There's a fountain of Fable whose magical power Time's ravages all could repair, And replace the bowed form and the tottering step, The wrinkles and silvery hair, By the brown flowing locks and the graces of youth, Its footstep elastic and light, Could mantle the cheek with its long-vanished bloom And make the dull eye keen and bright. 'Tis only a fable--a beautiful dream, But the fable, the dream, shall come true, As thy sons, Alma Mater, assemble to-night The joys of past years to renew. Our eyes shall grow bright with their old wonted light, Our spirits untrammelled by care, And the Goddess of Hope, with her fresh rainbow tints, Shall paint every prospect more fair. How sweet were the friendships we formed in thy halls! How strong were the tendrils that bound Our hearts to the mother whose provident care Encompassed her children around! Now strong in our manhood we cherish her still; And if by misfortune brought low, Our strength shall support her, our arms bear her up, And sustain her through weal and through woe. OCCASIONAL ODES. BI-CENTENNIAL ODE. (*) (June 13, 1860.) * Sung at the bi-centennial celebration of the incorporation of Marlboro, Mass. From the door of the homestead the mother looks forth, With a glance half of hope, half of fear, For the clock in the corner now points to the hour When the children she loves should appear. For have they not promised, whatever betide, On this their dear mother's birthday, To gather once more round the family board, Their dutiful service to pay? From the East and the West, from the North and the South, In communion and intercourse sweet, Her children have come, on this festival day, To sit, as of old, at her feet. And our mother,--God bless her benevolent face!-- How her heart thrills with motherly joys, As she stands at the portal, with arms opened wide, To welcome her girls and her boys. And yet, when the first joyful greetings are o'er, When the words of her welcome are said: A shadow creeps over her motherly face, As she silently thinks of the dead, Of the children whose voices once rang through her fields, Who shared all her hopes and alarms, Till, tired with the burden and heat of the day, They have fallen asleep in her arms. They have gone from our midst, but their labors abide On the fields where they prayerfully wrought; They scattered the seed, but the harvest is ours, By their toil and self-sacrifice bought. As we scan the fair scene that once greeted their eyes, As we tread the same paths which they trod, Let us tenderly think of our elders by birth, Who have gone to their rest, and their God.