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324
The Triennial
He reads in a book, he reads in a book,
Many years have swiftly passed,
Since the August morn, that saw him look
For the page, where he was classed;
He was then a youth, and his clear eye beamed,
As he paused on each comrade's name;
And visions arose, as he thought and dreamed
Of their pathways to virtue and fame.
Many years have swiftly passed,
Since the August morn, that saw him look
For the page, where he was classed;
He was then a youth, and his clear eye beamed,
As he paused on each comrade's name;
And visions arose, as he thought and dreamed
Of their pathways to virtue and fame.
This one shall soon win a poet's bays,
And this in the senate be heard;
And this one will walk in his own quiet ways,
That as now he has always preferred;
A fourth be a teacher and guide to the young,
Another the priest of our God;
Around each beloved name a glory was flung,
That illumined the paths which they trod.
And this in the senate be heard;
And this one will walk in his own quiet ways,
That as now he has always preferred;
A fourth be a teacher and guide to the young,
Another the priest of our God;
Around each beloved name a glory was flung,
That illumined the paths which they trod.
But now he turns back on the Catalogue's page,
Which shakes in his trembling hand,
As he slowly reads, with the helps of age,
The names of that youthful band;
Not fifty years have come and gone,
Since first the long column he read;
Now, on the starred page, he stands almost alone,
As he reads and communes with the dead.
Which shakes in his trembling hand,
As he slowly reads, with the helps of age,
The names of that youthful band;
Not fifty years have come and gone,
Since first the long column he read;
Now, on the starred page, he stands almost alone,
As he reads and communes with the dead.
With those who remain he is walking there,
Through the scene of their early days;
Recalling the joys, in which each had a share,
As they brighten in memory's rays;
Though more of the dead, than the living, they know,
As they sit in Old Harvard's high hall;
Or muse through its shadowy precincts below,
They sit and they talk with them all.
Through the scene of their early days;
Recalling the joys, in which each had a share,
As they brighten in memory's rays;
Though more of the dead, than the living, they know,
As they sit in Old Harvard's high hall;
Or muse through its shadowy precincts below,
They sit and they talk with them all.
Nor small is their pleasure, though saddened the while,
This remnant from Time's tossing wave;
Like mariners cast on some sea-beaten isle,
Who see every where round them a grave;
Each joys as he tells of his own favored lot,
Points the rock, where he clung for his life;
While their tears fall for those, who can ne'er be forgot,
Who there entered with them on the strife.
This remnant from Time's tossing wave;
Like mariners cast on some sea-beaten isle,
Who see every where round them a grave;
325
Points the rock, where he clung for his life;
While their tears fall for those, who can ne'er be forgot,
Who there entered with them on the strife.
Still meet here, ye few, while the lamp of life burns,
Where ye met at life's early hour;
Where often so fondly the memory turns,
As the spot of her strongest power;
Here gladly she'll soothe your swift-flying days,
With past thoughts of Friendship and Love;
Till no more ye are found in the world's busy ways,
But have joined your companions above.
Where ye met at life's early hour;
Where often so fondly the memory turns,
As the spot of her strongest power;
Here gladly she'll soothe your swift-flying days,
With past thoughts of Friendship and Love;
Till no more ye are found in the world's busy ways,
But have joined your companions above.
Poem No. 165; August 1860
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