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Do you recall those mystic powers,
Which kept us wondering for hours;
Those strange impressions—voices speaking,
As though the veil between were leaking?
What means it now, as evening lowers?
The breath of Heaven? The scent of flowers?
Or—what one's faith has long been seeking?
Which kept us wondering for hours;
Those strange impressions—voices speaking,
As though the veil between were leaking?
What means it now, as evening lowers?
The breath of Heaven? The scent of flowers?
Or—what one's faith has long been seeking?
All things in life must have an ending;
And these crude lines which I am sending
Must also close, with hope abiding,
That with the Muse you'll stay confiding;
And that your pen will long be blending
Its rhythmic colors, while you're lending
Deep joy to all your thought is guiding.
And these crude lines which I am sending
Must also close, with hope abiding,
That with the Muse you'll stay confiding;
And that your pen will long be blending
Its rhythmic colors, while you're lending
Deep joy to all your thought is guiding.
Wilson M. Tylor.
A Tribute
To Jonathan E. Hoag, Esq.
Behold a marvel in these latter days!
When callow fledglings strive for fading bays,
A patriarch high o'ershadows all the rest,
A noble impulse firing still his breast.
When callow fledglings strive for fading bays,
A patriarch high o'ershadows all the rest,
A noble impulse firing still his breast.
Nine are the decades since thy star arose;
And still its light with tranquil lustre glows.
Now may the tenth reveal its glory still,
And find thee fixed on the Parnassian hill!
And still its light with tranquil lustre glows.
Now may the tenth reveal its glory still,
And find thee fixed on the Parnassian hill!
What memories must wrap thy spirit round!
What mystic dreams and ecstasies profound!
We can but marvel at a bard whose pen
For generations has delighted men.
What mystic dreams and ecstasies profound!
We can but marvel at a bard whose pen
For generations has delighted men.
Dean of the poets! It is thine to wear
The minstrel's wreath—the prophet's mantle share;
Towering at ninety o'er the common throng,
And wakening wonder with each latter song!
The minstrel's wreath—the prophet's mantle share;
Towering at ninety o'er the common throng,
And wakening wonder with each latter song!
Though we are strangers in the world's crude sense,
Yet both are students of experience.
Hence to that garland which is thine today,
Allow my hand to add this slender spray!
Yet both are students of experience.
Hence to that garland which is thine today,
Allow my hand to add this slender spray!
Arthur H. Goodenough.
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