 | [Poems by Howe in] Julia Ward Howe 1819-1910 |  |
320
[Friends! I would not ask to mingle]
Friends! I would not ask to mingle
This, my very foolish jingle,
With the tributes more decorous of the feast we hold to-day;
But the rhymes came, thick and swarming
Just like bees when honey's forming,
And I could not find a countersign to order them away.
This, my very foolish jingle,
With the tributes more decorous of the feast we hold to-day;
But the rhymes came, thick and swarming
Just like bees when honey's forming,
And I could not find a countersign to order them away.
321
For around this sixteenth lustre
Of our friend's, such memories cluster
Of the days that lie behind it, full of glories and regrets,
Days that brought their toils and troubles,
Lit by some irradiant bubbles
Which became prismatic opals in the sun that never sets.
Of our friend's, such memories cluster
Of the days that lie behind it, full of glories and regrets,
Days that brought their toils and troubles,
Lit by some irradiant bubbles
Which became prismatic opals in the sun that never sets.
Picnics have we held together
Sailing in the summer weather,
Sitting low to taste the chowder on the sands of Newport Bay,
And that wonderful charade, sir,
You know well, sir, that you made, sir,
When so many years of earnest did invite an hour of play.
Sailing in the summer weather,
Sitting low to taste the chowder on the sands of Newport Bay,
And that wonderful charade, sir,
You know well, sir, that you made, sir,
When so many years of earnest did invite an hour of play.
He shall rank now with the sages
Who survive in classic pages,
English, German, French and Latin, Greek, so weary to construe;
Did he con his Epictetus
Ere he came to-night to greet us?
He, àoristos in reverence, among the learned few.
Who survive in classic pages,
English, German, French and Latin, Greek, so weary to construe;
Did he con his Epictetus
Ere he came to-night to greet us?
He, àoristos in reverence, among the learned few.
He may climb no more the mountain,
But he still employs the fountain
Pen from whose incisive point pure Helicon may flow,
And his “Yesterdays” so cheerful
Charm the world so wild and tearful,
And the Devil calls for copy, and he never answers “No.”
But he still employs the fountain
Pen from whose incisive point pure Helicon may flow,
And his “Yesterdays” so cheerful
Charm the world so wild and tearful,
And the Devil calls for copy, and he never answers “No.”
Do I speak for everybody,
When I utter this rhapsòdy,
To induce our friend to keep his pace in following Life's incline;
Never slacken, but come on, sir,
Eighty-four years I have won, sir;
Still the olive branch shall bless you, still the laurel wreath entwine!
When I utter this rhapsòdy,
To induce our friend to keep his pace in following Life's incline;
Never slacken, but come on, sir,
Eighty-four years I have won, sir;
Still the olive branch shall bless you, still the laurel wreath entwine!
So, you scribbling youths and lasses,
Elders, too, fill high your glasses!
Let the toast be Wentworth Higginson, of fourscore years possest;
If the Man was good at twenty,
He is four times that now, ain't he?
We declare him four times excellent, and better than his best.
Elders, too, fill high your glasses!
Let the toast be Wentworth Higginson, of fourscore years possest;
If the Man was good at twenty,
He is four times that now, ain't he?
We declare him four times excellent, and better than his best.
| [Poems by Howe in] Julia Ward Howe 1819-1910 | |