Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by—­
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright as morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.

Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel’s rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O’Shanter’s luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.

You’ve won the great world’s envied prize,
And grand you look in people’s eyes,
With Hon. and ll.  D.,
In big, brave letters fair to see,—­
Your fist, old fellow!  Off they go!—­
How are you, Bill?  How are you, Joe?

You’ve worn the judge’s ermined robe;
You’ve taught your name to half the globe;
You’ve sung mankind a deathless strain;
You’ve made the dead past live again: 
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.

The chaffing young folks stare and say,
“See those old buffers, bent and gray;
They talk like fellows in their teens;
Mad, poor old boys!  That’s what it means”
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe—­

How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time’s disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes,—­
Those calm, stern eyes, that melt and fill,
As Joe looks fondly up to Bill.

Ah! pensive scholar, what is fame? 
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind’s fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill, and which was Joe.

The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go—­
How vain it seems, this empty show!—­
Till all at once his pulses thrill: 
’T is poor old Joe’s, “God bless you, Bill!”

And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears;
In some sweet lull of heart and song
For earth born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
When this was Bill, and that was Joe?

No matter; while our home is here,
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say? 
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe.  Hic jacet Bill.

Note.—­Hic jacet (pro. hic ja’cet) is a Latin phrase, meaning here lies. 
It is frequently used in epitaphs.

LXV.  SORROW FOR THE DEAD. (249)

The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced.  Every other wound we seek to heal; every other affliction, to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open.  This affliction we cherish, and brood over in solitude.  Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that has perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang?  Where is the child that would willingly forget a tender parent, though to remember be but to lament?  Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns?