The Poetical Works of Jonathan E. Hoag

Front matter

The

Poetical Works

of

Introduction

Introduction

Penned in this age of chaos and change, fever and flourish, by a man born when Andrew Jackson was President, when Poe was an unknown youth with his second thin volume of verses in the press, when Coleridge, Moore, Crabbe, Southey, and Wordsworth were living bards, and when the memory of Byron, Shelley, Blake and Keats was still recent; the present collection of poems is probably unique in its defiance of time and whim. Where else, indeed, would one be likely to find such a body of poetry; written almost wholly after the author's eighty-fifth year, and with many of the choicest specimens dating from beyond his ninetieth year, yet exhibiting an uniform grace, vigour, and vividness which place it in competition with the best, irrespective of origin?

Our venerable author, Jonathan E. Hoag, was born February 10, 1831, in a farmhouse at Valley Falls, Rensselaer County, New York. Heredity gave him her best; for in his blood are mingled the Quaker strain of the Hoags, the sturdiness of the Wings, the rugged independence of Ethan Allen, and the high martial spirit of the Giffords, through whom he traces his descent from the Norman Walter Gifford, first Earl of Buckingham, who was standard-bearer to William the Conqueror. The earliest environment of Mr. Hoag, which he has celebrated in so many delightful poems and essays, was an idyllic kind of rural life which has today largely vanished through the incursions of the railway, telephone, and postal system; and which was marked by that lofty and picturesque simplicity formed when a race of fine stock and traditions reverts to the stalwart condition of the pioneer. In such a life there was, despite the proportion of arduous toil, a certain beauty and freshness that sprang from the continuous isolation with varied nature, and from the acutely visible cycle of fundamental acts and processes—ploughing, sowing, cultivating, reaping, storing; stock-raising, shearing, spinning, weaving; baking, sewing, candle-making—all the simple, homely little deeds which modernity has banished from most individual lives through co-operative effort, yet which the most sophisticated writers like to recall in occasional idyls and delicately etched eclogues. Thousands knew this elder and vanished America, but being bound to the practical, did not feel its loveliness poignantly enough to need to express it in the rhythms and images of poetry. Mr. Hoag, however, was endowed with the true vision and divine sensitiveness of the bard; and vibrated sympathetically to the pastoral scenes around him. Alive to beauty in every form, he found it wher he looked; and watched the calm agrestic years roll by, with the life of the old farm home, and the little school, and the academy, and the general training on the green. He knew, and what is more, he felt, the old America of our fathers; and was in addition a worshipper of those universal powers of grandeur and loveliness which gleam in the woods, hills, valleys, streams and waterfalls of untenanted Nature. Add to this a keenly active, humorous and analytical mind, and a disposition of the warmest kindness, tolerance, and sympathy; and you have a picture of the fundamentals on which our poet's art is built.

The titanic background of the past, so pitifully lost to our younger generation, was possessed in all its potency by the growing bard. The Hoags are a long-lived race, and when little Jonathan was six he could sit at the feet of his great-aunt Lydia, who lived to be 103, and hear at first hand the reminiscences of one who had witnessed not only the Revolution, but the last of the French and Indian wars as well. He learned from the very first that essential continuity of life and thought which our moderns learn too late or not at all; and never swerved from conservatism and sanity as he grew to the six feet of sturdy Hoag, Wing, Allen and Gifford brawn which he has today.

Of books Mr. Hoag was ever an avid reader. Though educated only at the "little red schoolhouse" and the Washington County Academy, he lost no opportunity to enlarge his liberal culture; so that ere long he was master of a wide erudition and discriminating philosophy. Uniting to his studiousness an acute observation of men and scenes, he gradually became stored with an accumulation of ideas and images which in one of his eloquent temperament could not but seek expression in literature. By degrees we find him uttering his thoughts and impressions in essays and poems; though moved somewhat to restraint because of the absence of early technical training in the most rigid literary forms. Of this earlier work very little verse has survived; though from the single specimen here presented we see that its natural merit was indeed great.

