The Poetical Works of Jonathan E. Hoag/Lines to Jonathan E. Hoag

by Wilson M. Tylor

Lines to Jonathan E. Hoag

On His Eighty-Eighth Birthday Anniversary

 

Over the top of man's threescore and ten,
By reason of strength even fourscore, and then
  With another eight of added years
  (A lengthened string of pearls and tears),
Thou gifted man with the poet's pen,
Tenderly touching the hearts of men,
  Hast an eye that sees, and an ear that hears.

The beautiful youthhood of spirit dwells
With thee, as thy rhyming melody tells
  Of the old farm home or the school-house red,
  Of Dionondawa's rock-chiseled bed.
On the Mohawk's trail, midst its peaks and dells,
This spirit of youth in its grandeur swells,
  When it pipes through the reeds by Nature fed.

Dear friend of mine, in my memory's halls,
Full many a picture adorns the walls,
  Unfaded, clear and as fresh as dew,
  Still more to be prized than when they were new,
Painted in days when our lives were young,
Ona canvas white, while the birdlings sung
  In life's green spring to me—and to you.

Recall now those days, those halcyon days,
When a jingling pair of obedient bays,
  Drew a basket-sleigh from Glenholm-terry,
  To bring back its load from the seminary;
The routine of books, which a rest allays,
Was time out of mind, in a hundred ways,
  Made easier far by thy words so merry.

Recall too the evening at Allan's "warming,"
How blithely old and young came swarming,
  When cake and cream and "jell" and pickle
  And coffee hot defied the icicle!
And how Miss Hopkins, flushed and charming,
Was made to hear an account alarming,
  That woman had twelve tongues—all fickle.

Recall Miss Tucker's brilliant adjec—
Tival production of verbal magic:
  How "Maid of Athens," ere the parting,
  Would strain the strings almost to starting.
Basso-profundo tone Hoagic
Would make that parting far less tragic,
  Also the symphony less darting.

Recall the talks, so deep and knowing,
On what our science now was showing;
  How all the ribs of earth were moulded,
  And why the moon was lifeless, cold, dead;
On why the tides caused axial slowing,
And hence the days were longer growing;
  Or what the chromosphere enfolded.

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?

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.

Wilson M. Tylor.