Chapter I: GIVE you the health of the oldest friend

That, short of eternity, earth can lend,-- A friend so faithful and tried and true That nothing can wean him from me and you.

When first we screeched in the sudden blaze Of the daylight's blinding and blasting rays, And gulped at the gaseous, groggy air, This old, old friend stood waiting there.

And when, with a kind of mortal strife, We had gasped and choked into breathing life, He watched by the cradle, day and night, And held our hands till we stood upright.

From gristle and pulp our frames have grown To stringy muscle and solid bone; While we were changing, he altered not; We might forget, but he never forgot.

He came with us to the college class,-- Little cared he for the steward's pass! All the rest must pay their fee, Put the grim old dead-head entered free.

He stayed with us while we counted o'er Four times each of the seasons four; And with every season, from year to year, The dear name Classmate he made more dear.

He never leaves us,--he never will, Till our hands are cold and our hearts are still; On birthdays, and Christmas, and New-Year's too, He always remembers both me and you.

Every year this faithful friend His little present is sure to send; Every year, wheresoe'er we be, He wants a keepsake from you and me.

How he loves us! he pats our heads, And, lo! they are gleaming with silver threads; And he 's always begging one lock of hair, Till our shining crowns have nothing to wear.

At length he will tell us, one by one, "My child, your labor on earth is done; And now you must journey afar to see My elder brother,--Eternity!"

And so, when long, long years have passed, Some dear old fellow will be the last,-- Never a boy alive but he Of all our goodly company!

When he lies down, but not till then, Our kind Class-Angel will drop the pen That writes in the day-book kept above Our lifelong record of faith and love.

So here's a health in homely rhyme To our oldest classmate, Father Time! May our last survivor live to be As bald and as wise and as tough as he!

SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH

A HALF-RHYMED IMPROMPTU

1865

LIKE the tribes of Israel, Fed on quails and manna, Sherman and his glorious band Journeyed through the rebel land, Fed from Heaven's all-bounteous hand, Marching on Savannah!

As the moving pillar shone, Streamed the starry banner All day long in rosy light, Flaming splendor all the night, Till it swooped in eagle flight Down on doomed Savannah!

Glory be to God on high! Shout the loud Hosanna! Treason's wilderness is past, Canaan's shore is won at last, Peal a nation's trumpet-blast,-- Sherman 's in Savannah!

Soon shall Richmond's tough old hide Find a tough old tanner! Soon from every rebel wall Shall the rag of treason fall, Till our banner flaps o'er all As it crowns Savannah!

MY ANNUAL

1866

How long will this harp which you once loved to hear Cheat your lips of a smile or your eyes of a tear? How long stir the echoes it wakened of old, While its strings were unbroken, untarnished its gold?

Dear friends of my boyhood, my words do you wrong; The heart, the heart only, shall throb in my song; It reads the kind answer that looks from your eyes,-- "We will bid our old harper play on till he dies."

Though Youth, the fair angel that looked o'er the strings, Has lost the bright glory that gleamed on his wings, Though the freshness of morning has passed from its tone It is still the old harp that was always your own.

I claim not its music,--each note it affords I strike from your heart-strings, that lend me its chords; I know you will listen and love to the last, For it trembles and thrills with the voice of your past.

Ah, brothers! dear brothers! the harp that I hold No craftsman could string and no artisan mould; He shaped it, He strung it, who fashioned the lyres That ring with the hymns of the seraphim choirs.

Not mine are the visions of beauty it brings, Not mine the faint fragrance around it that clings; Those shapes are the phantoms of years that are fled, Those sweets breathe from roses your summers have shed.

Each hour of the past lends its tribute to this, Till it blooms like a bower in the Garden of Bliss; The thorn and the thistle may grow as they will, Where Friendship unfolds there is Paradise still.

The bird wanders careless while summer is green, The leaf-hidden cradle that rocked him unseen; When Autumn's rude fingers the woods have undressed, The boughs may look bare, but they show him his nest.

Too precious these moments! the lustre they fling Is the light of our year, is the gem of its ring, So brimming with sunshine, we almost forget The rays it has lost, and its border of jet.

While round us the many-hued halo is shed, How dear are the living, how near are the dead! One circle, scarce broken, these waiting below, Those walking the shores where the asphodels blow!

Not life shall enlarge it nor death shall divide,-- No brother new-born finds his place at my side; No titles shall freeze us, no grandeurs infest, His Honor, His Worship, are boys like the rest.

Some won the world's homage, their names we hold dear,-- But Friendship, not Fame, is the countersign here; Make room by the conqueror crowned in the strife For the comrade that limps from the battle of life!

