Tom Van Arden.

Tom Van Arden, my old friend,             Our warm fellowship is one         Far too old to comprehend             Where its bond was first begun:                 Mirage-like before my gaze                 Gleams a land of other days,                 Where two truant boys, astray,                 Dream their lazy lives away.         There's a vision, in the guise             Of Midsummer, where the Past         Like a weary beggar lies             In the shadow Time has cast;                 And as blends the bloom of trees                 With the drowsy hum of bees,                 Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,                 Tom Van Arden, my old friend.         Tom Van Arden, my old friend,             All the pleasures we have known         Thrill me now as I extend             This old hand and grasp your own -                 Feeling, in the rude caress,                 All affection's tenderness;                 Feeling, though the touch be rough,                 Our old souls are soft enough.         So we'll make a mellow hour:             Fill your pipe, and taste the wine -         Warp your face, if it be sour,             I can spare a smile from mine;                 If it sharpen up your wit,                 Let me feel the edge of it -                 I have eager ears to lend,                 Tom Van Arden, my old friend.         Tom Van Arden, my old friend,             Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?         Are we all that we pretend             In the jolly life we lead? -                 Bachelors, we must confess,                 Boast of "single blessedness"                 To the world, but not alone -                 Man's best sorrow is his own!         And the saddest truth is this, -             Life to us has never proved         What we tasted in the kiss             Of the women we have loved:                 Vainly we congratulate                 Our escape from such a fate                 As their lying lips could send,                 Tom Van Arden, my old friend!         Tom Van Arden, my old friend,             Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,         Ripen sweetest, I contend,             As the frost falls over them:                 Your regard for me to-day                 Makes November taste of May,                 And through every vein of rhyme                 Pours the blood of summertime.         When our souls are cramped with youth             Happiness seems far away         In the future, while, in truth,             We look back on it to-day                 Through our tears, nor dare to boast, -                 "Better to have loved and lost!"                 Broken hearts are hard to mend,                 Tom Van Arden, my old friend.         Tom Van Arden, my old friend,             I grow prosy, and you tire;         Fill the glasses while I bend             To prod up the failing fire . . .                 You are restless: - I presume                 There's a dampness in the room. -                 Much of warmth our nature begs,                 With rheumatics in our legs! . . .         Humph! the legs we used to fling             Limber-jointed in the dance,         When we heard the fiddle ring             Up the curtain of Romance,                 And in crowded public halls                 Played with hearts like jugglers'-balls. -                 Feats of mountebanks, depend! -                 Tom Van Arden, my old friend.         Tom Van Arden, my old friend,             Pardon, then, this theme of mine:         While the fire-light leaps to lend             Higher color to the wine, -                 I propose a health to those                 Who have homes, and home's repose,                 Wife- and child-love without end!                 . . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.