Life of John Boyle O'Reilly — Chapter 12

When God gives to us the clearest sight,He does not teach our eyes with love but sorrow.

What need of new tongues! sure the Gaelic is clearest,Like nature's own voice every word;"Ahagur! acushla! savourneen!" the dearestThe ear of a girl ever heard.

Not thus, O South! when thy proud head was low,Thy passionate heart laid open to the foe—Not thus, Virginia, did thy victors meetAt Appomattox him who bore defeat;No brutal show abased thine honored State:Grant turned from Richmond at the very gate.

"Ah, the tramp of feet victorious! I should hear them'Mid the shamrocks and the mosses.My heart should toss within the shroud and quiverAs a captive dreamer tosses ;I should turn and rend the cere clothes round me.Giant sinews I should borrowCrying, 'Oh, my brothers, I have also loved her,In her lowliness and sorrow.Let me join with you the jubilant procession.Let me chant with you her story;Then contented I shall go back to the shamrocks.Now mine eyes have seen her glory.'"

We who have worn the crown salute you! Hail!The dawn is yours, and ours the sunset pale;You are the undiscovered land, while weAre stubble-fields of old fertility.

We who have worn the purple! Ah, my friends.We are the symbols of your latter ends.We are the yesterdays; all our glory's scenesAre pigeon-holed just o'er the might-have-beens.

We are the yellow leaves, the new year's vowsLeft withering, yellow, on the young spring's brows,Ours the glad sadness of the crown unmissed,The rich wine drunken, the sweet kisses kissed.

Therefore, we hail you, who in turn shall wearThe heavy crown that left our temples bare!You are the mine in which the gold-vein sleeps;You are the cloud from which the lightning leaps.

Yes, friends, this honor comes to each in time—I see the faces changing in my rhyme,I see the wire-strung meetings year by year,From which in turn the chosen ones appear.

First, pushing forth like corn in August daysShoots the soft cone of Babbitt's budding bays.Then follows one, pressed forward—modest man—Our Sullivan—(American for Soolivan).Two years, at least, he rules the noisy whirlEre to his chair he leads the "Frivolous Girl."

Then Crocker comes to rule our board with law,And Chadwick knocks to order, with a saw.Here Dodd presides, a lily at his throat.Here Parker sounds his mellow Gloucester note;Here Howard, dusty from the Board of Trade,Wields the deft gavel his own hands have made.

Here "Rollo" comes from Cambridge, led by Soule;And so they come, a long and loving roll.

Forward, like fishes to be fed, they press,Some must be first— the last are not the less.Down years remote the brilliant line I see,And every face turns hitherward—ah me!How shining baits lure man as well as maid.How hearts will hanker for the things that fade !

Across the coming century, thy lineIs stretched, Papyrus, and I see it shineFrom that far end, while this end curtains drape,For here stands Time, and winds the golden tape.

To you then, brethren, is our message SentTo every embryo ex-President:"We salute you. While yet you have us hereTreat us full tenderly, and hold us dear.Receive us often at the banquet gay.For our poor cup of wine, be proud to pay.We are your veterans, scarred on breast and brow;Let us run this Club's business—we know how."

And when thro' Time,—say forty years and nine,—We get full fifty Presidents in line.Behold, we can outvote the younger men;And we shall bind them to our service then.In their white faces on that day we'll shakeThe rule and precedent that now we make ;And we the old presiders, then shall speak.Saying, "Young men, receive us every week."And they will gnash their teeth, but eke be dumb,While we enjoy our soft millenium.