_1st Student_. These were the evenings last year, when the bell From the old college tower, would find us still Under the shady elms, with sauntering step And book in hand, or on the dark grass stretched, Or lounging on the fence, with skyward gaze Amid the sunset warble. Ah! that world,-- That world we lived in then--where is it now? Like earth to the departed dead, methinks. _2nd Stud_. Yet oftenest, of that homeward path I think, Amid the deepening twilight slowly trod, And I can hear the click of that old gate, As once again, amid the chirping yard, I see the summer rooms, open and dark, And on the shady step the sister stands, Her merry welcome, in a mock reproach, Of Love's long childhood breathing. Oh this year, This year of blood hath made me old, and yet, Spite of my manhood now, with all my heart, I could lie down upon this grass and weep For those old blessed times, the times of peace again. _1st Stud_. There will be weeping, Frank, from older eyes, Or e'er again that blessed time shall come. Hearts strong and glad now, must be broke ere then: Wild tragedies, that for the days to come Shall faery pastime make, must yet ere then Be acted here; ay, with the genuine clasp Of anguish, and fierce stabs, not buried in silk robes, But in hot hearts, and sighs from wrung souls' depths. And they shall walk in light that we have made, They of the days to come, and sit in shadow Of our blood-reared vines, not counting the wild cost. Thus 'tis: among glad ages many,--one-- In garlands lies, bleeding and bound. Times past, And times to come, on ours, as on an altar-- Have laid down their griefs, and unto us Is given the burthen of them all. _2nd Stud_. And yet, See now, how pleasantly the sun shines there Over the yellow fields, to the brown fence Its hour of golden beauty--giving still. And but for that faint ringing from the fort, That comes just now across the vale to us, And this small band of soldiers planted here, I could think this was peace, so calmly there, The afternoon amid the valley sleeps. _1st Stud_. Yet in the bosom of this gentle time, The crisis of an age-long struggle heaves. _2nd Stud_. _Age-long?_--Why, this land's history can scarce Be told in ages, yet.