CLASS OF '29. FOR THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 6, 1856. YOU'LL believe me, dear boys, 't is a pleasure to rise With a welcome like this in your darling old eyes, To meet the same smiles and to hear the same tone Which have greeted me oft in the years that have flown. Were I gray as the grayest old rat in the wall, There are noontides of autumn, when summer returns, Though the leaves are all garnered and sealed in their urns, And the bird on his perch that was silent so long Believes the sweet sunshine and breaks into song. 116 I give you Home! its crossing lines And showing every day that shines In one bright ring, with love for centre, O brochers, home may be a word It is where the day-star springs From northern pines to southern roses! MEETING OF THE NEW EDEN. THE BERKSHIRE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY, AT SCARCE could the parting ocean close, The waves that tracked the Figi: UNE. Then sprang from many a rock-strew: The rippling grass. ti nocny gra Such growths as Englis: meator- v. To scanty suL and frequer ra But when the fer dar mer av And Autum prou Then, kindling in The bil-sides gua We have caged the young birds of our beautiful June: Their plumes are still bright and their voices in tune; One moment of sunshine from faces like these, And they sing as they sung in the green-growing trees. The voices of morning! How sweet is their thrill When the shadows have turned, and the evening grows still! The text of our lives may get wiser with age, But the print was so fair on its twentieth page! Look off from your goblet and up from your plate, Come, take the last journal and glance at its date,Then think what we fellows should say and should do, If the 6 were a 9, and the 5 were a 2. Ah no! For the shapes that would meet with us here From the far land of shadows are ever too dear! Though youth flung around us its pride and its charms, We should see but the comrades we clasped in our arms. A health to our future, a sigh for our past! We love, we remember, we hope to the last; And for all the base lies that the almanacs hold, While we've youth in our hearts, we can never grow old. FOR THE MEETING OF THE BURNS CLUB. 1856. THE mountains glitter in the snow Though years have clipped the eagle's plume That crowned the chieftain's bonnet, The sun still sees the heather bloom, The silver mists lie on it; With tartan kilt and philibeg, What stride was ever bolder Than his who showed the naked leg Beneath the plaided shoulder? |