AT THE Alpha D ELTA P HI C ONVENTION , M AY 8, 1879

For Forty Years
Of mingled hopes and fears, —
Of tales of battle, told with bated breath,
Of peace, returning with her olive wreath,
Of love, of joy, of sorrow, and of death!

For suns will sink, and twilights melt away,
Cool evenings hurry on, nor midnight stay,
But at the summons of the morn e'en night grows gray,
Stars fade from sight, and lo, the light, the day!

Such change from day to night,

AT THE Phi B ETA Kappa M EETING OF 1884, — AFTER M R B AYARD'S A DDRESS

When Nestor ended, 'mid the loud acclaim,
As echoing plaudits sounded down the shore,
If from the listening ranks some stripling came,
And like some Oliver, demanded more,
The graver chieftains of maturer age
Half heard and half deferred his bold request;
They bade each beardless youth, each hoary sage,
Wait for the sequel till they'd done the feast.

For down the shore, by smoke and vapor hid,
The cooks were basting while the spits went round,

Now Serena, bee not coy;
Since wee frely may enjoy
Sweete imbraces: such delights,
As will shorten tedious nightes.
Thinke that beauty will not stay
With you allwaies, but away,
And that tyrannizing face
That now holdes such perfect grace,
Will both chaing'd and ruined bee;
So fraile is all thinges as wee see,
So subject unto conquering Time.
Then gather Flowers in theire prime,
Let them not fall and perish so;
Nature her bountyes did bestow
On us that wee might use them: And
Tis coldnesse not to understand

UPON UNNATURAL FLIGHTS IN POETRY .

As when some image of a charming face,
In living paint, an artist tries to trace,
He carefully consults each beauteous line,
Adjusting to his object his design;
We praise the piece, and give the painter fame,
But as the just resemblance speaks the dame.
Poets are limners of another kind,
To copy out ideas in the mind;
Words are the paint by which their thoughts are
And Nature sits the object to be drawn;
The written picture we applaud or blame

Thou sentst to mee a heart was crown'd
I tooke itt to be thine;
But when I saw itt had a wound
I knew that heart was mine.
A bounty of a strange conceit
To send my owne to mee,
And send itt in a worse estate,
Then itt was sent to thee.
The heart I sent was free from staine,
Itt was entire and sound,
But thou returndst itt back againe,
Sick of a deadly wound.
O heavens how wouldst thou use a heart,
That should rebellious bee;
Since thou art so unkind to that
Which so much honoured thee.

No more, vain wretch! such trifling arts pursue,
These public fooleries will never do!
Love's secret flames, like lamps, shou'd bury'd lie,
The very moment they take air, they die.
Women , thro' crowds , can unfeign'd passion spy,
Skill'd, in the rhet'ric of a speaking eye:
But when, regardless of their fame, you move,
Your glare of folly blinds their eye of love .

Come all ye gem'men volunteers,
Of glory who would share,
And leaving with your wives your fears,
To the drum head repair;

Or to the noble Serjeant Pike,
Come, come, without delay,
You'll enter into present pay,
My lads the bargain strike.
A golden guinea and a crown,
Besides the Lord knows what renown,
His majesty the donor,
And if you die,

'Twas on the day, whose unauspicious fate,
With dismal news , alarm'd Britannia 's state;
And, in our admiral's shipwreck , let us see,
That courage cannot stem mortality!
The sea's grim sov'reign , in a calmer place,
Unbent the wrinkly terrors of his face:
Where, stretch'd at ease, the wanton monarch lay,
And, hem'd with Neriids , laugh'd the hours away;
Soft knots of unform'd coral swell'd his bed,
And oozy samphire crown'd his bushy head.
A watchful guard the best-arm'd fishes keep,
And wind-rock'd billows lull'd their lord to sleep.

Oh, Gentlemen! I'm come — but was not sent ye;
A voluntier — pray, does my size content ye?
Man , I am yours: sex! blest, as heav'n can make you,
And, from this time, weak woman , I forsake you.

Who'd be a wife? when each new play can teach us,
To what fine ends , these lords of ours beseech us.
At first, whate'er they do — they do so charming!
But mark what follows — frightful, and alarming!
They feed, too fast, on love — then, sick'ning , tell us,
They can't, forsooth, be kind , because they're jealous .

In lonely walks, distracted by despair,
Shunning mankind, and torn with killing care,
My eyes o'erflowing, and my frantic mind
Rack'd with wild thoughts, swelling with sighs the wind,
Thro' paths untrodden day and night I rove,
Mourning the fate of my successless love.
Who most desire to live untimely fall,
But when we beg to die Death flies our call.
Adonis dies, and torn is the lov'd breast,
In midst of joy, where Venus wont to rest:
That fate, which cruel seem'd to him, would be
Pity, relief, and happiness, to me.