Give me, to pin upon my breast, The blossoms twain I love the best, A rosebud and a pink, my boys; Their leaves shall nestle next my heart, Their perfumed breath shall own its part In every health we drink, my boys, In every health we drink. The breathing blossoms stir my blood, Methinks I see the lilacs bud And hear the bluebirds sing, my boys; Why not? Yon lusty oak has seen Full tenscore years, yet leaflets green Peep out with every spring, my boys, Peep out with every spring. Old Time his rusty scythe may whet, The unmowed grass is glowing yet Beneath the sheltering snow, my boys; And if the crazy dotard ask, Is love worn out? Is life a task? We'll bravely answer No! my boys, We 'll bravely answer No! For life's bright taper is the same Love tipped of old with rosy flame That heaven's own altar lent, my boys, To glow in every cup we fill Till lips are mute and hearts are still, Till life and love are spent, my boys, Till life and love are spent. THE GIRDLE OF FRIENDSHIP 1884 SHE gathered at her slender waist The beauteous robe she wore; Its folds a golden belt embraced, One rose-hued gem it bore. The girdle shrank; its lessening round Still kept the shining gem, But now her flowing locks it bound, A lustrous diadem. And narrower still the circlet grew; Behold! a glittering band, Its roseate diamond set anew, Her neck's white column spanned. Suns rise and set; the straining clasp The shortened links resist, Yet flashes in a bracelet's grasp The diamond, on her wrist. At length, the round of changes past The thieving years could bring, The jewel, glittering to the last, Still sparkles in a ring. So, link by link, our friendships part, So loosen, break, and fall, A narrowing zone; the loving heart Lives changeless through them all. THE LYRE OF ANACREON 1885 THE minstrel of the classic lay Of love and wine who sings Still found the fingers run astray That touched the rebel strings. Of Cadmus he would fain have sung, Of Atreus and his line; But all the jocund echoes rung With songs of love and wine. Ah, brothers! I would fain have caught Some fresher fancy's gleam; My truant accents find, unsought, The old familiar theme. Love, Love! but not the sportive child With shaft and twanging bow, Whose random arrows drove us wild Some threescore years ago; Not Eros, with his joyous laugh, The urchin blind and bare, But Love, with spectacles and staff, And scanty, silvered hair. Our heads with frosted locks are white, Our roofs are thatched with snow, But red, in chilling winter's spite, Our hearts and hearthstones glow. Our old acquaintance, Time, drops in, And while the running sands Their golden thread unheeded spin, He warms his frozen hands. Stay, winged hours, too swift, too sweet, And waft this message o'er To all we miss, from all we meet On life's fast-crumbling shore: Say that, to old affection true, We hug the narrowing chain That binds our hearts,--alas, how few The links that yet remain!