Life of John Boyle O'Reilly — Chapter 11

For brotherhood, not wine, this cup should pass;Its depths should ne'er reflect the eye of malice;Drink toasts to strangers with the social glass,But drink to brothers with this loving chalice.

"A few can touch the magic string.And noisy fame is proud to win them;Alas, for those that never sing,But die with all their music in them!"

When the youngest of all is the oldest.When the bell for our Prexy shall toll:When death's optic transfixes the boldest,When the iron has entered our soul;

When adversity's saccharine usesShall no longer watch over our gold.And when Howard takes tea with the muses.Leaving Tennyson out in the cold;

With earth's greatest grown sadder and wiser,Old palaces let to new lodgers,Albert Edward, Gambetta, the Kaiser,All dust—with ex-President Rogers;

Still the dark dial hand shall go flittingTill the smallest wee numbers shall chimeRound some dinner committee, left sitting,On my honor, twelve hours at a time,

While our youngsters—or theirs, as it may be—Gather here when a banquet is toward,All as merry as we are shall they be.And the saddle shall smoke on the board.

And the mirth shall wax deeper and broaderRound the cup we have emptied and filled.Till the hammer shall knock down disorder,And the shriek of the hawk shall be stilled.

Then the dusty Papyrus leaves turning.Says some juvenile bard of the time:"Let us pick out a brand from the burning,Let us see what these roosters called rhyme!"

Drawn apart from those time-honored pagesBy the hand of good fortune alone.Falls a leaf of the earlier agesBy the only O'Reilly — our own.

And the voice of the scoffer that reads itTakes a tremulous turn in our cause;More expressive the silence that heeds itThan the loudest and wildest applause.

Then the cherub that once was O'Reilly,On his cloud in the mystical land.Shall aslant from his halo peep slyly.And his harp shall slide out of his hand.

He shall linger a moment to listen,Looking down from perpetual joys,And a tear on his eyelids shall glistenAs benignly he whispers: "Dear boys!"

December 4, 1880.