What tongue talks of battle? Too long we have heard In sorrow, in anguish, that terrible word; It reddened the sunshine, it crimsoned the wave, It sprinkled our doors with the blood of our brave.

Peace, Peace comes at last, with her garland of white; Peace broods in all hearts as we gather to-night; The blazon of Union spreads full in the sun; We echo its words,--We are one! We are one!

ALL HERE

1867

IT is not what we say or sing, That keeps our charm so long unbroken, Though every lightest leaf we bring May touch the heart as friendship's token; Not what we sing or what we say Can make us dearer to each other; We love the singer and his lay, But love as well the silent brother.

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-- God 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 lustre, But count us--we are still the same; One earthly band, one heavenly cluster!

Love dies not when he bows his head To pass 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 sexton'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 cock; 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"?

Bump I bump! 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 "Massachusetts" 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 sturdy 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 lusty 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 classical charge; When that has gone off, I shall drop my old gun-- And then stand at ease, for my service is done.

_Bibamus ad Classem 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.

Into the harbor she bravely steers Just as she 's done for these forty years, Over her anchor goes, splash and clang! Down her sails drop, rattle and bang!

Comes a vessel out of the dock Fresh and spry as a fighting-cock, Feathered with sails and spurred with steam, Heading out of the classic stream.

Crew of a hundred all aboard, Every man as fine as a lord. Gay they look and proud they feel, Bowling along on even keel.

On they float with wind and tide,-- Gain at last the old ship's side; Every man looks down in turn,-- Reads the name that's on her stern.

"Twenty-nine!--Diable you say! That was in Skipper Kirkland's day! What was the Flying Dutchman's name? This old rover must be the same.

"Ho! you Boatswain that walks the deck, How does it happen you're not a wreck? One and another have come to grief, How have you dodged by rock and reef?"

Boatswain, lifting one knowing lid, Hitches his breeches and shifts his quid "Hey? What is it? Who 's come to grief Louder, young swab, I 'm a little deaf."

"I say, old fellow, what keeps your boat With all you jolly old boys afloat, When scores of vessels as good as she Have swallowed the salt of the bitter sea?

"Many a crew from many a craft Goes drifting by on a broken raft Pieced from a vessel that clove the brine Taller and prouder than 'Twenty-nine.

"Some capsized in an angry breeze, Some were lost in the narrow seas, Some on snags and some on sands Struck and perished and lost their hands.

"Tell us young ones, you gray old man, What is your secret, if you can. We have a ship as good as you, Show us how to keep our crew."

So in his ear the youngster cries; Then the gray Boatswain straight replies:-- "All your crew be sure you know,-- Never let one of your shipmates go.

"If he leaves you, change your tack, Follow him close and fetch him back; When you've hauled him in at last, Grapple his flipper and hold him fast.

"If you've wronged him, speak him fair, Say you're sorry and make it square; If he's wronged you, wink so tight None of you see what 's plain in sight.

"When the world goes hard and wrong, Lend a hand to help him along; When his stockings have holes to darn, Don't you grudge him your ball of yarn.

"Once in a twelvemonth, come what may, Anchor your ship in a quiet bay, Call all hands and read the log, And give 'em a taste of grub and grog.

"Stick to each other through thick and thin; All the closer as age leaks in; Squalls will blow and clouds will frown, But stay by your ship till you all go down!"

ADDED FOR THE ALUMNI MEETING, JUNE 29,

1869.

So the gray Boatswain of 'Twenty-nine Piped to "The Boys" as they crossed the line; Round the cabin sat thirty guests, Babes of the nurse with a thousand breasts.

There were the judges, grave and grand, Flanked by the priests on either hand; There was the lord of wealth untold, And the dear good fellow in broadcloth old.

Thirty men, from twenty towns, Sires and grandsires with silvered crowns,-- Thirty school-boys all in a row,-- Bens and Georges and Bill and Joe.

In thirty goblets the wine was poured, But threescore gathered around the board,-- For lo! at the side of every chair A shadow hovered--we all were there!

HYMN FOR THE CLASS-MEETING

1869

THOU Gracious Power, whose mercy lends The light of home, the smile of friends, Our gathered flock thine arms infold As in the peaceful days of old.

Wilt thou not hear us while we raise, In sweet accord of solemn praise, The voices that have mingled long In joyous flow of mirth and song?

For all the blessings life has brought, For all its sorrowing hours have taught, For all we mourn, for all we keep, The hands we clasp, the loved that sleep;

The noontide sunshine of the past, These brief, bright moments fading fast, The stars that gild our darkening years, The twilight ray from holier spheres;

We thank thee, Father! let thy grace Our narrowing circle still embrace, Thy mercy shed its heavenly store, Thy peace be with us evermore!

