Am I a king, that I should call my own
     This splendid ebon throne? 
Or by what reason, or what right divine,
     Can I proclaim it mine?

Only, perhaps, by right divine of song
     It may to me belong;
Only because the spreading chestnut tree
     Of old was sung by me.

Well I remember it in all its prime,
     When in the summer-time
The affluent foliage of its branches made
     A cavern of cool shade.

There, by the blacksmith’s forge, beside the street,
     Its blossoms white and sweet
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,
     And murmured like a hive.

And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,
     Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,
     Dropped to the ground beneath.

And now some fragments of its branches bare,
     Shaped as a stately chair,
Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,
     And whisper of the past.

The Danish king could not in all his pride
     Repel the ocean tide,
But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme
     Roll back the tide of Time.

I see again, as one in vision sees,
     The blossoms and the bees,
And hear the children’s voices shout and call,
     And the brown chestnuts fall.

I see the smithy with its fires aglow,
     I hear the bellows blow,
And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat
     The iron white with heat!

And thus, dear children, have ye made for me
     This day a jubilee,
And to my more than three-score years and ten
     Brought back my youth again.

The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,
     And in it are enshrined
The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought
     The giver’s loving thought.

Only your love and your remembrance could
     Give life to this dead wood,
And make these branches, leafless now so long,
     Blossom again in song.

JUGURTHA

How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 
  Cried the African monarch, the splendid,
As down to his death in the hollow
  Dark dungeons of Rome he descended,
  Uncrowned, unthroned, unattended;
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!

How cold are thy baths, Apollo! 
  Cried the Poet, unknown, unbefriended,
As the vision, that lured him to follow,
  With the mist and the darkness blended,
  And the dream of his life was ended;
How cold are thy baths, Apollo!

THE IRON PEN

Made from a fetter of Bonnivard, the Prisoner of Chillon; the handle of wood from the Frigate Constitution, and bound with a circlet of gold, inset with three precious stones from Siberia, Ceylon, and Maine.

I thought this Pen would arise
From the casket where it lies—­
  Of itself would arise and write
My thanks and my surprise.