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 sh.o.r.e Grow less and less, while more, yet more New vistas open wide Of fair illumined streets and cas.e.m.e.nts 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s?

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 cla.s.smate (a wig on his crown,-- His day-book and ledger laid carefully down) He has welcomed us yearly, a gla.s.s 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 CLa.s.s 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 cl.u.s.ters 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?