Had but those boundless fields of blue One darkened sphere like this; But what has heaven for thee to do In realms of perfect bliss? No cloud to lift, no mind to clear, No rugged path to smooth, No struggling soul to help and cheer, No mortal grief to soothe! Enough; is there a world of love, No more we ask to know; The hand will guide thy ways above That shaped thy task below. JOSEPH WARREN, M. D. TRAINED in the holy art whose lifted shield Wards off the darts a never-slumbering foe, By hearth and wayside lurking, waits to throw, Oppression taught his helpful arm to wield The slayer's weapon: on the murderous field The fiery bolt he challenged laid him low, Seeking its noblest victim. Even so The charter of a nation must be sealed! The healer's brow the hero's honors crowned, From lowliest duty called to loftiest deed. Living, the oak-leaf wreath his temples bound; Dying, the conqueror's laurel was his meed, Last on the broken ramparts' turf to bleed Where Freedom's victory in defeat was found. June 11, 1875. OLD CAMBRIDGE JULY 3, 1875 AND can it be you've found a place Within this consecrated space, That makes so fine a show, For one of Rip Van Winkle's race? And is it really so? Who wants an old receipted bill? Who fishes in the Frog-pond still? Who digs last year's potato hill?-- That's what he'd like to know! And were it any spot on earth Save this dear home that gave him birth Some scores of years ago, He had not come to spoil your mirth And chill your festive glow; But round his baby-nest he strays, With tearful eye the scene surveys, His heart unchanged by changing days, That's what he'd have you know. Can you whose eyes not yet are dim Live o'er the buried past with him, And see the roses blow When white-haired men were Joe and Jim Untouched by winter's snow? Or roll the years back one by one As Judah's monarch backed the sun, And see the century just begun?-- That's what he'd like to know! I come, but as the swallow dips, Just touching with her feather-tips The shining wave below, To sit with pleasure-murmuring lips And listen to the flow Of Elmwood's sparkling Hippocrene, To tread once more my native green, To sigh unheard, to smile unseen,-- That's what I'd have you know. But since the common lot I've shared (We all are sitting "unprepared," Like culprits in a row, Whose heads are down, whose necks are bared To wait the headsman's blow), I'd like to shift my task to you, By asking just a thing or two About the good old times I knew,-- Here's what I want to know. The yellow meetin' house--can you tell Just where it stood before it fell Prey of the vandal foe,-- Our dear old temple, loved so well, By ruthless hands laid low? Where, tell me, was the Deacon's pew? Whose hair was braided in a queue? (For there were pig-tails not a few,)-- That's what I'd like to know.