The same old sweetness in his look
There used to be when fellows went
To ask him questions and to talk
When recitations all were o'er;
We saw him in the college walk
And in his former place no more.
The Old Village Choir.
HAVE fancied, sometimes, the Bethel-bent beam,
That trembled to earth in the patriarch's dream,
Was a ladder of song in that wilderness rest,
From the pillow of stone to the blue of the blest,
And the angels descending to dwell with us here,
"Old Hundred,” and “ Corinth,” and “ China,” and “Mear.”
All the hearts are not dead, not under the sod,
That those breaths can blow open to heaven and God!
Ah, "Silver Street" flows by a bright shining road, -
Oh, not to the hymns that in harmony flowed, –
But the sweet human psalms of the old-fashioned choir,
To the girl that sang alto the girl that sang air!
"Let us sing to God's praise," the minister said.
All the psalm-books at once fluttered open at "York";
Sunned their long dotted wings in the words that he read,
While the leader leaped into the tune just ahead,
And politely picked up the key-note with a fork;
And the vicious old viol went growling along
At the heels of the girls, in the rear of the song.
Oh, I need not a wing-bid no genii come
With a wonderful web from Arabian loom,
To bear me again up the river of Time,
When the world was in rhythm, and life was its rhyme
WOULD YOU BE YOUNG AGAIN?
Where the streams of the years flowed so noiseless and narrow,
That across it there floated the song of a sparrow
For a sprig of green caraway carries me there,
To the old village church, and the old village choir,
Where clear of the floor my feet slowly swung,
And timed the sweet pulse of the praise that they sung,
Till the glory aslant from the afternoon sun
Seemed the rafters of gold in God's temple begun!
You may smile at the nasals of old Deacon Brown,
Who followed by scent till he ran the tune down;
And dear sister Green, with more goodness than grace,
Rose and fell on the tunes as she stood in her place,
And where" Coronation " exultingly flows,
Tried to reach the high notes on the tips of her toes!
To the land of the leal they have gone with their song,
Where the choir and the chorus together belong.
Oh, be lifted, ye gates! Let me hear them again —
Blessèd song, blessèd singers! forever, Amen!
Would You be Young again?
WOULD you be young again ?
One tear to memory given,
Onward I'd hie.
Life's dark flood forded o'er,
All but at rest on shore,
Say, would you plunge once more,
With home so nigh?
If you might, would you now
Retrace your way?
Wander through stormy wilds,
Faint and astray?
The Dying Actor.
HAT time is it? Seven o'clock you say ?
Why, then I should be at the theatre soon.
Ah, no! - lying here day after day
Has set my intellect out of tune.
I remember now- it was weeks ago —
Thank God, I have savings left me still!
We actors were always given, you know,
To die without paying the doctor's bill.
Nay, life has not blended, at the last,
That bitter torment with wasted health;
And yet, as I search the perished past,
How I seem to have flung away my wealth!
It was easily gained, 't was rashly spent,
In times when my looks were a thing to laud,
When a bevy of fragrant notes were sent
On the morning after I played in Claude!
How the stubborn critics would wage their fight
As to what had made me the people's choice!
Some swore 't was merely my stately height,
And a sort of throb in my mellow voice;
Yet I thrilled my hearers, and moved to tears,
And I charmed them whether they would or no; There were nights in those distant youthful years When the whole house rang to my Romeo!
Yet none could chide me for being proud
While the fame I won was most broadly spread;
Though the women's praises were always loud,
It is certain they never turned my head.
I was stanch to my friends through worst and best;
That truth is my life's one spotless page;
They have played their parts and gone home to rest,
I am talking here on an empty stage!
'T is a sombre end for so bright a piece,
This dull fifth act of the parting soul,
Ere the last sad exit has brought release,
And the great green curtain begins to roll!
Yet, though they have left me, those trusted friends,
I cannot but fancy their absence means
That they wait outside till my own part ends,
And will join me somewhere behind the scenes.
I see them here while I dream and doze,
There was Ralph, too reckless and wild by half,
With his ludicrous Punchinello nose,
And his full, superb light-comedy laugh!
There was chubby Larry, with flaxen hair,
Who secretly longed to be dark and slight,
And believed his Hamlet a great affair,
But was better in Falstaff any night.
There was lean, grim Peter, so much in vogue,
Who could govern an audience by his wink;
There was brilliant Hugh, with his witty brogue,
His leaky purse, and his love for drink;
And then there was rosy old Robert, too,
With whom bitter fortunes were hard at strife,
Who felt himself born a Macready, and who
Had been handing in letters all his life.
But more than these there was brown-eyed Kate,
True, generous, brave, and her own worst foe,
With a love no insults could alienate
From the bad little husband who wronged her so!
Poor Kate! she would call to her lovely face
That radiant smile, in the nights long fled,
And act Lady Teazle with dazzling grace,
While the heart in her bosom ached and bled!
And one - O Amy, I dare not own
Your love as a friend's love, weak of worth, Though we swore the most sacred promise known, And were bound by the strongest bond on earth! Ah, me! at the summons of death's weird spell, I can see you while pangs of memory start, In the waiting-maid roles you did so well, Pirouetting with sweet unconscious art.
I remember the play where first we met,
How your glad eyes haunted me from afar
As you tripped and prattled, a pert soubrette,
While I was a grave, majestic "star!"
I remember when wedded joys were new-
The dawn of the troubles, the scandals coarse,
The last mad, passionate interview,
The wrangle of lawyers, the stern divorce.
Those dear, lost friends, they have grouped afresh
In the green-room quite as they used to do,
And Ralph has been laughing at Larry's flesh,
And Peter is growling a joke to Hugh,
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