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.