Like some great conqueror robed complete, As round immortal brows have been. Were I a Pope-and who may know What mortal but would kiss a toe, Robed in a dress so wondrous fair! 1847. 19 VALEDICTORY. WRITTEN FOR THE EXHIBITION OF HARRISBURG ACADEMY, JULY 20, 1847.* "Farewell!" what tongue the full meaning can tell, That is hid in that haunted word-Farewell! The boy, who hath gone from his father's side But not always thus as a parting knell; A note of joy is that word-Farewell. * See Memoir, page 141. Have ye never seen on what joyful wings, Or the school-boy, whose cheek has grown pale in the toil Of his lonely task o'er the midnight oil, When vacation has come, with its sports and its rest, Will he part with his books with a sorrowful breast? Oh ye from whose bosoms youth's freshness hath parted, Ye know not the joys of the young and light hearted! When the blood flows the freest, the world is the brightest, The laugh rings the loudest, the footstep is lightest; When the spirit, untamed by experience of evil, Like a bee 'mongst the roses, lives only to revel; And the heart is away where the wild birds are singing, Where the sunfish are glacing, and the flowers are springing; When the soul on its path its own brightness is casting, Oh! then hath life something too sweet to be lasting. Then, bound a captive to his books, He sees the Old River go merrily by, 'Till the term runs out, and he shouts with glee"Vacation has come, and I am free!" Vacation has come; and now, boys, will you sigh To say to your books, for a season, good-bye? Ye who with Cæsar have made the campaign, And fought his hard battles all over again, What say you to grant a short truce to his slaughters, And let him spend August in winter quarters? And ye who with Virgil so often have sighed, And ye soldiers of Cyrus, who saw his defeat, And with Xenophon's Ten Thousand made good your retreat, Like the army you marched with, when safe from its foes, You may lay down your arms, and on laurels repose. But the band that is struggling so far in the rear, And ye, who with Livy have stood by the tide, That mirrored great Rome in her seven-hilled pride, And saw, as the ages went by in their flight, How the world was absorbed in her over-grown might; Like the earth, you may rest from her triumphs at last, For your toil, like the reign of her terror, is past. |