When yon old towers proclaims the impatient Nine,^[1]
And Temple belles to homeward nooks incline,—
When airs are still, the organ pipes laid low,
And music's stream requested not to flow,—
When from his lips, whose mandates all obey,
The call rings out, admitting no delay,—
The bard, half conscious, rises to the floor,
And eyes the distance 'tween the desk and door;
He hoped some hand might kindly interpose
To veil the audience at the oration's close,
​Some beam might start, some sudden false alarm
Might snatch a victim from the altar's harm;—
But, chained a captive at your chariot wheel,
To fail just now were hardly mercantile;
Promise to pay, you must endure the shock;—
There is no quarter after two o'clock.

 In boyhood's hour you bade my fluttering sail^[2]
Spread its light canvas to the morning gale;
​First, at your summons, with averted eye,
I felt the breeze that swept my pennant by;
I heard your echoes gathering on the shore,
As then I launched one childish pebble more;—
Still the old echoes linger in my brain,
And all those voices seem to live again,
As now I come, with more than boyhood's fears,
To mark the dial of our added years.
O, more than favored, could I meet to-day
The smiles that cheered my dim and faltering way;
O, more than blest, could I recall to-night
Those welcome forms that met my dazzled sight;
All the dear faces, all the buried past,
Too bright and brief, too beautiful to last.

 Our vanished years! let Memory's muffled bell
Toll but one requiem, and but one farewell,
For him whose eyelids in a wintry grave^[3]
Were closed in anguish by the icy wave.
Rest, early friend, bemoaned in life's young bloom,
Gone, like a shadow, to the voiceless tomb.
​When last we climbed to yon high, leafy crest
To watch the sunlight fading in the west,
Ah, little thought I that this hand would trace
These words of grief above thy burial-place.
Thou hast our tears; but lo! the clouds depart,
Our brother sleeps with sunshine on his heart;
The storm hag passed, the seas are silent now,
And Heaven's sweet smile has settled on his brow.

 Star of the heart! the eagle's sunward plume!
Wild meteor, dancing in the midnight gloom,
Ambition's goal, that oft delusive dream,
The Post of Honor, is my chosen theme.
Its ampler range eludes my hurrying sight,
I can but hover, others may alight;—
Though far and wide the gleaming standard flies,
Wings clipt like mine can dare no upper skies.
But, though I come not with presuming hand
To scatter precepts, like a housewife's sand,—
​Virtue's assassin, slander's bosom friend,
No verse of mine can flatter or commend.
The humblest muse should claim the honest line,
And swing no censer at corruption's shrine;
Unmoved by fear, should act no traitor's part,
Wear on her face the dial of her heart,
And dash aside, no matter who may hold
The poisoned chalice, though 't were made of gold.
Truth, ever sacred, counts that victory shame
Which clarions meanness to a world's acclaim;
Scorns the proud wretch who plays the fatal dart,
But, while he dallies, drives it to the heart;
Shuns the weak fool, whose eager gaze descries
His neighbor's faults with telescopic eyes;
Believes high rogues, though clad in jewels brave,
Should run the gantlet with the shabbiest knave,—
While Honor's Post should be for him secure
Who lets in sunshine at the poor man's door.

 Unchanging Power! thy genius still presides
O'er vanquished fields, and ocean's purpled tides;
​Sits like a spectre at the soldier's board,
Adds Spartan steps to many a broken sword;^[5]
For thee and thine combining squadrons form
To sweep the world with Glory's awful storm;
The intrepid warrior shouts thy deathless name,
And plucks new valor from thy torch of fame;
For him the bell shall wake its loudest song,
For him the cannon's thunder echo long,
For him a nation weave the unfading crown,
And swell the triumph of his sweet renown.
So Nelson watched, long ere Trafalgar's days,^[6]
Thy radiant orb, prophetic Glory, blaze,—
Saw Victory wait, to weep his bleeding scars,
And plant his breast with Honor's burning stars.
So the young hero, with expiring breath,
Bequeathes fresh courage in the hour of death,
Bids his brave comrades hear the inspiring blast,
And nail their colors, dauntless, to the mast;
Then dies, like Lawrence, trembling on his lip
That cry of Honor, "Don't give up the ship!"