Mr. Hoag, maturing, acquired experience, family responsibilities, and varied interests. Poet and dreamer already, he became likewise skilled in law, newspaper correspondence, observant travel, and the several sciences. He developed social and political interests, visited the Philadelphia Exposition of 1876, and rose to a position of commanding influence in the Prohibition party; for his sensitive good taste had always rebelled against the bestial spectacle of drunkenness and its attendant miseries. His letters, signed "Scriba," were always in demand by the press; whether touching on the beauties of some natural vista or historic spot, on some unusual observation pertaining to geology, geography, or meteorology, or on some problem of governmental or economic significance. In 1904, at an age already ripe, Mr. Hoag made an extended tour of the United States; beholding the scenic wonders of the West, and studying the condition of mankind all over the nation. He saw a sunset from Pike's Peak, talked with old Geronimo, that last relic of aboriginal savagery, and accumulated a new fund of beauty and lore to animate his literary products. It is quite possible that the exceptionally powerful impression made on him by the awesome peaks and canyons that lay along his course, was the basic impulse behind that renewed poetical flow which shines forth in these pages and which is still flourishing with undiminished lustre. The force of that impression can be attested by all readers of the Greenwich (N.Y.) Journal who followed "Scribe's" series of graphic prose articles on the subject.

Late in 1915 Mr. Hoag received his final impulse toward continuous and systematic literary production through his advent to the miniature world of "amateur journalism"; a group of societies formed for the encouragement of the non-professional litterateur, and possessing an amateur press whose columns welcome all qualified comers. Availing himself of the various departments of criticism and encouragement, our bard began to turn out a finished product whose form fully sustained its matter, and which followed correctly those poetical traditions to which he was naturally inclined. The results may be seen in this volume; where the general classification, as shown in the table of contents, exhibits the various directions taken by the author's Muse. Much of this work is of nocturnal origin, inspired by dreams or waking visions of the darkness, and set to paper as quickly as possible. Scarcely anything is studied or premeditated, since "Scriba" sings for the most purely artistic of reasons—because he cannot help it! Awe, reminiscence, beauty-worship, sorrow, speculation, wonder—any of the countless impulses may move him; and when once moved, he cannot but express himself with that simple and spontaneously selective poignancy which is the truest art. And so he is today, at the age of ninety-two; expressing out of a long life of taste, thought, beauty, honour, and virtue, those images so thoroughly yet delicately coloured by the career they reflect. He resides at "Vista Buena," his delightful village home in Greenwich, New York, where with his son and grandchildren he weaves his dreams, while Dionondawa's cataract pours ceaseless music on his ears.

The poetry of Mr. Hoag is distinguished by a Doric purity and simplicity which, together with the reflective tranquility and occasional domestic touches, affiliate it conclusively with the earlier American school. It is fresh, Colonial, and free from self-conscious ornamentation. It has escaped not only the abyss of modernism, but the hothouse of Victorian preciosity and affectation as well; keeping the ancient verbal austerity as Bryant kept it, and holding also not a little of that eighteenth-century ease and swing which, as in Dr. Holmes' best work, is a genuine survival from our local tradition of Byles, Sewell, Freneau, Trumbull, Dwight and Barlow, rather than a pedantic revival of Queen Anne and Georgian piquancy after the manner of the late Austin Dobson. Flexibility, however, is a dominant feature; and leads the poet to adapt his measure to his mood, so that we are occasionally surprised by such variations from the general style as we see in verses like "The Celtic's Dream of his Erin Home." Subtler variations are those which we note between essentially stately pieces, such as the Nature odes and the pensive reminiscences; and the playful pieces, such as the juveniles and the jovial reminiscences. When in the lighter vein, Mr. Hoag manages with unusual success to avoid the insipid, the puerile, and the banal; and achieves a kind of originality resulting from the union of colloquial simplicity with correct diction and images drawn directly from experience. This image-drawing occasionally attains a felicity amounting to sheer genius, for "Scriba" seems to know by instinct just what sort of unhackneyed allusion will best call up in a few words the vivid pictures his theme demands.

Should a critic attempt to decide which of the several fields of Mr. Hoag's work best suits the author's talents, he would find himself involved in much delicate comparison. There are odes to Nature's primal forces which sometimes reach impressive depths, as where in speaking of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado he refers to black caverns where

"Vast nameless satyrs dance with noiseless feet."

