When he, the Master whom I will not name,
Known to our calling, not unknown to fame,
At life's extremest verge half-conscious lay,
Helpless and sightless, dying day by day,
His brain, so long with varied wisdom fraught,
Filled with the broken enginery of thought,
A flitting vision often would illume
His darkened world and cheer its deepening gloom,—
A sunbeam struggling through the long eclipse,—
And smiles of pleasure play around his lips.
He loved the Art that shapes the dome and spire;
The Roman's page, the ring of Byron's lyre,
And oft, when fitful memory would return
To find some fragment in her broken urn,
Would wake to life some long-forgotten hour,
And lead his thought to Pisa's terraced tower,
Or trace in light before his rayless eye
The dome-crowned Pantheon printed on the sky;
Then while the view his ravished soul absorbs
And lends a glitter to the sightless orbs,
The patient watcher feels the stillness stirred
By the faint murmur of some classic word,
Or the long roll of Harold's lofty rhyme,
"Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime,"—
Such were the dreams that soothed his couch of pain,
The sweet nepenthe of the worn-out brain.
Brothers in art, who live for others' needs
In duty's bondage, mercy's gracious deeds,
Of all who toil beneath the circling sun
Whose evening rest than yours more fairly won?
Though many a cloud your struggling morn obscures,
What sunset brings a brighter sky than yours?
I, who your labors for a while have shared,
New tasks have sought, with new companions fared,
For Nature's servant far too often seen
A loiterer by the waves of Hippocrene;
Yet round the earlier friendship twines the new;
My footsteps wander, but my heart is true,
Nor e'er forgets the living or the dead
Who trod with me the paths where science led.
How can I tell you, O my loving friends,
What light, what warmth, your joyous welcome lends
To life's late hour? Alas! my song is sung,
Its fading accents falter on my tongue.
Sweet friends, if shrinking in the banquet's blaze,
Your blushing guest must face the breath of praise,
Speak not too well of one who scarce will know
Himself transfigured in its roseate glow;
Say kindly of him what is—chiefly—true,
Remembering always he belongs to you;
Deal with him as a truant, if you will,
But claim him, keep him, call him brother still!
The next toast was to "The Clergy."
He was a scholar, and a ripe and good one, exceeding
wise, fair-spoken and persuading.
—King Henry VIII.
Bishop Clark of Rhode Island responded. "We honor," he said, "the high priesthood of science and art. We honor the man who has brought life and joy to many weary dwellings, and therefore we extend the right hand of fellowship to him." When after tracing the lineage of the guest, he reviewed his life, quoted from his writings, and said in conclusion, that he stood side by side with Oliver Goldsmith.
The toast to "The Bar"—
Why might that not be the skull
Of a lawyer? Where be his quidet's now?
—Hamlet.