“Bottles to right of them,
  Bottles to left of them,
  Bottles in front of them,
    Fizzled and sundered;
  Ent’ring with shout and yell,
  Boldly they drank and well,
  They caught the Tartar then;
  Oh, what a perfect sell!
    Sold—­the half hundred! 
  Grinned all the dentals bare,
  Swung all their caps in air,
  Uncorking bottles there,
  Watching the Freshmen, while
    Every one wondered;
  Plunged in tobacco smoke,
  With many a desperate stroke,
  Dozens of bottles broke;
  Then they came back, but not,
    Not the half hundred!”

Lest from this merry squib, which doubtless celebrated some college prank, wrong conclusions should be drawn, I hasten to say that in college James Garfield neither drank nor smoked.

The next poem is rather long, but it possesses interest as a serious production of one whose name has become a household word.  It is entitled

“MEMORY.

  “’Tis beauteous night; the stars look brightly down
  Upon the earth, decked in her robe of snow. 
  No light gleams at the window save my own,
  Which gives its cheer to midnight and to me. 
  And now with noiseless step sweet Memory comes,
  And leads me gently through her twilight realms. 
  What poet’s tuneful lyre has ever sung,
  Or delicatest pencil e’er portrayed
  The enchanted, shadowy land where Memory dwells? 
  It has its valleys, cheerless, lone, and drear,
  Dark-shaded by the lonely cypress tree. 
  And yet its sunlit mountain tops are bathed
  In heaven’s own blue.  Upon its craggy cliffs,
  Robed in the dreamy light of distant years,
  Are clustered joys serene of other days;
  Upon its gently sloping hillside’s bank
  The weeping-willows o’er the sacred dust
  Of dear departed ones; and yet in that land,
  Where’er our footsteps fall upon the shore,
  They that were sleeping rise from out the dust
  Of death’s long, silent years, and round us stand,
  As erst they did before the prison tomb
  Received their clay within its voiceless halls.

  “The heavens that bend above that land are hung
  With clouds of various hues; some dark and chill,
  Surcharged with sorrow, cast their sombre shade
  Upon the sunny, joyous land below;
  Others are floating through the dreamy air,
  White as the falling snow, their margins tinged
  With gold and crimson hues; their shadows fall
  Upon the flowery meads and sunny slopes,
  Soft as the shadows of an angel’s wing. 
  When the rough battle of the day is done,
  And evening’s peace falls gently on the heart,
  I bound away across the noisy years,
  Unto the utmost verge of Memory’s land,
  Where earth and sky in dreamy distance meet,
  And Memory dim with dark oblivion joins;
  Where woke the first remembered sounds that fell
  Upon the ear in childhood’s early