To Charles Wentworth Upham, The Following Metrical Essay Is Affectionately Inscribed. Scenes of my youth! awake its slumbering fire! Ye winds of Memory, sweep the silent lyre!
I hold a letter in my hand, - A flattering letter, more's the pity, - By some contriving junto planned,
A still, sweet, placid, moonlight face, And slightly nonchalant, Which seems to claim a middle place
Cabin Passenger. Man at Wheel. CABIN PASSENGER. Friend, you seem thoughtful. I not wonder much
The land of sunshine and of song! Her name your hearts divine; To her the banquet's vows belong
"Dumque virent genua Et decet, obducta solvatur fonte senectus." The muse of boyhood's fervid hour
Hang out our banners on the stately tower It dawns at last - the long-expected hour I The steep is climbed, the star-lit summit won,
The Play is over. While the light Yet lingers in the darkening hall, I come to say a last Good-night
While far along the eastern sky I saw the flags of Havoc fly, As if his forces would assault
When treason first began the strife That crimsoned sea and shore, The Nation poured her hoarded life
A lovely show for eyes to see I looked upon this morning, - A bright-hued, feathered company
PHI BETA KAPPA. - CAMBRIDGE, 1867 You bid me sing, - can I forget The classic ode of days gone by, -
"Man wants but little here below" Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone,
Dear friends, we are strangers; we never before Have suspected what love to each other we bore; But each of us all to his neighbor is dear,
Not with the anguish of hearts that are breaking Come we as mourners to weep for our dead; Grief in our breasts has grown weary of aching,
Behold the shape our eyes have known! It lives once more in changeless stone; So looked in mortal face and form
Angel of love, for every grief Its soothing balm thy mercy brings, For every pang its healing leaf,
He was all sunshine; in his face The very soul of sweetness shone; Fairest and gentlest of his race;
Vex not the Muse with idle prayers, - She will not hear thy call; She steals upon thee unawares,
As Clemence! when I saw thee last Trip down the Rue de Seine, And turning, when thy form had past,
(Bar Harbor) From this fair home behold on either side The restful mountains or the restless sea
Oh! I did love her dearly, And gave her toys and rings, And I thought she meant sincerely,
O my lost beauty! - hast thou folded quite Thy wings of morning light Beyond those iron gates
And can it be you've found a place Within this consecrated space, That makes so fine a show,
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see
Thus I lift the sash, so long Shut against the flight of song; All too late for vain excuse, -
H. W. L. Pride of the sister realm so long our own, We claim with her that spotless fame of thine,
One memory trembles on our lips; It throbs in every breast; In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth's eclipse,
Facts respecting an old arm-chair. At Cambridge. Is kept in the College there. Seems but little the worse for wear.
Three paths there be where Learning's favored sons, Trained in the schools which hold her favored ones, Follow their several stars with separate aim;
Welcome, thrice welcome is thy silvery gleam, Thou long-imprisoned stream! Welcome the tinkle of thy crystal beads
Twice had the mellowing sun of autumn crowned The hundredth circle of his yearly round, When, as we meet to-day, our fathers met:
Reader - gentle - if so be Such still live, and live for me, Will it please you to be told
New England, we love thee; no time can erase From the hearts of thy children the smile on thy face. 'T is the mother's fond look of affection and pride,
The stars their early vigils keep, The silent hours are near, When drooping eyes forget to weep, -
The Banker's dinner is the stateliest feast The town has heard of for a year, at least; The sparry lustres shed their broadest blaze,
Ye that have faced the billows and the spray Of good St. Botolph's island-studded bay, As from the gliding bark your eye has scanned
The folks, that on the first of May Wore winter coats and hose, Began to say, the first of June,
No more the summer floweret charms, The leaves will soon be sere, And Autumn folds his jewelled arms
I sometimes sit beneath a tree And read my own sweet songs; Though naught they may to others be,
What ailed young Lucius? Art had vainly tried To guess his ill, and found herself defied. The Augur plied his legendary skill;
How sweet the sacred legend - if unblamed In my slight verse such holy things are named - Of Mary's secret hours of hidden joy,
There are three ways in which men take One's money from his purse, And very hard it is to tell
Devoutest of My Sunday friends, The patient Organ-blower bends; I see his figure sink and rise,
Is man's the only throbbing heart that hides The silent spring that feeds its whispering tides? Speak from thy caverns, mystery-breeding Earth,
I'm not a chicken; I have seen Full many a chill September, And though I was a youngster then,
Who of all statesmen is his country's pride, Her councils' prompter and her leaders' guide? He speaks; the nation holds its breath to hear;
The stars are rolling in the sky, The earth rolls on below, And we can feel the rattling wheel
Thou who hast taught the teachers of mankind How from the least of things the mightiest grow, What marvel jealous Nature made thee blind,
Translation From The Eneid, Book I. The god looked out upon the troubled deep Waked into tumult from its placid sleep;