 Poor child of Fancy, party's candidate,
Born of a caucus, what shall be thy fate!
Nursed by a clique, perplexed I see thee stand,
Holding a letter in thy doubtful hand;—
​It comes with questions that demand replies,
Important, weighty, relevant, and wise.
"Respected Sir," the sheet of queries runs,
In solid phalanx, like election buns,—
"Respected Sir, we humbly beg to know
Your mind on matters that we name below;
Be firm, consistent, that is, if you can;
The country rocks, and we must know our man.
And first, What think you of the Northern Lights,
And is it fatal when a mad dog bites?
Do you allow your corn to mix with peas,
And can you doubt the moon is one with cheese?
If all your young potatoes should decease,
What neighbor's patch would you incline to fleece?
When Lot's slow help-meet made that foolish halt,
Was she half rock, or only table salt?
And had the ark run thumping on the stumps,
Would you, if there, have aided at the pumps?
Do you approve of men who stick to pills,
Or aqueous pilgrims to Vermont's broad hills?
​Do you mark Friday darkest of the seven?
Do you believe that white folks go to Heaven?
Do you imbibe brown sugar in your tea?
Do you spell Congress with a K or C?
Will you eat oysters in the month of June,
And soup and sherbet with a fork or spoon?
Towards what amusement does your fancy lean?
Do you believe in France or Lamartine?
Shall you at church eight times a month be found,
Or only absent when the box goes round?
Should Mr. Speaker ask you out to dine,
Will you accept, or how would you decline?
In case a comet should our earth impale,
Have you the proper tongs to seize his tail?
For early answers we would make request,—
Weigh well the topics, calmly act your best,
Show us your platform, how you mean to tread,
Plump on your feet, or flat upon your head;
If your opinions coincide with ours,
We delegate to you the proper powers.
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The Annual Poem before the Mercantile Library Association is usually delivered on the same evening, immediately after an Address at the Tremont Temple.

On a previous occasion, (in 1838,) the Anniversary Poem was recited by the author of the one now published.

Orlando Pitts, who was lost in the steamer Atlantic on the 27th of November, 1846. Among the many victims of that fearful storm, no one was more deeply lamented than the subject of these lines.

It is scarcely necessary to explain this reference. Those who have read the admirable Poem pronounced in 1846 before the Society by Dr. O. W. Holmes, need not be reminded here of its excellence. ​

"Mother!" said a Spartan boy, going to battle, "My sword is too short." "Add a step to it," was the heroic reply.

See Southey's glowing life of the great naval hero.

This passage refers to the beautiful jet so recently introduced to add its graceful beauty to Boston Common. The old Elm Tree, standing near the Pond, is too well known to require a further notice here.

The "Final Memorials of Charles Lamb," recently published by his eminent biographer, have added a new and solemn interest to the character of Elia. Such an exhibition of self-sacrifice under similar circumstances was never made before.

​

Gray lies buried in Stoke church, at the south-east corner of the chancel. He desired to be laid near the tomb of his mother, whom he had long and affectionately loved, and over whose remains the pilgrim to this interesting spot will read the following inscription, placed there by the author of the Elegy

Whoever has visited the Parisian hospitals, especially those devoted to the care of children, cannot fail to have learned a lesson not easily to be forgotten. The patient, gentle devotion of a young female, in the full flush of womanly beauty, to the wants of a dying orphan-infant, suggested this passage.

Some difference of opinion seems to exist with reference to this courageous sailor. That he worked manfully in the perilous scene to save those who were exposed to imminent danger, is a sufficient reason why his name should be honorably mentioned every where.

​

This closing line of the paragraph alluding to the great Statesman, was suggested by the well-known quotation:—