Then, too, there are elegies and poems of pathos and patriotism where sheer natural feeling seems to animate the lines with a radiance more lasting than that of studied phrases. The juvenile pieces are ineffably appealing, while the legends and brighter Nature poems are full of a quaint and characteristic fascination. But in the end it seems certain that a conscientious analyst would award the palm to those reminiscent idyls in which the writer's own rural childhood is mirrored with such inspired fidelity and selective individuality. It is here that the descriptive and lyrical moods are most perfectly united, and here that the poet's gift of original observation is given freest play. In these studies of Old America we have the convincing touch of one who has lived in the scenes he describes; and who consequently avoids the objectivity, inaccuracy, and false stresses of the newer bards whose outlook is purely detached and antiquarian. He knows what to tell, because he writes from living memories and does not need to rely on stock phrases, images, or situations. Who else, in describing the "little red schoolhouse," would refer to the master's tapping on the window to summon the scholars in from recess? Another poet would drag in the traditional bell—but "Scriba" knows his subject from actual ex . The spirit of childhood is very close to him, and he retains with a truly photographic accuracy his original reactions to the rural scene of the thirties; so that we may share the young enthusiasm with which he thrilled so many decades ago. Not a sentiment or perception is missing, and even the outworn, supposedly exploded values of the past take on a new reality as seen again through his unspoiled and ever-youthful eyes.

The present volume includes, besides one earlier piece, the entire output of Mr. Hoag's finished Muse; that is, that portion of his contemporary work which has passed the scrutiny of his more calmly appraising second judgment, including all permanent material written between the winter of 1915-16 and the spring of 1923. What place it may ultimately take in the pastoral minstrelsy of America is not for the writer to predict; since the whole aesthetic order is at present so convulsed with unrest, rebellion, and a virtual transvaluation of values. But we may at least agree that according to accepted standards, our poet has accomplished a marvellous work in capturing the spirit of the buoyant, hopeful past for the benefit of the doubting, pessimistic present. What would we not give for that earlier outlook upon man, the world, and the universe! The esteem in which "Scriba" is held by his contemporaries may plainly be seen from the bulky appendix of tributes, in which the present writer appears as a persistent and periodical offender. It is that writer's hope, both from personal regard and from a disinterested love of beauty in literature, that he may have the privilege of adding some day to these tributes a centennial ode which its venerable subject may read in the full vigour of a lengthened span.

H. P. Lovecraft.

March, 1923.

The Old Farm Home

Songs of Home

The Old Farm Home

My old farm home on Hoosick's verdant lea, How oft in stilly night I dream of thee! Of childhood's scenes I left so far behind, The dreams of youth do yet my heart remind. The mountain stream I yet can clearly spy, As now these lines unfold before my eye. The cooling waters gently lave the shore, As when I watched in youth, long years before! That old, old rural home of long ago; Dear, though my locks have whitened as the snow, To mark the passage of the fleeting years, And call to memory such bitter tears! The old, old barn with swinging rope so free, Where girls and boys were wont to romp in glee; The old sheepshed, wherein the woolly flocks And tender lambkins played on mossy rocks! Ah, then, the orchard too, where apples sweet On bending boughs our vision oft would greet; As, basking 'neath its grateful verdant shade, We watched the sportive lambkins while they played. And, too, the clover bloom from newmade hay, That scented southern winds at close of day; The lowing herd that slowly climbed the lea, , While lengthening shadows stretched from leafy tree. The old stump fence still lies along the road, Where children's voices once in laughter flowed; But where the crossroads schoolhouse stood in grace, Now rush the trains at fevered modern pace. On the steep hillside with its balmy pines, And ancient oak trees with their swinging vines, The happy children sought for wintergreen, Whose berries red with rapture oft were seen. Where are they now, who gathered berries here, And gaily prattled in a bygone year? Their present homes are scattered far and wide, While some, alas, have crossed the fateful tide! See the old bridge with wooden arches high! Far, far beneath the water rushes by. Within that covered space the shadows lay; And spooky fancies lurked along the way. Ah! the old mill that ground the yellow corn, With waters whirling past that ne'er return. Seedtime and harvest hold eternal reign; Though mortals die, great Nature must remain! Home of my youth! Once more I come to thee, Where long ago I lived in infant glee. I step within thy silent doors; but there No voice, no face familiar cheers the air. I peer out through the narrow window-pane,

Where mother watched her sportive childish train, I touch the latch which once my mother grasped, While me, close to her breast, she fondly clasped. I gaze along the dusty old handrail, And count the sagging steps on stairs now frail. My mother's feet these stairs have often pressed; But now, alas, those feet in silence rest. That mother-love—O miracle divine In dreams I feel her gentle hand in mine. My footsteps echo through the empty hall, While deathlike silence hovers over all. I climb the ancient, creaky kitchen stair, Peer fondly through the little window there. Here years ago myself and brother slept, Where now are web-hung walls and floor unswept. Old home, reluctantly I turn from thee, Whose roof long years ago protected me. With doors ajar and dusty window-panes, Gloom stalks supreme; for now naught else remains Though fourscore years and more, I yet revere Thy walls, since father, mother, all, lived here; But now the beckoning vista seems afar, Since those we loved of old have crossed the bar!

