Dr. Beck once required his class each to bring a Latin epigram. Dan Curtis, who was not very fond of work unless it was in the line of his own tastes, sent in the following:
Fugiunt. Qui fugiunt? Galli; tunc moriar contentus.
"What is that, Curtis?" said the Doctor. "Dying words of Wolfe, sir," replied Curtis. "Ah," said the Doctor with great satisfaction. He thought it was Wolf the famous Greek scholar, and thought the epigram highly to Curtis's credit.
I have still in my memory a very bright poem of his. I do not think I ever saw or read it written or in print. But I remember hearing it read in one of the college clubs more than fifty years ago. He has Longfellow's style very happily, including the dropping from a bright and sometimes a sublime line to one which is flat and commonplace, as for instance in the ode on the death of the Duke of Wellington.
Meantime without the surly cannon waited,
The sky gleamed overhead.
Nothing in Nature's aspect indicated
That a great man was dead.
This is Curtis's poem:
Wrapped in musing dim and misty,
Sit I by the fitful flame;
And my thoughts steal down the vista
Of old time, as in a dream.
Here the hero held his quarters,
Whom America holds dear;
He beloved of all her daughters,
Formerly resided here.
Here you often might have seen him,
Silvery white his reverend scalp,
Frowned above a mighty chapeau
Like a storm-cap o'er the Alp.
Up and down these rooms the hero
Oftentimes would thoughtful stray,
Walking now toward the window,
Stalking then again away.