University of Virginia Library

One other link that held me to the past
Hath snapped asunder. I have seen the last
Of that kind face that ever turned to me
A smile of friendship and benignity.
We ne'er shall know those pleasant days again
When we two wandered far in the demesne
Of the ideal world, and waved our wings
In the free air of youth's imaginings.
Glad hours they were, when we the crabbed book
Of legal study laid aside, and took
Long rambles through the sunny lands of song,
And talked of poets and the writers strong
That raftered our grand English with their prose,
Or the great artists in the past that rose
Like constellations, and securely shine
Beyond all envy in their fame divine.

You in these silent regions were my guide,
And I, content and happy at your side,
Listened and learned and followed where you led,
Fired by the eloquent, high words you said,
Through the Elysian dream-land of the dead.

Ah! golden time of early morning light,
When life before us from youth's happy height
Showed grand and fair, with far-off sunny gleams
Of glancing hopes and slopes of blissful dreams
And radiant tints that Love and Feeling lent
To the dim distance where our thoughts were bent.
All was before us then, all was surprise;
There was a sweetness even in our sighs,—
They were but longings for the joy to be,
The fine impatience of futurity,
Not the heart-broken murmur of regret
For what was lost, for glories that had set.

As back my memory wanders, in my ear
Still sounds that voice of yours so high and clear,
With its fine, ringing tones, and cultured phrase,
That charmed and cheered me in those early days;
That slender, stooping form again I trace;
That open brow, that scholarly pale face;
Those nervous movements of a spirit fine
Treading with critic care the thought-spun line.
Again I seem to scent the faint perfume
That used to haunt that private inner room
Where at my desk I sat and wrote and read
With wandering thoughts and idly dreaming head,—
The odor of the books, the office dust,
The dry peculiar legal smell of must;
The casual flower that lent a subtle grace,
As of another world, unto the place;
The sunshine sifting veiled and silent through
The filmy panes; the bustling fly that flew
And droned and drummed; the scratching of the pen;
The rustling papers turning now and then;
The voices coming with a murmurous hum
From friends and clients out of Sumner's room,
That drew me from my books, and his full voice
Manly and strong, that made the heart rejoice;
Oft too, your kindly word, your gentle smile,
As laying down your pen you would beguile
Some bright half-hour with ready, fluent talk,
And to and fro across the office walk.
There too, at times, my Father's sunlit face
Looked in and filled with radiance all the place,
And cleared the air, and passing, left behind
A sense of flowers and music on the wind.
There Choate, with his gaunt face and clustering hair,
Waved like a scimitar his humor rare.
There Felton, glad and buoyant, oft was seen,
There Longfellow, accomplished and serene,
There Whittier's fine-cut face and piercing glance,
Or Motley, with his air of high romance,
Or eager Bancroft, with his accents high,
Or quiet Hawthorne, sensitive and shy.
There learned Lieber oft for hours would sit,
Or Holmes flash in, electric, charged with wit,
Or Appleton, the very bulls-eye hit
With random-seeming arrows from his bow,
Or Spanish Ticknor or Hellenic Howe.
And then at intervals, with cliff-like brow
And caverned eyes, the black and thunderous face
Of Webster gloomed and gleamed, or Prescott's grace
A genial charm around the chamber threw,
Or Lowell, with his laurels budding new
Mid sunny curls, life's triumphs just begun,
Or the poised calm of Attic Emerson.
There Garrison's bland face at times was seen,
And fiery Phillips, Gray with courteous mien,
Dexter's bronzed face, dark curls and sunken eyes,
And all the Lorings, all the Curtises,
And once the lambent eyes, the hallowed head,
Of Allston, by an inner dreamlight fed.
There stately Quincy, Greenleaf, rich in lore
Of law, determined Adams, and a score
Of other faces we shall see no more
Gathering together met in converse free,—
A learned, rare, and brilliant company.
'T was mine to listen with an eager sense
To all their learning, wit, and eloquence;
Mine but to gather up the rich largess
They squandered with such prodigal excess.

This is but faint mirage of vanished things
That taunting memory from the distance brings;
In that glad group that then drew joyous breath
Alas! how many a cruel gap of death!
What lips are hushed, through which the poignant jest,
The wingèd thought, leaped living from the breast!
What eyes are dim that lightened then with life!
What voices hushed! What spirits from the strife,
The joy, the sunshine of the world are fled
To join the unnumbered legions of the dead,
Gone, where Hope only follows, while Despair
Half closes the dark doors that open there;
Gone, leaving memory here and there a gleam
Faint as a picture painted in a dream.

Oh, what a ruin! Sad, so sad, and yet
Calm in the tender shadow of regret.
Life with its losses and its vanished hopes
A Colosseum seems of broken slopes,
Through whose dread gaps of ruin many a ghost
Wanders and whispers of the glories lost;
Where, dim and far as in a dream, we hear
The exultant fremitus, the ringing cheer,
The tumult and the joy, the clash, the groan,
Then in an instant find ourselves alone,—
Only the wild weeds growing in each cleft,
Only the silence of the present left,
Only the sighing of the wind's soft breath,
Only the solitude and void of death.

Of our small group of three whose hours were passed
Working within those rooms, I am the last;
Sumner has gone, and you are taken now.
When last we met, dark Death a sidelong blow
Had struck at you with almost fatal aim,
And life had loosed its hold and hope of fame;
But sweet and calm slipped on the lingering day
In still content till you were called away.
It was a twilight peaceful, if not bright,
That heralded the silence of the night
With happy memories of a golden prime,
With thoughts that forward went beyond all Time.

Farewell! dear friend. If hope be not all vain,
Somewhere, God help us, we shall meet again
In those ideal regions where so oft
With our vague longings we have soared aloft.
I do but come to throw upon your grave
These scentless flowers, the only ones I have.