TWENTY YEARS AFTER

[Read at the celebration of the Twentieth Anniversary of the University of Illinois.]

O what can be said on a day like this,

When the heart is brimmed, as a stirrup-cup, With the loves and the dreams and the far-off bliss Of the dead old days, as they wander up, One by one, in a glimmering line,

Thro' the purple dusk of the waning years,O what can be said by a lip like mine,

When the soul sits mute in a sleet of tears?

Tears of revery-tears of joy

Tears for the times that come no more

To the fair-haired girl and the bright-eyed boy
Who trod these halls in the days of yore ;—
We leave the laughter, and all the smiles,
To the lighter hearts of the latter time,

As we go galloping down the miles

Of the past, to the ring of an older rhyme.

None can follow us whither we fare,
And never an alien eye can see

The gray ghosts gathering over there

On the lonesome hill, where we used to be;

None can follow us, none can know

Of the scenes we see and the sounds we hear

When the winds of March in the larches blow,

And the nights grow late, and our dreams grow clear.

The years come back in a snowy score,

But only as dreams;—and we sigh, in vain,

As we wait down there, at the open door,

For the boys that never come back again,For Abbott, and Buel, and Snelling, and Crane, And Krafft, and Reiss, and Hazzard, and Dole, And all the rest of the glorious train,

Who come no more as the years unroll.

God be with them wherever they are,
The knightly fellows we used to know,
Blown by the winds of the world afar
From the old ball-ground of the Long Ago;
God be with them wherever they be,

And cuddle them close in His loving arms,
Whether they wander the stormy sea

Or follow the plows on their fruited farms.

One lies dead at the Golden Gate,

And one in the North,—and one I knew And loved in the flush of his youth elate,

Sleeps to the South, in the dark and the dew; And many have passed that we know not of,

To the lampless land, since the dear old times When the world was warm with the wine of love And the red blood ran in a ripple of rhymes.

So I repeat (as a man in his wine),

Facing the fact as it fairly is, What can be said by a lip like mine,

Of a past like that, in an hour like this? Where are the boys, now? beckon them up! Bid them to come, whether guest or ghost, And sing as of old, as the circling cup Steadies the heart for a farewell toast.

One to the living, and one to the dead,
And one to the years that are yet to be,

When the children we fondle, each little tow-head,
Shall still gather fruit from this bountiful tree;
One cup to the present, and one to the past,
And one to the old recollections that beat

At the doors of our hearts, like birds of the blast,
Driven into the light, thro' the night and the sleet.

A tear as a toast-come pledge it with me,

To Baker, of memory gentle and good,And one to the glory of Gregory,

And the stalwart souls that around him stood In the old regime, when the ways were dim With the smoke of scorn and the dust of doubt, And the task of a Titan fell on him

As he raveled the tangled problems out.

A health to Snyder, and Stuart, and Bliss,
To Burrill, and Shattuck,-and last, I say,
To good Peabody, whose pride it is

To mark his reign with a kindly sway;—
The old dreams perish-old customs change-
The gold dawn glimmers above the gray,
And the world moves up to a higher range,
With fairer promises, day by day.

Twenty times one! how long it seems

From the first spring flower to the first snowfall! Twenty times one! and the sun's last beams

Sleep on the hills, and the shadows crawl

Farther and farther into the east,

And the Hope of the morning folds its palm,-
And the lights burn low, and the evening feast
Is done, and the stars shine clear and calm.

THE PLACE BEAUTIFUL

There is a place—a strange and narrow strip-
Unmarked as yet on any map or chart,
A bloomy bourn, where milk and honey drip,
And all things are that satisfy the heart;
'Tis no man's land, and yet it lies so near
That all the world, alike the rich and poor,
Can share its beauty and enjoy its cheer,

One golden moment, as they cross it o'er.

Not Arcady-not even Avalon

Nor Temple Vale with its enchanted bowers, Can match the dewy lustre lying on

This peaceful realm of laughter, light, and flowers;

And if a weary pilgrim ever sue

For guidance to a land of lesser sins,

May some good spirit lead him forth to view
The place where friendship ends and love begins.

A NIGHT IN NOVEMBER

The lady-moon lies coffined in a cloud;

The winds are up, and from the sobbing boughs The last leaves fall; far off, a wild goose plows The slanting sky, with ululations loud,

Like a lost soul; the browning woods are bowed.
With dreams of shattered splendor; half a-drowse,
A leaf-choked stream steals round the frosty brows
Of amber hills, that northward nudge and crowd.

Adown the air, at intervals, is borne

The far, faint blast of Boreal bugles, like

The dim and distant murmur of a vast
Invading army, gathering strength to strike-
While out across the fallow fields forlorn
The spectre of a storm is striding past.

"MEN ARE APRIL WHEN THEY WOO"

Fickle maid, with laughing eye,
You who seldom sob or sigh,

Bear with patient soul and kind
Love's appeal, for love is blind;

Con the adage trite but true,
"Men are April when they woo."

Answer not with scoff and scorn
If a lover all forlorn

Bend on you his eager face,
Pleading low your sovereign grace;
Give good heed, yet keep in view,
"Men are April when they woo."

Still a further secret know:
April breezes often blow

Into storms that rage and grind,
Leaving wreck and death behind;
So, beware! my pretty shrew,
"Men are April when they woo."

She who dallies most will learn
"Tis not best to slight and spurn
Passion, when it shines and speaks
In the eyes and on the cheeks,
Even tho' the saw be true,
"Men are April when they woo."

"T IS ALWAYS SUNDAY IN THE WOODS

66

"Tis always Sunday in the woods,"

She said—the bonnie wife of mine—
As thro' the leaf-walled solitudes

We passed beneath the arching vine;
We saw the sunbeams slant and shine,
Like tongues of flame at Pentecost,-
We sipped the sacramental wine
From many a chalice gold-emboss'd.

Outlined against the templed hills,
The living symbols of the Lord
We saw, and down a thousand rills
The praises of His name were poured;
Above us mighty organs roared,
And hidden pipers blew and blew
Such strains of heavenly accord
As never art attaineth to.

The aisles were carpeted with flowers,
The pews with emerald were plushed,
And from a hundred wreathen towers

The silver chimes of morning gushed;