 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
171
TO WARRINGTON.
My dear old Paladin of Print!
I must complain—the deuce is in't—
That not a relic of the mint
With me remains,
Of my affection's depth to hint,
In silvery strains.
I must complain—the deuce is in't—
That not a relic of the mint
With me remains,
Of my affection's depth to hint,
In silvery strains.
But no one of your wedding guests,
Whose gift his loving heart attests,
More in the silver scene invests
Than I, old friend;
Though not a stiver manifests
For me to send.
Whose gift his loving heart attests,
More in the silver scene invests
Than I, old friend;
Though not a stiver manifests
For me to send.
My heart is yours, this festive time,
As when, in youth's exuberant clime,
We, side by side, in aim sublime,
Pursued our course;
And Stebbings fired both prose and rhyme
Till they were hoarse.
As when, in youth's exuberant clime,
We, side by side, in aim sublime,
Pursued our course;
And Stebbings fired both prose and rhyme
Till they were hoarse.
172
Since then divergently we've turned;
In different schools our tasks have learned,
But ne'er that early spark have spurned
—'Bove party plight—
That in its fealty has burned
With constant light.
In different schools our tasks have learned,
But ne'er that early spark have spurned
—'Bove party plight—
That in its fealty has burned
With constant light.
I've loved your active past to scan,
Of every movement in the van,
To lead, to serve—to do, or plan—
Though not with me;—
Wearing that jewel best in man—
Integrity!
Of every movement in the van,
To lead, to serve—to do, or plan—
Though not with me;—
Wearing that jewel best in man—
Integrity!
Though striking trenchantly thy hits,
That give contesting parties “fits,”
No one who has respect for wit's
Performance rife
Can help admitting, though it grits,
Its manly strife.
That give contesting parties “fits,”
No one who has respect for wit's
Performance rife
Can help admitting, though it grits,
Its manly strife.
An honest purpose guides the blow,
And public virtue, running slow,
Like oil in winter, wakes to glow,
As falls the thong;
And “Warrington,” in sharpest show,
Is rarely wrong.
And public virtue, running slow,
Like oil in winter, wakes to glow,
As falls the thong;
And “Warrington,” in sharpest show,
Is rarely wrong.
The friendship of life's early hour
Still holds with unremitting power,
And nought that tends the heart to sour
Has hap'd to chill
That accident-implanted flower,
Perennial still.
Still holds with unremitting power,
173
Has hap'd to chill
That accident-implanted flower,
Perennial still.
And so, in lieu of silver dimes,
I send a screed of jingling rhymes
To greet you, at this best of times,
With wishes full,
That, mingling with the wedding chimes,
Mayn't seem so dull.
I send a screed of jingling rhymes
To greet you, at this best of times,
With wishes full,
That, mingling with the wedding chimes,
Mayn't seem so dull.
Wishes are little worth at most;
Of that which should be but the ghost,
The creaming of a dinner toast,—
But still they show
Just how, upon life's social coast,
The heart would go.
Of that which should be but the ghost,
The creaming of a dinner toast,—
But still they show
Just how, upon life's social coast,
The heart would go.
Thus, wishing health, and wealth, and peace,
And love's unlimited increase,
And friendship's presence ne'er to cease,
Content your lot:
No wheel denied the needed grease,
And care forgot,—
And love's unlimited increase,
And friendship's presence ne'er to cease,
Content your lot:
No wheel denied the needed grease,
And care forgot,—
Believe me, it is all sincere,
As if 'twere backed by chinking “gear,”
And in my dull seclusion here,
Away in this city,
I say, in tone of heartiest cheer,
Benedicite!
As if 'twere backed by chinking “gear,”
And in my dull seclusion here,
Away in this city,
I say, in tone of heartiest cheer,
Benedicite!
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |