Chapter 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 classmate (a wig on his crown,-- His day-book and ledger laid carefully down) He has welcomed us yearly, a glass 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 CLASS 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 clusters 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? For who can tell by what he likes what other people's fancies are? How all men think the best of wives their own particular Nancies are? If what I sing you brings a smile, you will not stop to catechise, Nor read Bceotia's lumbering line with nicely scanning Attic eyes.

Perhaps the alabaster box that Mary broke so lovingly, While Judas looked so sternly on, the Master so approvingly, Was not so fairly wrought as those that Pilate's wife and daughters had, Or many a dame of Judah's line that drank of Jordan's waters had.

Perhaps the balm that cost so dear, as some remarked officiously, The precious nard that filled the room with fragrance so deliciously, So oft recalled in storied page and sung in verse melodious, The dancing girl had thought too cheap,--that daughter of Herodias.

Where now are all the mighty deeds that Herod boasted loudest of? Where now the flashing jewelry the tetrarch's wife was proudest of? Yet still to hear how Mary loved, all tribes of men are listening, And still the sinful woman's tears like stars heaven are glistening.

'T is not the gift our hands have brought, the love it is we bring with it,-- The minstrel's lips may shape the song, his heart in tune must sing with it; And so we love the simple lays, and wish we might have more of them, Our poet brothers sing for us,--there must be half a score of them.

It may be that of fame and name our voices once were emulous,-- With deeper thoughts, with tenderer throbs their softening tones are tremulous; The dead seem listening as of old, ere friendship was bereft of them; The living wear a kinder smile, the remnant that is left of them.

Though on the once unfurrowed brows the harrow- teeth of Time may show, Though all the strain of crippling years the halting feet of rhyme may show, We look and hear with melting hearts, for what we all remember is The morn of Spring, nor heed how chill the sky of gray November is.

Thanks to the gracious powers above from all mankind that singled us, And dropped the pearl of friendship in the cup they kindly mingled us, And bound us in a wreath of flowers with hoops of steel knit under it;-- Nor time, nor space, nor chance, nor change, nor death himself shall sunder it!

"AD AMICOS"

1876

"Dumque virent genua Et decet, obducta solvatur fonte senectus."

THE muse of boyhood's fervid hour Grows tame as skies get chill and hazy; Where once she sought a passion-flower, She only hopes to find a daisy. Well, who the changing world bewails? Who asks to have it stay unaltered? Shall grown-up kittens chase their tails? Shall colts be never shod or haltered?

Are we "The Boys" that used to make The tables ring with noisy follies? Whose deep-lunged laughter oft would shake The ceiling with its thunder-volleys? Are we the youths with lips unshorn, At beauty's feet unwrinkled suitors, Whose memories reach tradition's morn,-- The days of prehistoric tutors?

"The Boys" we knew,--but who are these Whose heads might serve for Plutarch's sages, Or Fox's martyrs, if you please, Or hermits of the dismal ages? "The Boys" we knew--can these be those? Their cheeks with morning's blush were painted;-- Where are the Harrys, Jims, and Joes With whom we once were well acquainted?

If we are they, we're not the same; If they are we, why then they're masking; Do tell us, neighbor What 's--your--name, Who are you?--What's the use of asking? You once were George, or Bill, or Ben; There's you, yourself--there 's you, that other-- I know you now--I knew you then-- You used to be your younger brother!

You both are all our own to-day,-- But ah! I hear a warning whisper; Yon roseate hour that flits away Repeats the Roman's sad _paulisper_. Come back! come back! we've need of you To pay you for your word of warning; We'll bathe your wings in brighter dew Than ever wet the lids of morning!

Behold this cup; its mystic wine No alien's lip has ever tasted; The blood of friendship's clinging vine, Still flowing, flowing, yet unwasted Old Time forgot his running sand And laid his hour-glass down to fill it, And Death himself with gentle hand Has touched the chalice, not to spill it.

Each bubble rounding at the brim Is rainbowed with its magic story; The shining days with age grown dim Are dressed again in robes of glory; In all its freshness spring returns With song of birds and blossoms tender; Once more the torch of passion burns, And youth is here in all its splendor!

Hope swings her anchor like a toy, Love laughs and shows the silver arrow We knew so well as man and boy,-- The shaft that stings through bone and marrow; Again our kindling pulses beat, With tangled curls our fingers dally, And bygone beauties smile as sweet As fresh-blown lilies of the valley.

O blessed hour! we may forget Its wreaths, its rhymes, its songs, its laughter, But not the loving eyes we met, Whose light shall gild the dim hereafter. How every heart to each grows warm! Is one in sunshine's ray? We share it. Is one in sorrow's blinding storm? A look, a word, shall help him bear it.

"The Boys" we were, "The Boys" we 'll be As long as three, as two, are creeping; Then here 's to him--ah! which is he?-- Who lives till all the rest are sleeping; A life with tranquil comfort blest, The young man's health, the rich man's plenty, All earth can give that earth has best, And heaven at fourscore years and twenty.

HOW NOT TO SETTLE IT

1877