THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. I. THE lights are out, and gone are all the guests That thronging came with merriment and jests To celebrate the Hanging of the Crane In the new house, into the night are gone; But still the fire upon the hearth burns on, And I alone remain. O fortunate, O happy day, When a new household finds its place So said the guests in speech and song, Seated, I see the two again, With face as round as is the moon ; Are these celestial manners? these IV. As one who walking in a forest sees A lovely landscape through the parted trees, Then sees it not, for boughs that intervene ; Or as we see the moon sometimes revealed Through drifting clouds, and then again concealed, So I behold the scene. There are two guests at table now; Steadfast they gaze, yet nothing see V. AGAIN the tossing boughs shut out the scene, Again the drifting vapors intervene, And the moon's pallid disk is hidden quite; And now I see the table wider grown, As round a pebble into water thrown Dilates a ring of light. I see the table wider grown, In the divine knight-errantry 23 Seeking adventures, or pursues, VI. THE meadow-brook, that seemeth to stand still, Quickens its current as it nears the mill; And so the stream of Time that lin gereth In level places, and so dull appears, Runs with a swifter current as it nears The gloomy mills of Death. And now, like the magician's scroll, I see the two alone remain. I see the patient mother read, VII. AFTER a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And, touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring Drops down into the night. What see I now? The night is fair, On the round table in the hall Out of the sky hath fallen down; O fortunate, O happy day! MORITURI SALUTAMUS. POEM FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS OF 1825 IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE. Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, OVID, Fastorum, Lib. vi. Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear! We are forgotten; and in your austcre And calm indifference, ye little care Whether we come or go, or whence or where. What passing generations fill these halls, What passing voices echo from these walls, Ye heed not; we are only as the blast, A moment heard, and then forever past. Not so the teachers who in earlier days Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze; They answer us alas! what have I said? What greetings come there from the voiceless dead? Into the land of shadows, - all save | How beautiful is youth! how bright it one. Honor and reverence, and the good repute That follows faithful service as its fruit, Be unto him, whom living we salute. The great Italian poet, when he made His dreadful journey to the realms of shade, Met there the old instructor of his youth, 66 And cried in tones of pity and of ruth: O, never from the memory of my heart Your dear, paternal image shall depart, Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised, gleams Taught me how mortals are immortal-As ancient Priam at the Scæan gate ized; Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state With the old men, too old and weak to fight, Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield, Of Trojans and Achaians in the field; So from the snowy summits of our years We see you in the plain, as each appears, And question of you; asking, "Who is he That number not the half of those we knew, Ye, against whose familiar names not yet The fatal asterisk of death is set, And summons us together once again, Where are the others? Voices from the deep Caverns of darkness answer me: "They sleep! I name no names; instinctively I feel Each at some well-remembered grave will kneel, And from the inscription wipe the weeds and moss, What joy and grief, what rapture and despair! What chronicles of triumph and defeat, Of struggle, and temptation, and retreat! What records of regrets, and doubts, and fears! What pages blotted, blistered by our tears! What lovely landscapes on the margin dust! Whose hand shall dare to open and explore These volumes, closed and clasped forevermore? Not mine. With reverential feet I pass; I hear a voice that cries, "Alas! alas! Whatever hath been written shall remain, Nor be erased nor written o'er again; The unwritten only still belongs to thee: Take heed, and ponder well what that shall be." |