Part 45 (1/2)

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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 pa.s.sion-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_.