Chronicled under Compulsion for an Assemblage of the Hub Club of the Massachusetts-Bay Colony, November 11, 1720.

I sing of summer—not because I choose,

   But in response to orders firm tho’ kind,

For being ask’d, ‘twere boorish to refuse

   This little off’ring at a feast of mind,

And yet, when all have heard my halting song

They’ll wish my conscience had not been so strong!

The regal Phoebus up the zodiac soar’d,

   Turn’d in his course, and slowly started down;

‘Twas July third, and aqueous torrents pour’d

   From leaden skies that held a threat’ning frown:

But sudden all was light—for thro’ the rain

Beam’d godlike. ST. JOHN, and divine HOUTAIN!

So vast a radiance ne’er before had glow’d

   Within the musty pedant’s book-lin’d walls,

Th’ Aonian bard his winged courser rode,

   And the roof shook with laughter that enthralls;

Homeric peals, with many a Zeus-like note,

Deep from the caverns of a GEORGIAN throat.

But all too soon the conclave must disperse,

   Since Boston calls the jovial knight away.

ST. JOHN and THEOBALD weep in dactyl verse,

   And for the storm-vex’d wand’rer’s safety pray—

Tho’ when he says he kiss’d the bards good-bye,

ST. JULIAN tells a metaphor—or . . . something analogous.

How tranquil breaks the blessed Sabbath morn;

   July the fourth, in local legend fam’d!

The gloomy rhymesters soon the scene adorn,

   And weight the air with epics loud declaim’d;

Then, having chosen backgrounds fair to see,

With kodaks gratify their vanity.

Thro’ lane and garden, mead and shady grove,

   The sad-fac’d twain in meditation stroll;

In fancy spy the hoary shades that move

   Among the ancient scenes as years unroll:

To make it brief, they gawk and moon about

And prove themselves true bards beyond a doubt.

Night once more comes, and wondrous to relate

   Gives place in time to still another day!

July the fifth, whereon convene in state

   Some members of the proud U.A.P.A.

(I’ll add, tho’ merely in parenthesis,

That sev’ral National members share the bliss.)

Columbia’s ATHOL—no, its ATHENS! is

   The shining goal of ev’ry member’s tread,

So hither in the train our poets whizz,

   With rhymes to paint the dear old village red.

(Of course this is but figure—you must know

That both the bards are sad, sedate, and slow!)

Boston at last! And as grim poets should,

   ST. JOHN and THEOBALD seek th’ Avernian cave.

Facile their swift descent, and in deep mood

   The wheels of Stygian chariots oft they brave:

Till as the Greek and Trojan did before,

They wend their way into the light once more!

Borne on the wings of Jove-descended pow’r,

   Along the green ALLSTONIAN plain they fly;

Till UNION-SQUARE’S bright domes before them tow’r,

   And they grow conscious that the goal is nigh:

A pleasant walk—then friendly voices greet

The pious pair at 20 WEBSTER STREET.

Who shall describe the pantheon there display’d;

   The gods and goddesses of letter’d fame?

Splendid they glitter’d thro’ th’ EPGEPHIAN shade,

   Each laurell’d deity of deathless name:

Rever’d Olympians, who a world can fill

With wit and wisdom in the Hub Club Quill.

High on his throne the great ALCALDE sat,

   Monadnock’s thunders in his mighty hands,

While round his feet there strode the grey house-cat,

   As sacred here as in Nilotic lands.

And here, majestic in his cap and bells,

The lithe CONSERVER merry stories tells.

PLANCHETTE and OUIJA, Sibylline and wise,

   Thro’ the vast crowd an astral force diffuse,

While shining golden from Pierian skies

   Is BERKELEY, favour’d daughter of the Muse.

And over all in dulcet numbers floats

The sunny sweetness of a LINNET’S notes!

And MICHAEL OSCAR, White, tho’ almost Wilde

   When his black brothers bear the bard’s disdain,

Or when he hears some word that is not mild

   Regarding the green, innocent Sinn Fein:

And who, when mov’d in quatrains to compete,

Can both old Omar and Fitzgerald beat!

Then J. BERNARD, supreme on ev’ry ground;

   Music and verse, biography and fiction,

Whose countless gifts my feeble pen confound,

   And drive me to quotation’s mirror’d diction:

“A man so various, that he seem’d to be

Not one, but all mankind’s epitome!”

MADAME LA MERE, for toothsome pastry fam’d;

   The PARKERS, genial enemies of gloom;

VIRTUE ALCALDE, soon to be proclaim’d

   The National’s President and Dowdell’s doom.

And Mistress FAIRBANKS, with a pleasing store

Of reminiscence and Colonial lore.

An HAMLET—tho’ not he who rav’d and wept

   Round Elsinore for sundry tragic reasons,

Companion’d by a soul in art adept;

   Dorcastrian genius, here to add their light

A THOMPSON—tho’ not he who writ “The Seasons”.

To that of fulgent, black-befriending WHITE.

With such a company, ‘tis scarcely queer

   That melancholy soon was sent away,

vacant seats prompt many a furtive tear

   For those who share not in the festive day:

MORTONS are miss’d, a DENNIS does not dawn,

And EXAQUARIAE are to Cleveland drawn.

WAGNER is wanting, CUMMINGS, ELLIS—but

   Let me forbear to make a catalogue;

‘Twere ill the thrice-bor’d list’ner’s ear to glut

   With names, instead of vague poetic fog:

For poets should their province only touch—

A wealth of words, which mean not very much.

The banquet! Here the poet gains a theme

   Worthy of all his Heliconian pow’rs;

With what gay wit the genial diners gleam!

   With what keen zest HOUTAIN his bit devours!

And sure, each earns his sacred right to eat,

Since by rhym’d riddles he must find his seat!

But now to conquest must my epic turn,

   And tell how various victims quick were plighted,

Ere they could well their glorious fate discern,

   To the superior, Heav’n-ally’d UNITED!

Let me reflect . . . to what did they belong

Before they join’d the true Parnassian throng?

Wit, words, and writing close th’ eventful eve,

   Each sage to fill th’ EPGEPHIAN archives bid;

Pens fly or falter—none can gain reprieve,

   Or from Conserving eyes lie safely hid;

But some their Chief a vengeful snare lead into

By writing reams—and paying not the printer!

Thus night drew on apace, and each gay head

   Inclin’d—as yours must now—to gentle sleep;

While one by one the revellers sought bed,

   Their tryst with shadowy gods of dream to keep.

Nor will I here their blessed slumbers break—

’Twere well I stop, whilst you are still awake!