EVEN-SONG.

1870

IT may be, yes, it must be, Time that brings An end to mortal things, That sends the beggar Winter in the train Of Autumn's burdened wain,-- Time, that is heir of all our earthly state, And knoweth well to wait Till sea hath turned to shore and shore to sea, If so it need must be, Ere he make good his claim and call his own Old empires overthrown,-- Time, who can find no heavenly orb too large To hold its fee in charge, Nor any motes that fill its beam so small, But he shall care for all,-- It may be, must be,--yes, he soon shall tire This hand that holds the lyre.

Then ye who listened in that earlier day When to my careless lay I matched its chords and stole their first-born thrill, With untaught rudest skill Vexing a treble from the slender strings Thin as the locust sings When the shrill-crying child of summer's heat Pipes from its leafy seat, The dim pavilion of embowering green Beneath whose shadowy screen The small sopranist tries his single note Against the song-bird's throat, And all the echoes listen, but in vain; They hear no answering strain,-- Then ye who listened in that earlier day Shall sadly turn away,

Saying, "The fire burns low, the hearth is cold That warmed our blood of old; Cover its embers and its half-burnt brands, And let us stretch our hands Over a brighter and fresh-kindled flame; Lo, this is not the same, The joyous singer of our morning time, Flushed high with lusty rhyme! Speak kindly, for he bears a human heart, But whisper him apart,-- Tell him the woods their autumn robes have shed And all their birds have fled, And shouting winds unbuild the naked nests They warmed with patient breasts; Tell him the sky is dark, the summer o'er, And bid him sing no more!"

Ah, welladay! if words so cruel-kind A listening ear might find! But who that hears the music in his soul Of rhythmic waves that roll Crested with gleams of fire, and as they flow Stir all the deeps below Till the great pearls no calm might ever reach Leap glistening on the beach,-- Who that has known the passion and the pain, The rush through heart and brain, The joy so like a pang his hand is pressed Hard on his throbbing breast, When thou, whose smile is life and bliss and fame Hast set his pulse aflame, Muse of the lyre! can say farewell to thee? Alas! and must it be?

In many a clime, in many a stately tongue, The mighty bards have sung; To these the immemorial thrones belong And purple robes of song; Yet the slight minstrel loves the slender tone His lips may call his own, And finds the measure of the verse more sweet, Timed by his pulse's beat, Than all the hymnings of the laurelled throng. Say not I do him wrong, For Nature spoils her warblers,--them she feeds In lotus-growing meads And pours them subtle draughts from haunted streams That fill their souls with dreams.

Full well I know the gracious mother's wiles And dear delusive smiles! No callow fledgling of her singing brood But tastes that witching food, And hearing overhead the eagle's wing, And how the thrushes sing, Vents his exiguous chirp, and from his nest Flaps forth--we know the rest. I own the weakness of the tuneful kind,-- Are not all harpers blind? I sang too early, must I sing too late? The lengthening shadows wait The first pale stars of twilight,--yet how sweet The flattering whisper's cheat,-- "Thou hast the fire no evening chill can tame, Whose coals outlast its flame!"

Farewell, ye carols of the laughing morn, Of earliest sunshine born! The sower flings the seed and looks not back Along his furrowed track; The reaper leaves the stalks for other hands To gird with circling bands; The wind, earth's careless servant, truant-born, Blows clean the beaten corn And quits the thresher's floor, and goes his way To sport with ocean's spray; The headlong-stumbling rivulet scrambling down To wash the sea-girt town, Still babbling of the green and billowy waste Whose salt he longs to taste, Ere his warm wave its chilling clasp may feel Has twirled the miller's wheel.

The song has done its task that makes us bold With secrets else untold,-- And mine has run its errand; through the dews I tracked the flying Muse; The daughter of the morning touched my lips With roseate finger-tips; Whether I would or would not, I must sing With the new choirs of spring; Now, as I watch the fading autumn day And trill my softened lay, I think of all that listened, and of one For whom a brighter sun Dawned at high summer's noon. Ah, comrades dear, Are not all gathered here? Our hearts have answered.--Yes! they hear our call: All gathered here! all! all!

THE SMILING LISTENER

1871 PRECISELY. I see it. You all want to say That a tear is too sad and a laugh is too gay; You could stand a faint smile, you could manage a sigh, But you value your ribs, and you don't want to cry.

And why at our feast of the clasping of hands Need we turn on the stream of our lachrymal glands? Though we see the white breakers of age on our bow, Let us take a good pull in the jolly-boat now!

