—­I said nothing in reply to this, for I was thinking of a sweet singer to whose voice I had listened in its first freshness, and which is now only an echo in my memory.  If any reader of the periodical in which these conversations are recorded can remember so far back as the first year of its publication, he will find among the papers contributed by a friend not yet wholly forgotten a few verses, lively enough in their way, headed “The Boys.”  The sweet singer was one of this company of college classmates, the constancy of whose friendship deserves a better tribute than the annual offerings, kindly meant, as they are, which for many years have not been wanting at their social gatherings.  The small company counts many noted personages on its list, as is well known to those who are interested in such local matters, but it is not known that every fifth man of the whole number now living is more or less of a poet,—­using that word with a generous breadth of significance.  But it should seem that the divine gift it implies is more freely dispensed than some others, for while there are (or were, for one has taken his Last Degree) eight musical quills, there was but one pair of lips which could claim any special consecration to vocal melody.  Not that one that should undervalue the half-recitative of doubtful barytones, or the brilliant escapades of slightly unmanageable falsettos, or the concentrated efforts of the proprietors of two or three effective notes, who may be observed lying in wait for them, and coming down on them with all their might, and the look on their countenances of “I too am a singer.”  But the voice that led all, and that all loved to listen to, the voice that was at once full, rich, sweet, penetrating, expressive, whose ample overflow drowned all the imperfections and made up for all the shortcomings of the others, is silent henceforth forevermore for all earthly listeners.

And these were the lines that one of “The Boys,” as they have always called themselves for ever so many years, read at the first meeting after the voice which had never failed them was hushed in the stillness of death.

J. A.

1871.

     One memory trembles on our lips
     It throbs in every breast;
     In tear-dimmed eyes, in mirth’s eclipse,
     The shadow stands confessed.

     O silent voice, that cheered so long
     Our manhood’s marching day,
     Without thy breath of heavenly song,
     How weary seems the way!

     Vain every pictured phrase to tell
     Our sorrowing hearts’ desire;
     The shattered harp, the broken shell,
     The silent unstrung lyre;

     For youth was round us while he sang;
     It glowed in every tone;
     With bridal chimes the echoes rang,
     And made the past our own.

     O blissful dream!  Our nursery joys
     We know must have an end,
     But love and friendships broken toys
     May God’s good angels mend!