Good Chairman, Brothers, Friends, And Guests,—all ye who come with praise
To honor for our ancient guild a life of blameless days,
If from the well-worn road of toil I step aside to find
A poet's roses for the wreath your kindly wishes bind,
Be certain that their fragrance types, amid your laurel leaves,
The gentle love a tender heart in duty's chaplet weaves.
I can't exactly set the date,—the Chairman he will know,—
But it was on a chilly night, some month or two ago.
Within, the back-log warmed my toes; without, the frozen rain,
Storm-driven by the angry wind, clashed on my window-pane.
I lit a pipe, stirred up the fire, and, dry with thirst for knowledge,
Plunged headlong in an essay by a Fellow of the College.
But, sir, I've often seen of late that this especial thirst
Is not of all its varied forms the keenest or the worst.
At all events, that gentleman—that pleasant College Fellow—
He must have been of all of us the juiciest and most mellow.
You ask his name, degree, and fame; you want to know that rare man?
It was n't you,—nor you,—nor you,—no, sir, 't was not the Chairman!
For minutes ten I drank of him; quenched was my ardent thirst;
Another minute, and my veins with knowledge, sir, had burst;
A moment more, my head fell back, my lazy eyelids closed,
And on my lap that Fellow's book at equal peace reposed.
Then I remembered me the night that essay first was read,
And how we thought it could n't all have come from one man's head.
At nine the College heard a snore and saw the Chairman start,—
A snore as of an actor shy rehearsing for his part.
At ten, a shameless chorus around the hall had run,
The Chairman dreamed a feeble joke, and said the noes had won.
At twelve the Treasurer fell asleep, the wakeful Censors slumbered,
The Secretary's minutes grew to hours quite unnumbered.
At six A.M. that Fellow paused, perchance a page to turn,
And up I got, and cried, 'I move the College do adjourn!'
They didn't, sir; they sat all day. It made my flesh to creep.
All night they sat;—that could n't be. Goodness! was I asleep?
Was I asleep? With less effect that Fellow might have tried
Codeia, Morphia, Urethan, Chloral, Paraldehyde.
In vain my servant called aloud, 'Sir, here's a solemn letter
To say they want a song from you, for lack of some one better.
The Chairman says his man will wait, while you sit down and write;
He says he's not in any haste,—and make it something light;
He says you need n't vex yourself to try to be effulgent,
Because, he says, champagne enough will keep them all indulgent.'
I slept—at least I think I slept—an hour by estimation,
But if I slept, I must have had unconscious cerebration,
For on my desk, the morrow morn, I found this ordered verse;
Pray take it as you take your wife,—'for better or for worse.'

A golden wedding: fifty earnest years
This spring-tide day from that do sadly part,
When, 'mid a learned throng, one shy, grave lad,
Half conscious, won the Mistress of our Art.

Still at his side the tranquil goddess stood,
Unseen of men, and claimed the student boy;
Touched with her cool, sweet lips his ruddy cheek,
And bade him follow her through grief and joy.

'Be mine,' she whispered in his startled ear,
'Be mine to-day, as Paré once was mine;
Like Hunter mine, and all who nobly won
The fadeless honors of that shining line.

'Be mine,' she said, 'the calm of honest eyes,
The steadfast forehead, and the constant soul;
Mine the firm heart on simple duty bent.
And mine the manly gift of self-control.

'Not in my service is the harvest won
That gilds the child of barter and of trade;
That steady hand, that ever-pitying touch,
Not in my helping shall be thus repaid.

'But I will take you where the great have gone,
And I will set your feet in honor's ways;
Friends I will give, and length of crowded years,
And crown your manhood with a nation's praise.

'These will I give, and more; the poor man's home,
The anguished sufferer in the clutch of pain,
The camp, the field, the long, sad, waiting ward,
Shall seek your kindly face, nor seek in vain;

'For, as the sculptor-years shall chisel deep
The lines of pity 'neath the brow of thought,
Below your whitening hair the hurt shall read
How well you learned what I my best have taught.'

The busy footsteps of your toiling stand
Upon the noisy century's sharp divide,
And at your side, to-night, I see her still,
The gracious woman, strong and tender-eyed.

O stately Mistress of our sacred Art,
Changeless and beautiful and wise and brave,
Full fifty years have gone since first your lips
To noblest uses pledged that forehead grave.

As round the board our merry glasses rang,
His golden-wedding chimes I heard to-night;
We know its offspring; lo, from sea to sea
His pupil-children bless his living light.

What be the marriage-gifts that we can give?
What lacks he that on well-used years attends?
All that we have to give are his to-day,—
Love, honor, and obedience, troops of friends.