For thee no more earth's cheerful morning shines Through the green fringes of the tented pines; Ah me! is heaven so far thou canst not hear, Or is thy viewless spirit hovering near, A fair young presence, bright with morning's glow, The fresh-cheeked boy of fifty years ago? Yes, fifty years, with all their circling suns, Behind them all my glance reverted runs; Where now that time remote, its griefs, its joys, Where are its gray-haired men, its bright-haired boys? Where is the patriarch time could hardly tire,-- The good old, wrinkled, immemorial "squire "? (An honest treasurer, like a black-plumed swan, Not every day our eyes may look upon.) Where the tough champion who, with Calvin's sword, In wordy conflicts battled for the Lord? Where the grave scholar, lonely, calm, austere, Whose voice like music charmed the listening ear, Whose light rekindled, like the morning star Still shines upon us through the gates ajar? Where the still, solemn, weary, sad-eyed man, Whose care-worn face and wandering eyes would scan,-- His features wasted in the lingering strife With the pale foe that drains the student's life? Where my old friend, the scholar, teacher, saint, Whose creed, some hinted, showed a speck of taint; He broached his own opinion, which is not Lightly to be forgiven or forgot; Some riddle's point,--I scarce remember now,-- Homoi-, perhaps, where they said homo-ou. (If the unlettered greatly wish to know Where lies the difference betwixt oi and o, Those of the curious who have time may search Among the stale conundrums of their church.) Beneath his roof his peaceful life I shared, And for his modes of faith I little cared,-- I, taught to judge men's dogmas by their deeds, Long ere the days of india-rubber creeds.