1916.

The Celtic's Dream of His Erin Home

The Celtic's Dream of His Erin Home

In me dhr'reams iv dear Ould Ireland, Phwin the shanty's shtill and dark, Thin me hear'rt goes o'er the ocean, An' I lishten to the lar'rk.

I sees me mother'r an' the chilther'r, An' the goat arrount the door, An' I shmells the shamrock blossoms, As I often did before.

Thin I'm dhreamin iv me Colleen An' me jantin car so shlow, An' I hear the donkey clathrin, Phwin to Dublin phair we go.

Ah the shamrock an' the willows, An' the Bay iv Ould Thiralee, An' the rocky hills iv Kerry Phware the heather blossoms free.

Ah, Killarrney, an' Kilkenny, Ah, the shamrock an' the rose, Phwar're the ger'rls can dance a hornpipe, 'Till the mor'rnin r'roster crows.

Ah the Colleens in Ould Banthry, How they dance the Irish reel, Wid their rose lips an' black thresses, Shur're me hear'rt they'd like to shteal.

A bould Irish Tip was me father, An' me mother was the same, How he cud twirrl his shtick of blackthorn Phwin an Or'rangeman there came.

Shweet an' paceful is the avenin, Phwin the childher'r ar're in bed, An' the goat an' little donkey, An' the piggy in the shed.

Thin me father takes his fiddle That's a hangin' on the wall, An' me modther knits a shtockin Phwile the cat plays wid the ball.

Thin he schr'rapes the sthr'rings so squeaky An' he taps the kitchen floor, An' his head it goes a-bobbin Like the ducks ar'round the door.

Ah, me dhr'reams iv dear Ould Ireland, An the shanty thach'd wid sthraw, An' the lakes iv Old Killar'rney, An' the berries iv the haw!

An' the hunthers an' the jockeys, An' poor reynard on the run, An' I sees thim leep the hedges, At the sinkin iv the sun.

Now the childher ar're all scatthered; An' the shanty's tumplet down, An' the goat an' donkey slumber 'Neath the heather sere and brown.

Now me father an' me mother, Lie beyant the roolin s'a, Phware the shamrock shtar'rs the greensward On the shore iv Banthry Bay.

Now me hair is gettin phwither, An' me Colleen's bending mor're As we watch the curlin shmoke sthreams Phwin we sit beside the door.

An' we watch the blazin turf fire, An' me Colleen sittin near, Phwin she sees the wooden cr'radle Thin she hides a little tear.

1917.

The Home That Used to Be

The Home that Used to Be

Oh, the home that used to be! Sportive children, careless, free; Vines around the cottage door, Giant poplars hovering o'er!

Laughing children home from school, Playing in the evening's cool; Then with early limbs and heads, In their downy chamber beds.

Hear the hum of mother's wheel; Hear the farmyard's squawk and squeal; Hear the calf by yonder bar, Whilst the kine are lowing far!

Mother's wooden carpet loom— How I hear its ceaseless boom! Have indeed the years unfurled? Hence, thou busy, bustling world!

1921.

The Little Red Schoolhouse

The Little Red Schoolhouse

Yet dear to my heart is the little red schoolhouse, The hill and the field where the strawberries grew; The old wooden doorstep, the feet that once trod it Have vanished and gone like the rain and the dew!

The long wooden benches, the stove and big poker, The master's tall hat on a peg high and dry; The old wooden desk and the books piled upon it; The tin waterpail and the drinking cup nigh.

There were baskets and boxes with cookies and doughnuts, And all quickly vanish at coming of noon; Then the ball and the hoop, and the ring-around-rosy, Then skip the light rope and sing o'er the quick tune.

Then the spirit of childhood in "tag" and in "I spy" Reveals its fleet vigor beneath the bright sun; Now the master with ruler raps loud on the window, And all scurry back to their seats on the run.

