Songs of Friendship | Page 8

spun round,?As I leaned, in a breathless joy, toward my?Radiant uncle, who snapped his eye?And said, with the courtliest wave of his hand,?"Why, that little master of all the band?Is 'The Little Man in the Tinshop'!
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[Illustration: The orchestra, with its melody]
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"And I've heard Verdi, the Wonderful,?And Paganini, and Ole Bull,?Mozart, Handel, and Mendelssohn,?And fair Parepa, whose matchless tone?Karl, her master, with magic bow,?Blent with the angels', and held her so?Tranced till the rapturous Infinite--?And I've heard arias, faint and low,?From many an operatic light?Glimmering on my swimming sight?Dimmer and dimmer, until, at last,?I still sit, holding my roses fast?For 'The Little Man in the Tinshop.'"
Oho! my Little Man, joy to you--?And _yours_--and _theirs_--your lifetime through!?Though _I've_ heard melodies, boy and man,?Since first "the show" of my life began,?Never yet have I listened to?Sadder, madder, or gladder glees?Than your unharmonied harmonies;?For yours is the music that appeals?To all the fervor the boy's heart feels--?All his glories, his wildest cheers,?His bravest hopes, and his brightest tears;?And so, with his first bouquet, he kneels?To "The Little Man in the Tinshop."
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[Illustration: Tommy Smith--headpiece]
TOMMY SMITH
Dimple-cheeked and rosy-lipped,?With his cap-rim backward tipped,?Still in fancy I can see?Little Tommy smile on me--?Little Tommy Smith.
Little unsung Tommy Smith--?Scarce a name to rhyme it with;?Yet most tenderly to me?Something sings unceasingly--?Little Tommy Smith.
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On the verge of some far land?Still forever does he stand,?With his cap-rim rakishly?Tilted; so he smiles on me--?Little Tommy Smith.
Elder-blooms contrast the grace?Of the rover's radiant face--?Whistling back, in mimicry,?"Old--Bob--White!" all liquidly--?Little Tommy Smith.
O my jaunty statuette?Of first love, I see you yet.?Though you smile so mistily,?It is but through tears I see,?Little Tommy Smith.
But, with crown tipped back behind,?And the glad hand of the wind?Smoothing back your hair, I see?Heaven's best angel smile on me,--?Little Tommy Smith.
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TOM VAN ARDEN
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?Our warm fellowship is one?Far too old to comprehend?Where its bond was first begun:?Mirage-like before my gaze?Gleams a land of other days,?Where two truant boys, astray,?Dream their lazy lives away.
There's a vision, in the guise?Of Midsummer, where the Past?Like a weary beggar lies?In the shadow Time has cast;?And as blends the bloom of trees?With the drowsy hum of bees,?Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,?Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
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Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?All the pleasures we have known?Thrill me now as I extend?This old hand and grasp your own--?Feeling, in the rude caress,?All affection's tenderness;?Feeling, though the touch be rough,?Our old souls are soft enough.
So we'll make a mellow hour:?Fill your pipe, and taste the wine--?Warp your face, if it be sour,?I can spare a smile from mine;?If it sharpen up your wit,?Let me feel the edge of it--?I have eager ears to lend,?Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?Are we "lucky dogs," indeed??Are we all that we pretend?In the jolly life we lead?--?Bachelors, we must confess,?Boast of "single blessedness"?To the world, but not alone--?Man's best sorrow is his own!
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And the saddest truth is this,--?Life to us has never proved?What we tasted in the kiss?Of the women we have loved:?Vainly we congratulate?Our escape from such a fate?As their lying lips could send,?Tom Van Arden, my old friend!
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,?Ripen sweetest, I contend,?As the frost falls over them:?Your regard for me to-day?Makes November taste of May,?And through every vein of rhyme?Pours the blood of summer-time.
When our souls are cramped with youth?Happiness seems far away?In the future, while, in truth,?We look back on it to-day?Through our tears, nor dare to boast,--?"Better to have loved and lost!"?Broken hearts are hard to mend,?Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
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Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?I grow prosy, and you tire;?Fill the glasses while I bend?To prod up the failing fire. . . .?You are restless:--I presume?There's a dampness in the room.--?Much of warmth our nature begs,?With rheumatics in our legs! . . .
Humph! the legs we used to fling?Limber-jointed in the dance,?When we heard the fiddle ring?Up the curtain of Romance,?And in crowded public halls?Played with hearts like jugglers' balls.--?_Feats of mountebanks, depend!_--?Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
Tom Van Arden, my old friend,?Pardon, then, this theme of mine:?While the firelight leaps to lend?Higher color to the wine,--?I propose a health to those?Who have _homes_, and home's repose,?Wife- and child-love without end!?. . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.
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[Illustration: Our old friend Neverfail--headpiece]
OUR OLD FRIEND NEVERFAIL
O it's good to ketch a relative 'at's richer and don't run When you holler out to hold up, and'll joke and have his fun; It's good to hear a man called bad and then find out he's not, Er strike some chap they call lukewarm 'at's really red-hot;
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It's good to know the Devil's painted jes' a leetle black, And it's good to have most anybody pat you on the back;-- But jes' the best thing in the world's our old