job!

And now, as my load was uncommonly large, Let me taper it off with a cla.s.sical charge; When that has gone off, I shall drop my old gun-- And then stand at ease, for my service is done.

_Bibamus ad Cla.s.sem vocatam_ "The Boys"

_Et eorum Tutorem cui nomen est "Noyes";_ _Et floreant, valeant, vigeant tam,_ _Non Peircius ipse enumeret quam!_

THE OLD CRUISER

1869

HERE 's the old cruiser, 'Twenty-nine, Forty times she 's crossed the line; Same old masts and sails and crew, Tight and tough and as good as new.