Louis MENAND. 



Made them his loved, his bosom friends 



Friends that the dearer grow, 

 As years roll on; loved now far more 



Than seventy years ago. 



V. 

 For him, were not life's crowded marts 



The din without surcease 

 Of noisy camp, but nobler far 



The gentle arts of peace. 



******* 



Adieu, adieu, fair sunny France, 



Home of his boyhood's day ! 

 Where the Atlantic's billows dance, 



The man pursues his way. 



VI. 

 To the new land beyond its tide 



The wandering feet have come, 

 And where fair Hudson's waters glide, 



Content he finds a home. 

 Content for nature still his friend, 



Yields her abundant store; 

 There, as his years roll calmly on, 



He knows and loves her more. 



VII. 

 Rich blessings spring around his path, 



And as his locks grow white, 

 After the heat and toil of day 



Life's afternoon is bright ! 

 God grant him, in His own good time, 



When conies the close of day; 

 To the fair calm of starry night 



His life may melt away. 



VIII. 

 That, in the garden of our God, 



Where flowers never fade, 

 Where nought that harms, has ever trod, 



Where none can make afraid; 

 Where welcoming angels shall entwine 



Immortelles for the brow, 

 My friends, may we all meet him there 



Say seventy years from now ! 



EDWARD S. RAND, JR. 



