Poems Class of 29 (1851-1889) | Page 7

1864
Now, men of the North! will you join in the strife
For country, for
freedom, for honor, for life?
The giant grows blind in his fury and
spite,--
One blow on his forehead will settle the fight!
Flash full in his eyes the blue lightning of steel,
And stun him with
cannon-bolts, peal upon peal!
Mount, troopers, and follow your game
to its lair,
As the hound tracks the wolf and the beagle the hare!
Blow, trumpets, your summons, till sluggards awake!
Beat, drums,
till the roofs of the faint-hearted shake!
Yet, yet, ere the signet is
stamped on the scroll,
Their names may be traced on the
blood-sprinkled roll!
Trust not the false herald that painted your shield
True honor to-day
must be sought on the field!
Her scutcheon shows white with a
blazon of red,--
The life-drops of crimson for liberty shed
The hour is at hand, and the moment draws nigh;
The dog-star of
treason grows dim in the sky;
Shine forth from the battle-cloud, light
of the morn,
Call back the bright hour when the Nation was born!

The rivers of peace through our valleys shall run,
As the glaciers of
tyranny melt in the sun;
Smite, smite the proud parricide down from
his throne,--
His sceptre once broken, the world is our own!
OUR OLDEST FRIEND
1865
I GIVE you the health of the oldest friend
That, short of eternity,
earth can lend,--
A friend so faithful and tried and true
That nothing
can wean him from me and you.
When first we screeched in the sudden blaze
Of the daylight's
blinding and blasting rays,
And gulped at the gaseous, groggy air,

This old, old friend stood waiting there.
And when, with a kind of mortal strife,
We had gasped and choked
into breathing life,
He watched by the cradle, day and night,
And
held our hands till we stood upright.
From gristle and pulp our frames have grown
To stringy muscle and
solid bone;
While we were changing, he altered not;
We might
forget, but he never forgot.
He came with us to the college class,--
Little cared he for the
steward's pass!
All the rest must pay their fee,
Put the grim old
dead-head entered free.
He stayed with us while we counted o'er
Four times each of the
seasons four;
And with every season, from year to year,
The dear
name Classmate he made more dear.
He never leaves us,--he never will,
Till our hands are cold and our
hearts are still;
On birthdays, and Christmas, and New-Year's too,

He always remembers both me and you.

Every year this faithful friend
His little present is sure to send;

Every year, wheresoe'er we be,
He wants a keepsake from you and
me.
How he loves us! he pats our heads,
And, lo! they are gleaming with
silver threads;
And he 's always begging one lock of hair,
Till our
shining crowns have nothing to wear.
At length he will tell us, one by one,
"My child, your labor on earth is
done;
And now you must journey afar to see
My elder
brother,--Eternity!"
And so, when long, long years have passed,
Some dear old fellow
will be the last,--
Never a boy alive but he
Of all our goodly
company!
When he lies down, but not till then,
Our kind Class-Angel will drop
the pen
That writes in the day-book kept above
Our lifelong record
of faith and love.
So here's a health in homely rhyme
To our oldest classmate, Father
Time!
May our last survivor live to be
As bald and as wise and as
tough as he!
SHERMAN 'S IN SAVANNAH
A HALF-RHYMED IMPROMPTU
1865
LIKE the tribes of Israel,
Fed on quails and manna,
Sherman and
his glorious band
Journeyed through the rebel land,
Fed from
Heaven's all-bounteous hand,
Marching on Savannah!
As the moving pillar shone,
Streamed the starry banner
All day
long in rosy light,
Flaming splendor all the night,
Till it swooped in

eagle flight
Down on doomed Savannah!
Glory be to God on high!
Shout the loud Hosanna!
Treason's
wilderness is past,
Canaan's shore is won at last,
Peal a nation's
trumpet-blast,--
Sherman 's in Savannah!
Soon shall Richmond's tough old hide
Find a tough old tanner!

Soon from every rebel wall
Shall the rag of treason fall,
Till our
banner flaps o'er all
As it crowns Savannah!
MY ANNUAL
1866
How long will this harp which you once loved to hear
Cheat your lips
of a smile or your eyes of a tear?
How long stir the echoes it wakened
of old,
While its strings were unbroken, untarnished its gold?
Dear friends of my boyhood, my words do you wrong;
The heart, the
heart only, shall throb in my song;
It reads the kind answer that looks
from your eyes,--
"We will bid our old harper play on till he dies."
Though Youth, the fair angel that looked o'er the strings,
Has lost the
bright glory that gleamed on his wings,
Though the freshness of
morning has passed from its tone
It is still the old harp that was
always your own.
I claim not its music,--each note it affords
I strike from your
heart-strings, that lend me its chords;
I know you will listen and love
to the last,
For it trembles and thrills with