O, teach its rich and swelling notes To lift our souls on high; And while the music round us floats, Let earth-born passion die. OUR SOCIETY'S AUTHORS. READ TO THE . B. K. AFTER THE ANNUAL DINNER, August 29, 1839. I SPEAK you no speech, and I sing you no song, And I hope not to keep you a minute too long; I but rise to propose that you drink, as a toast, "Our Society's Authors;" not one, - but a host. I premise, that perhaps you're not fully awareThough I am-how many and noted they are. Of those, in whose honors our land is so happy, How many belong to the Phi Beta Kappa! To recite all their names I by no means insist; "Twere a little too long for a post-dinner list. I leave out each annual poet and orator: That catalogue doubtless we all have memoriter. I leave out the Philistine phalanx of editors, Accounting them rather our debtors than creditors. And I silently pass, to save patience and time, All mere pamphleteers, both in prose and in rhyme. I propose but the bonos, meliores, et pessimos, Who appear in octavos and large duodecimos. (And thus I escape all allusion to self; For no big book of mine burdens any one's shelf.) 254 OUR SOCIETY'S AUTHORS. First, gravely we fill, with our waters or wines, The fervent cloud-hater, who builds on firm ground; And the other translators, whose versions rejoice Then Burnap and Furness - each one with a volume; Fill, next, to the LAWYERS, whose regal delight Is in extra-sized octaves, bound neatly in white. And here, as before, to begin with a resident, We drink to the Author, the Judge, and our President; Felix prole Librum — and each one a star, And around him arranged, lo! an eminent band, In order of merit and honor next follow The diploma'd disciples of HEALING APOLLO: Men as scanty in books as they're various in humors; Now, leaving the learned professions, our glass Let us fill to the more MISCELLANEOUS CLASS. First, honor and laud, as are due, let us render To the Governor's volume of eloquent splendor. From one of the name pass we on to the other, And quaff to the author of "Europe," his brother; And since all are brothers alike at this board, I venture to mention "Palmyra" restored. Then defer not the notice to one moment later, Of those in the precincts of fair Alma Mater; Her Hedge, Farrar, Webster, and Cleaveland, and Peirce, Whose labors can hardly be hitched into verse, Philosophical titles, euphonious in science, But setting the Muse and her rhymes at defiance; And him who once lectured in old Harvard Hall, But doffed the Professor at Madison's call,That true "old man eloquent," — Adams, Filling up the strong lines of the Lecturer's page. - in age Then those who have TRAVELLED o'er mountain and main; In Italy Lyman, and Cushing in Spain, And Bigelow, roving from Scotland to Parthia, And Devens, six weeks at the Vineyard of Martha. Of POETS -our own - who have printed their tomes, We all have known Mellen, and all laughed with Holmes. We boast that the nervous and fanciful powers Of Dana, the Idle Man, also, are ours; And Bryant-the world never rings to his fame, Of HISTORIANS next, lo! the lengthening procession: With his five hundred Lives, and his six hundred Hymns; Thus far of the living. But let me pass on To utter the eminent names that are gone. They speak, though they live not; their tones and their looks Come back with their souls, when we turn to their books Thus Tudor, Peirce, Frisbie, and Thacher, still live; Dehon, Haven, Stearns, and the Abbotts survive; |