Ah that little red schoolhouse, set close by the wayside! The hill and the woods where the wintergreen grew; Not a shade nor a shadow touched lawn or touched window; Not a wide spreading oak nor a hanging vine blew.

Now that little red schoolhouse that stood by the wayside, Not a stone nor a brick marks the place where it stood! Now we hear the wild scream of the huge locomotive, O'er hilltop and valley, o'er mountain and wood.

But oh, how the visions of childhood come welling, When I think of the spot where so often I trod; When sweet retrospection cheats Time of its changes, And I stand once again on the loved rural sod!

1919.

When the Snow Is on the Hill

When the Snow Is on the Hill

"When the snow is on the ground," Girls and boys come with a bound, Bringing out their shiny sleds, Cheeks aglow and tousled heads. See the throng on big bob-sleigh— Pilot shouts "Git out the way!" "Hold up feet and hang on tight, Shet your mouth with all yer might." "Give a push," then down they scoot Like a falling parachute. But ere they are down the hill Track is jumped—all get a spill! There were hats and caps and arms; Laughter loud supplied its charms. Rosy cheeks and snowy hair; All enjoy'd the frosty air.

1919.

A Childhood Home

A Childhood Home

O for the laughter and love of a child! Rosebud lips and a dimpled cheek; Mouth that can pout and smile and sing, Eyes that through pinky fingers peek.

Rippling brook 'midst the springtime flowers; Singing birds in the leafy trees; Nought of the love that Nature brings, Can equal the love that a mother sees.

An angel's wings seem whispering close, With radiant message of magic art; Maternal lips press warm and dear; O love, what love in a mother's heart!

Creeping down on the chamber stair; Peeping through from the curtained door: "Mother will catch you pretty soon; Don't you bother her any more!"

Scrambling up the long dizzy flight, Chubby feet such a hubbub make; Peering over the creaking rail, A turmoil that keeps the house awake.

"Naughty children, you make me wild; You scatter the things about at will!" Fainter and fainter their laughter grows, And soft and sudden the house is still.

The flowers bloom on their little graves, But the footsteps forsake the kitchen floor! No treble voices laugh and sing, As did the children in days of yore!

O, those faces upon the wall, Baby faces of memory! Footsteps stilled on the chamber stair— And O—the home that this used to be!

1921

The Little Old Spring-House

The Little Old Spring-House

Ah, that magical little old spring-house, That stands near the old curb-stone! How often at morning and evening, We rushed there by twos and alone!

Unleashed, like the hound for his quarry, The bucket descends to the pool; Then, whining and cranking and squeaking, Comes nectar, refreshing and cool.

And the names—have you seen them, so many? Cut deep in the wood scribbled o'er! Reluctant, we fain would recall them, The faces that linger no more.

Where now are the many who came here, To drink of its depths long ago? They sleep beneath granite and marble, Effaced and transfigured below.

1921

That Old Cider Mill

That Old Cider Mill

Say, Bill, d'you 'member that ole cider mill, Down thar in the holler 't the foot uv the hill? Some fruit on the trees, an' lots on the groun'. An' piled up reel high like a great big moun', Lots mo" n the cows 'n the pigs cud eat; An' often we'd fire 'em at bobtail Pete. Gosh, how he'd run an' kick up his heels, W'en a hull lot'd hit him rite whar it feels! An' up on the floor uv the good ole mill, Thar wuz piles an' piles like a great big hill. So ole Deakin Jones tuk boards an' bilt Little yards 'at looked like a crazy quilt. An' when we wuz cumming along frum skool, We'd git straws an' suck most a hull pail full. An' golly! 'twas lickin' sweet an' good, When we dipped it outer that tub uv wood. An' wen the deakin wuz goin' upstairs, An' didn't know we wuz around anywheres, We'd plug ole Pete, an' he'd jump an' nod, An' we'd see that yeller stuff squirt a rod. The deakin 'ud holler an' stomp on the floor: "Clar out, 'r I'll cum down an' give yer some more!" An' wen the old deakin 'ud start ter cum, We'd fill up our nails, an' scoot fer hum.

1921

The Old Church Bells

The Old Church Bells

As I listen again to the Old Church Bells, There comes a vision their music tells, Of the scenes long gone in the old, old times, As the peals ring loud from the Old Church chimes.

