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