INTRODUCTION.
TO THE REV. ROMEO ELTON,
PROFESSOR OF LANGUAGES IN BROWN UNIVERSITY.
What time, dear Elton, we were wont to rove
From classic Brown along fair Seekonk's vale,
And, in the murmurs of his storied cove,
Hear barbarous voices still our Founder hail;
E'en then my bosom with young rapture hove
To give to deathless verse the exile's tale;
And every ripple's moan or breeze's sigh
Brought back whole centuries as it murmured by.
But soon the transient dream of youth was gone,
And different labors to our lots were given;
You at the shrine of peace and glory shone,—
Sublime your toils, for still your theme was Heaven;
I, upon life's tempestuous billows thrown,—
A little bark before the tempest driven,—
Strove for a time the surging tide to breast,
And up its rolling mountains sought for rest.
Wearied at length with the unceasing strife,
I gave my pinnace to the harbor's lee,
And left that ocean, still with tempests rife,
To mad ambition's heartless rivalry;
No longer venturing for exalted life,
(For storms and quicksands have no charms for me,)
I, in the listless labors of the swain,
Provoke no turmoil and awake no pain.
To drive the team afield and guide the plough,
Or lead the herds to graze the dewy mead,
Wakes not the glance of lynx-eyed rival now,
And makes no heart with disappointment bleed;
