Is drumming with his silver spoon;
The light of love shines over all.

O fortunate, O happy day!
The people sing, the people say.
The ancient bridegroom and the bride,
Smiling contented and serene

Upon the blithe, bewildering scene,
Behold, well-pleased, on every side
Their forms and features multiplied,
As the reflection of a light
Between two burnished mirrors gleams,
Or lamps upon a bridge at night
Stretch on and on before the sight,
Till the long vista endless seems.

MORITURI SALUTAMUS

POEM

FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS OF 1825 IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE

Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,

Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.

OVID, Fastorum Lib. vi.

MORITURI SALUTAMUS

CÆSAR, we who are about to die

Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry

In the arena, standing face to face

With death and with the Roman populace.

O ye familiar scenes,

-

ye groves of pine, That once were mine and are no longer mine, Thou river, widening through the meadows green To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen, Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose And vanished, we who are about to die Salute you; earth and air and sea and sky, And the Imperial Sun that scatters down His sovereign splendors upon grove and town.

Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear!
We are forgotten; and in your austere
And calm indifference, ye little care
Whether we come or go, or whence or where.
What passing generations fill these halls,
What passing voices echo from these walls,

Ye heed not; we are only as the blast,
A moment heard, and then forever past.

Not so the teachers who in earlier days

Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze; They answer us―alas! what have I said?

What greetings come there from the voiceless dead?

What salutation, welcome, or reply?

What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie?
They are no longer here; they all are gone
Into the land of shadows, - all save one.
Honor and reverence, and the good repute
That follows faithful service as its fruit,
Be unto him, whom living we salute.

The great Italian poet, when he made
His dreadful journey to the realms of shade,
Met there the old instructor of his youth,
And cried in tones of pity and of ruth:
"O, never from the memory of my heart
Your dear, paternal image shall depart,

Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised,
Taught me how mortals are immortalized;
How grateful am I for that patient care
All my life long my language shall declare."

To-day we make the poet's words our own,
And utter them in plaintive undertone;