The Valley Virginian

"Old Cambridge."
AT THE DINNER IN MEMORIAL HALL, JULY 3, 1875.

And can it be you've found a place
Within this consecrated space,
Which makes so fine a show,
For one of Rip Van Winkle's race,
And is it really so

Who wants an old, receipted bill
Who fishes in the frog-pond still
Who digs last year's potato-hill
That's what he'll like to know!

And were it any spot on earth
Save this dear home that gave him birth
Some scores of years ago:
He'd not come here to spoil your mirth
And chill your festive flow:

But round his baby-nest he strays,
With tearful eye the scene surveys,
His heart unchanged by changing days:
That's what he'd have you know.

Can you whose eyes are not yet dim
Live o'er the buried past with him,
And see the roses blow
When white-haired men were Joe and Jim,
Untouched by winter's snow?

Or roll the years back one by one,
As Judah's monarch backed the sun,
And see the century just begun?
That's what he'd like to know!

I came but as the swallow dips,
Just touching with her feather-tips
The shining wave below,
To sit with pleasure-murmuring lips,
And listening to the flow

Of Elmwood's sparkling Hippocrene-
To tread once more my native green,
To sigh unheard, to smile unseen,-
That's what I'd have you know.

But since the common lot I've shared
(We all are sitting "unprepared"
Like culprits in a row,
Whose heads are down, whose necks are bared
To wait the headsman's blow),

I'd like to shift my task to you,
By asking you a thing or two
About the good old times I knew:
Here's what I want to know:

The yellow meet'n'-house -can tell
Just where it stood before it fell
Prey of the leveling foe-
Our dear old temple, loved so well,
By ruthless hands laid low.

Where, tell me, was the Deacon's pew?
Whose hair was braided in a que?
(For there were pig-tails not a few)-
That's what I'd like to know.

The bell-can you recall its clang?
And how the seats would slam and bang?
The viol and its bow?
The basso's trump before he sang?
And sweet-voiced Nat. Monroe?

Where was it old Judge Winthrop sat?
Who wore the last three-cornered hat?
Was Israel Porter lean or fat?
That's what I'd like to know.

Tell where the market used to be
That stood beside the murdered tree?
Whose dog to church would go?
Old Marcus Reemie, who was he?
Who were the brothers Snow?

Does not your memory slightly fail
About that great September gale
Whereof one told a moving tale-
As Cambridge boys should know.

When Cambridge was a simple town
Say just where Deacon William Brown
(Look round in yonder row,)
For honest silver counted down
His groceries would bestow?-

For these were days when money meant
Something that jingled as you went,-
No hybrid like the nickel cent,
I'd have you all to know.

But quarter, ninepence, pistareen,
And fourpence ha'pennies in between,
All metal fit to show,
Instead of rags in stagnant green,
The scum of debts we owe:

How sad to think such stuff should be
Our Wendell's cure-all remedy,-
Not Wendell H., but Wendell P.,-
The one you all must know?

I question, but you answer not-:
Dear me! and have I quite forgot
How five-score years ago
Just on this very blessed spot
The summer leaves below

Before his homespun ranks arrayed;
In green New England's elm-bough shade
The great Virginian drew his blade
King George full well should know.

O, George the Third you found it true
Our George was more than double you,
For nature made him so.
Not much a jeweled cap can do
If brains are scarce and slow:

Ah, not like that his laurel crown.
Whose presence gilded with renown
Our brave old Academic town.
As all her children know!

To-day we meet with loud acclaim
To tell mankind that here he came,
With hearts that throb and glow;
Ours is a portion of his fame,
Our trumpet needs must blow!

On yonder hill the Lion fell
But here was chipped the Eagle's shell,-
That little hatchet did it well,
We mean the world shall know!.

-[Oliver Wendell Holmes.