Our Autocrat

His laurels fresh from song and lay,     Romance, art, science, rich in all,     And young of heart, how dare we say     We keep his seventieth festival?     No sense is here of loss or lack;     Before his sweetness and his light     The dial holds its shadow back,     The charmed hours delay their flight.     His still the keen analysis     Of men and moods, electric wit,     Free play of mirth, and tenderness     To heal the slightest wound from it.     And his the pathos touching all     Life's sins and sorrows and regrets,     Its hopes and fears, its final call     And rest beneath the violets.     His sparkling surface scarce betrays     The thoughtful tide beneath it rolled,     The wisdom of the latter days,     And tender memories of the old.     What shapes and fancies, grave or gay,     Before us at his bidding come     The Treadmill tramp, the One-Horse Shay,     The dumb despair of Elsie's doom!     The tale of Avis and the Maid,     The plea for lips that cannot speak,     The holy kiss that Iris laid     On Little Boston's pallid cheek!     Long may he live to sing for us     His sweetest songs at evening time,     And, like his Chambered Nautilus,     To holier heights of beauty climb,     Though now unnumbered guests surround     The table that he rules at will,     Its Autocrat, however crowned,     Is but our friend and comrade still.     The world may keep his honored name,     The wealth of all his varied powers;     A stronger claim has love than fame,     And he himself is only ours