Peal out your vibrant tones as of yore, While eager feet near the Old Church door, And reverent souls with dim, bowed head, Hark to the Word from the pulpit read.

How those bells rang out in the long ago, When cup and chalice passed to and fro, And prayers were breathed in an ancient pew, Whilst fervent in mood the Pastor grew.

On Sabbath morn to the rural sons, Those peals rang out with their solemn tones; O'er verdant hills and through shady dells Pure joy welled up from those Old Church Bells.

Ofttimes beside the flowered bier, The veil hides many a scalding tear, While in rhythmic step the Pastor led, Where 'ashes and dust to dust," was said!

The falling clods of earth in the tomb, Awake in sorrowing hearts a gloom! In solemn tread we turn away, As the shadows fall at close of day.

O joyous Life and closing Death! 'Twas thus decreed ere our souls had breath; The autumnal, circling, frosted leaf; The drooping flower—the closing grief!

1921

The Home of My Childhood

The Home of My Childhood

The home of my childhood In dreams oft I see; The sweet-scented lilacs, The widespreading tree.

The cool pearly fountain, The rich grassy lawn, The garden, the orchard, Long vanished and gone.

The old-fashioned stable, Where meek horses stood, Now stamping and pawing, Awaiting their food.

I list to young swallows, On beams perching high; Whilst careful bird-mothers Flit noiselessly by.

I see the young bossies Reach heads through the bars; The curly-tailed piglings, That grunt to the stars.

What visions come rushing, Of scenes that are past! The years with their burdens Have vanished at last.

Ah, sweet recollections, By fancy kept green, Where father and mother And children were seen!

I stand at the side of a now sunken grave, And list for a whisper midst hot falling tears; The silence of death broods where sweet flowers should wave, As backward I glance o'er the many sad years.

1922

The Man Behind the Plough

The Man Behind the Plough

Ere the sun climbs o'er yon wooded hill, Ere the night-birds cease their morning thrill, While the drowsy treetops sway in sleep, And the woolly lambs their vigil keep, The ploughman wends his lonely way, 'Mid the clover-bloom in early May. Fresh is the scent from the virgin earth, When the dormant seed proclaims its birth.

Keenest work is the ploughman's lot! In the scorching rays he heeds it not; But along the devious, narrow side, He toils from morn to eventide. See how the burnished, glistening scythe Cleaves close and turns on the greensward blithe. See how his furrows straight and fine Around and around his steeds incline.

The dinner-horn sounds loud and clear; Pricked is each horse's listening ear. Erect and with patient steps they mount, To seek the cool, refreshing fount. Here, where the grassy furrows roll, Greedy, the barnfowl takes his toll; And many a morsel sleek and rare He takes away to his secret lair.

O rural homes in the country wide, With their oaks and a crystal stream beside! The vines still trail to the kitchen door, As flower-perfumed as they were of yore; And still from the windows opened there, The songs and the laughter of children fare, As beautiful as the rhythms dim, That come from the lips of cherubim.

How soft and calm is the evening breeze, That floats from the west to stir the trees! That day is done; and to rest well earned The steps of the laboring swain are turned. A grateful ease do the tired limbs take; And soothed is the toilworn forehead's ache. Blessings upon thine honest brow, Farmer who ploddest behind the plough!

1922

The Old Washington County Academy

The Old Washington County Academy

Thy shades no more with jocund life abound; Yet memories cluster round thine ancient walls, And linger on the consecrated ground, Till o'er the dream Time's sombre shadow falls. What thoughts of bygone days are with me yet! A deathlike silence brooding o'er the past! Within thy walls are scenes we ne'er forget, But clasp and hold, as priceless jewels, fast. From out thy doors have passed, at duty's call, Full many wearers of the scholar's gown, Whose voices rang in legislative hall, Whose feet pursued the road to high renown. There stands the hall in which we oft beheld The gleam of blades, which clashed with gleaming blades, While eager maids the fears instinctive quelled; But all too soon the scene of glory fades. Oft have I gazed on those time-honored walls, And marvelled at the secrets which they hold. Adown the years a voice of wisdom calls, Which I would heed before I grow too old. And that old belfry, deeply scarred with names! We scan them well, and vaguely query where The hands that carved them on those window-frames, And feet that pressed that ancient narrow stair. Where now are they who erstwhile filled these seats, From mountain homes, from placid lakes afar, From rural farms, from swarming city streets? How many a one has crossed the fatal bar!