Classic Poem

( ON SUDDENLY SEEING A COPY OF THE “ New MONTHLY MAGAZINE .”)

I T pleases me one friend to see
?With a familiar mien,
And fresh as in the olden time,—
?I mean the magazine;
Jocose as when we both were young,
?Some twenty years ago,
When I was a contributor,
?And you were—“Brooklyn Jo.”
Yes, in a wicked world like this,
?Where much to us seems strange,
It comforts one to find a friend,
?Or thing, that does not change.
Here's one that outwardly, at least,
?Stands to old colors true,
And comes in buff, as though to say,
?“I'm an ‘old buffer’ too.”
And yet it has not grown in girth,
?Nor has it lost a page;
I try the hinges of the back—
?There is no creak of age;
But one of us is growing thin,
?And one's already stout;
I am rheumatic—when it rains;
?And you—well, is it gout?
Just as of old its stories run,
?Our stories do not race;
And for ourselves—a seemly walk
?Were clearly our best pace.
However, I was never fast,
?As all the world must know;
And you a Joseph always were,
?Although we called you Jo.
But sadder changes years have brought:
?When I to Franklin fare
To see the sons,—whose fathers, too,
?Did business on the Square,—
I find the same old counting-room,
?But, with a sorrow keen,
I miss the voices now unheard,
?The faces now unseen.
And yet I count no empty chair:
?The dear old boys are dead,
But other boys, for whom they built,
?Are reigning in their stead;
And busy in the rooms I see
?An ever-lengthening row
Of boys in training for the toil
?To come when you boys go.
For toil and care come with the crown,
?To age the young heir's brow;
Quite reverential is my style
?When I address you now.
But there 's a river yet to cross;
?Near and more near its flow—
If we meet on the farther bank,
?I'll call you “Brooklyn Jo!”