It's hard if a fellow cannot feel content When a banquet like this does n't cost him a cent, When his goblet and plate he may empty at will, And our kind Class Committee will settle the bill.

And here's your old friend, the identical bard Who has rhymed and recited you verse by the yard Since the days of the empire of Andrew the First Till you 're full to the brim and feel ready to burst.

It's awful to think of,--how year after year With his piece in his pocket he waits for you here; No matter who's missing, there always is one To lug out his manuscript, sure as a gun.

"Why won't he stop writing?" Humanity cries The answer is briefly, "He can't if he tries; He has played with his foolish old feather so long, That the goose-quill in spite of him cackles in song."

You have watched him with patience from morning to dusk Since the tassel was bright o'er the green of the husk, And now--it 's too bad--it 's a pitiful job-- He has shelled the ripe ear till he's come to the cob.

I see one face beaming--it listens so well There must be some music yet left in my shell-- The wine of my soul is not thick on the lees; One string is unbroken, one friend I can please!

Dear comrade, the sunshine of seasons gone by Looks out from your tender and tear-moistened eye, A pharos of love on an ice-girdled coast,-- Kind soul!--Don't you hear me?--He's deaf as a post!

Can it be one of Nature's benevolent tricks That you grow hard of hearing as I grow prolix? And that look of delight which would angels beguile Is the deaf man's prolonged unintelligent smile?

Ah! the ear may grow dull, and the eye may wax dim, But they still know a classmate--they can't mistake him; There is something to tell us, "That's one of our band," Though we groped in the dark for a touch of his hand.

Well, Time with his snuffers is prowling about And his shaky old fingers will soon snuff us out; There's a hint for us all in each pendulum tick, For we're low in the tallow and long in the wick.

You remember Rossini--you 've been at the play? How his overture-endings keep crashing away Till you think, "It 's all over--it can't but stop now-- That 's the screech and the bang of the final bow-wow."

And you find you 're mistaken; there 's lots more to come, More banging, more screeching of fiddle and drum, Till when the last ending is finished and done, You feel like a horse when the winning-post 's won.

So I, who have sung to you, merry or sad, Since the days when they called me a promising lad, Though I 've made you more rhymes than a tutor could scan, Have a few more still left, like the razor-strop man.

Now pray don't be frightened--I 'm ready to stop My galloping anapests' clatter and pop-- In fact, if you say so, retire from to-day To the garret I left, on a poet's half-pay.

And yet--I can't help it--perhaps--who can tell? You might miss the poor singer you treated so well, And confess you could stand him five minutes or so, "It was so like old times we remember, you know."

'T is not that the music can signify much, But then there are chords that awake with a touch,-- And our hearts can find echoes of sorrow and joy To the winch of the minstrel who hails from Savoy.

So this hand-organ tune that I cheerfully grind May bring the old places and faces to mind, And seen in the light of the past we recall The flowers that have faded bloom fairest of all!

OUR SWEET SINGER

J. A.

1872

ONE memory trembles on our lips; It throbs in every breast; In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse, The shadow stands confessed.

O silent voice, that cheered so long Our manhood's marching day, Without thy breath of heavenly song, How weary seems the way!

Vain every pictured phrase to tell Our sorrowing heart's desire,-- The shattered harp, the broken shell, The silent unstrung lyre;

For youth was round us while he sang; It glowed in every tone; With bridal chimes the echoes rang, And made the past our own.

Oh blissful dream! Our nursery joys We know must have an end, But love and friendship's broken toys May God's good angels mend!

The cheering smile, the voice of mirth And laughter's gay surprise That please the children born of earth. Why deem that Heaven denies?

Methinks in that refulgent sphere That knows not sun or moon, An earth-born saint might long to hear One verse of "Bonny Doon";

Or walking through the streets of gold In heaven's unclouded light, His lips recall the song of old And hum "The sky is bright."

And can we smile when thou art dead? Ah, brothers, even so! The rose of summer will be red, In spite of winter's snow.

Thou wouldst not leave us all in gloom Because thy song is still, Nor blight the banquet-garland's bloom With grief's untimely chill.

The sighing wintry winds complain,-- The singing bird has flown,-- Hark! heard I not that ringing strain, That clear celestial tone?

How poor these pallid phrases seem, How weak this tinkling line, As warbles through my waking dream That angel voice of thine!

Thy requiem asks a sweeter lay; It falters on my tongue; For all we vainly strive to say, Thou shouldst thyself have sung!

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 shore Grow less and less, while more, yet more New vistas open wide Of fair illumined streets and casements 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 breasts? Once more let flowers be strown. Welcome, ye shadowy forms, we count you still our own!

WHAT I HAVE COME FOR

1873