OPEN his books and bid them forth;— | |
| Come Clive, come Ethel, Colonel, “Pen”; | |
| Come Henry Esmond, Beatrix, | |
| Out into our dull world again. | |
| |
| George Warrington, “Pen’s” George, I mean, | 5 |
| (His grandpapa I vote a prig;) | |
| Come too, and Major, if you’re dressed, | |
| And Morgan has arranged your wig: | |
| |
| Come Hetty—Harry Warrington— | |
| And Bernstein?—Well, no, as for her— | 10 |
| We’ve Beatrix already here, | |
| And Beatrix we much prefer. | |
| |
| Come Becky, Emmy, Dobbin, George; | |
| Here’s Captain “Cos” must have a place | |
| About the board, and now we’re met, | 15 |
| Charles Honeyman shall breathe a grace. | |
| |
| And then Fred Bayham, honest Fred, | |
| With claret jug pushed well his way, | |
| Shall give the toast, that suits all, most, | |
| Of William Makepeace Thackeray. * * * * * | 20 |
| What, are they gone! Some jarring force | |
| Upon the vision rudely broke,— | |
| My pipe is out, my guests are gone,— | |
| They’ve vanished somewhere in the smoke. | |
| |
| With nimble feet their way they take | 25 |
| Down shadowy paths of romance dim; | |
| But I, a lonely Barmecide, | |
| Drink deeply in my heart to him. * * * * *
THE TOAST To him who in the fields of life | |
| Quickly discerned the vulgar chaff,— | |
| And knew it void of honest grain, | 30 |
| And blew it from him with a laugh. | |
| |
| To him whose laughter none the less | |
| Was not wild mirth nor wanton jeer, | |
| But oftenest of that rare fine ring | |
| That finds its echo in a tear. | 35 |
| |
| To him whose pen was never still, | |
| Who for three decades thought and wrote, | |
| Who told of life, of love, of death, | |
| And never struck an untrue note. | |
| |
