Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis,
Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.—­OVID, Fastorum, Lib. vi.

“O Caesar, we who are about to die
Salute you!” was the gladiators’ cry
In the arena, standing face to face
With death and with the Roman populace.

O ye familiar scenes,—­ye groves of pine,
That once were mine and are no longer mine,—­
Thou river, widening through the meadows green
To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen,—­
Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose
Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose
And vanished,—­we who are about to die
Salute you; earth and air and sea and sky,
And the Imperial Sun that scatters down
His sovereign splendors upon grove and town.

Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear! 
We are forgotten; and in your austere
And calm indifference, ye little care
Whether we come or go, or whence or where. 
What passing generations fill these halls,
What passing voices echo front these walls,
Ye heed not; we are only as the blast,
A moment heard, and then forever past.

Not so the teachers who in earlier days
Led our bewildered feet through learning’s maze;
They answer us—­alas! what have I said? 
What greetings come there from the voiceless dead? 
What salutation, welcome, or reply? 
What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie? 
They are no longer here; they all are gone
Into the land of shadows,—­all save one. 
Honor and reverence, and the good repute
That follows faithful service as its fruit,
Be unto him, whom living we salute.

The great Italian poet, when he made
His dreadful journey to the realms of shade,
Met there the old instructor of his youth,
And cried in tones of pity and of ruth: 
“O, never from the memory of my heart
Your dear, paternal image shall depart,
Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised,
Taught me how mortals are immortalized;
How grateful am I for that patient care
All my life long my language shall declare.”

To-day we make the poet’s words our own
And utter them in plaintive undertone;
Nor to the living only be they said,
But to the other living called the dead,
Whose dear, paternal images appear
Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here;
Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw,
Were part and parcel of great Nature’s law;
Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid
“Here is thy talent in a napkin laid,”
But labored in their sphere, as men who live
In the delight that work alone can give. 
Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest,
And the fulfilment of the great behest: 
“Ye have been faithful over a few things,
Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings.”