Few be those sorrows; clear and bright
The paths of triumph that ye tread ;
Manly your aim, as bold your flight,
While happy stars serenely shed
Selectest influence on each head;
And, e'en in hours of darkest fate,
May hope o'er all predominate.

THE DEPARTURE.

SEPTEMBER 1, 1809.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been;
A word which makes us linger, — yet,

- farewell! BYRON.

And must I leave, in truth, thy classic halls,
My Alma Mater! thy parental care,

So soon forego? Fain would I breathe thine air, Still in these groves; but other duty calls:

The hour is come, and lo! the curtain falls

On life's prime act. The steed, that must convey Thy lingering son, to distant scenes away,

Stands harnessed at the gate; he champs the bit, Throws high his bridled head, with frequent neigh, And paws, impatient of his lord's delay;

Nor longer now the adverse fates permit.

Then farewell, Harvard ! — whereso'er I stray,

Thy spirit be my guide, enlightened, free,

True nurse of virtue, knowledge, liberty!

THE CENTENNIAL CELEBRATION.

SEPTEMBER 8, 1836.

And doth not a meeting like this make amends
For all the long years I've been wandering away?
To see thus around me my youth's early friends,
As smiling and kind as in that happy day.

MOORE.

Among the thousands I was one,
A son of Harvard, on the day,
When twice an hundred years had run,
Who thronged her festival array.
No signs of age, or time's decay,
Saddened her brow; but in their stead,
A youthful glow, mild virtue's ray,
Her venerable face with joy o'erspread.

Unchanged, like star, or ocean still,

That pours its rays, or waves, as bright,
As pure, as when the shore, and hill,

Felt first the flood, and hailed the light;
A morn, with no preceding night;
A sun, that into perfect day

Soars upward, with resistless might,
To roll the mental darkness far away.

Ye lofty domes, ye ancient halls!
Learning's secure and calm retreat,

Glad I revisit your loved walls,

The muse's home, fair virtue's seat ;

Where oft my youth, in converse meet Of kindred souls, the fountains sought

Of knowledge pure, communion sweet, In happy interchange of lasting thought.

How high our young ambition soared!
Knowledge acquired, and deathless fame,
The paths of science wide explored,
Riches, and power attained, a name,
Beloved as honored, and a frame
Where health with manly beauty joined;

Such lofty hopes we dared proclaim,

Nor seemed they weak or vain to youth's fond mind.

Alas how changed! how swift the flight

Of trackless time, since thirty years Have vanished, like a star by night,

That sparkles, shoots, and disappears. The dreams of youth, its hopes, its fears, Its fancied joys, and triumphs rife,

Are gone; nor more such prospect cheers The stern realities of later life.

Yet manhood, and approaching age

Have joys that sooth, and hopes that soar,
Though softened by reflection sage,

And sobered by experience more.
If now the aims that roused of yore,
In reason's eye vain dreams appear,
Fancy can still their forms restore,

In hues of youth to grateful memory dear.

But hopes, that firmer grasp their hold,
And nobler thoughts to age belong :
High thoughts, that ripening years unfold,
And cherished hopes, by time made strong:
And, Harvard! here amidst the throng,
The humblest votary in thy train,

I feel, while swells the parting song,
Thy spirit hath not touched my heart in vain.

'Tis not in vain that now I breathe

Thy classic air amid these glades; That here, these sacred groves beneath, Thy spirit all my soul invades.

'Tis night but night in vain her shades Spreads round us here; these ancient halls The genius of the spot pervades,

Bright as the rays that stream from yonder walls.

Radiant as now, with living light

Still, Harvard! may thy glories shine :

Be virtue, honour, freedom, right,

And faith's pure dictates ever thine:

Draw still, from learning's richest mine, Time's choicest treasure, knowledge, wrought Laborious, at truth's inmost shrine,

By minds untrammelled, with deep wisdom fraught.

CONCLUSION.

TO THE READER.

"Is this too much? stern critic! say not so :"
This line of Byron, haply, may presage,

Reader! thy thought, which prompts thee to bestow
Harsh censure on the poet's luckless page.
Yet pardon, for his sake, th' unfinished strain;
To him this retrospect of early days

Hath pleasure given, unmixed with touch of pain.
Forgive his raptures, then, who thus can gaze
On joys long past, till waning years forget
Their downward course, and life seems youthful yet.
If tedious prove the strain, 'tis ended here:
Or, kindlier bent, if further thou would'st go,
New scenes of wider scope may yet appear,
"If he that rhymeth now may scribble moe."