Norwich bulletin., 1909-07-17
THE LONG AGO AND THE LATER ON Experience Eighty of Life By George Isdal Bromley

1 W.
 (85th Birthday.)
 Times record shows, when colsely Fair women and brave men | Who loved and laughed long years beyond
 The Psalmist,s three score-ten. | With added age they seemed to thrive l And did their youth renew l The God who keeps the saint alive i Preserves the sinner, too. l We bar the partriarchs who trod l The earth before the food And Mammon's slavish sons who plod Through life with stagnant blood; | Sainted or sordid never feel | The pulse with rapture rife, When Hebe's rich, red lips reveal The lore that lengthens life.
 That secret murmured in the breeze That kissed the crested tide 1 When Cytherea trod the seas, And it has never died. To Dionysos it was told And in his fiagon flushed, When from the purple grapes of old Its meaning first was crushed.
 It taught the Teian and he laughed At Chosnos dismal chime; It rippled from the cup he quarfed In many glowing rhyme; Venus and Bacchus at each shrine | He worshipped oft and long. | Saw beauty flushing in the wine | And crowned her with song. It makes the heart beat wild and warm In many a snowy breast;
 Ninon de rEncfos and Delorme Were courted and caressed When nigh a hundred years had passed; In revel and romance They held in homage to the last l The royal rakes of France. | Why ponder over pagan creed, Of Epicurus' cult,
 Or in Times rusty roster read, Or Pleasures page consult, When in the living flesh we see, Lusty and all alive, One who has climbed the years till he Sits throned on Eighty-f five.
 Bohemia's bards his triumphs sing, Her sons and sages raise Their voices till the rafters ring The echo back with praise; They love the Genius of their joys, The Master of their mirth- Mirth that no malice e'er alloys, And Wit and Wisdom's worth.
 Their King of Revels who can drive Their grief and gloom away;
 Their Priest of Pleasure who can shrive
 Their thirsting souls next day; Hesper may herald in the feast, The glasses clink and foam, Till Eros f1uShes in the East And all have wandered home.
 Then fresh as one whose night has passed In slumber till the dawn,
 He fingers on until the last
 Bold bacchanal has gone; He proves that Pleasures cup may bring A blessing, not a blight;
 For him it holds no adder's sting, But Life's elixir bright
 And so he laughs at Time, who lays On him the lightest load, And when in Pleasures path he strays
 He finds few thorns to goad; His is the best philosophy, The wisdom that outwears | All other creeds, and we shall see Him live a hundred years. Now let the jest and laughter lull, The glasses cease to clink, The Owl who sits on sorrows skull Gives you this toast to drink: We've seen him turn night unto day, ] December into June, May the Lord long love him. we pray, Nor call for him too soon. Louis A. Robertson. In days all dim and distant now, Some five and twenty years agone, When first I took Bohemia's VOW Of One for all and all for one," l mind me of the merry crew,
 The clinking glass, the joyous rout,
 The laugh that ever broke anew And Uncle Georges voice trolled out. Easy, my man, easyi
 We loved him then; the grizzled head, The genial face, the kindling eye. The smile that radiance seemed to shed
 Like sunlight from summer sky;
 And whatsoe'er the feud or fight,
 The tinge of bitterness died out, All ended when his voice etrolled out, Easy, my man, easy! The years have come, the years have
 gone,
 Bohemia grown to rich estate. No longer fears persistent dun, Nor dreads the sheriff at the gate But still we know the merry crew, The clinking glass, the merry rout,
 The laugh that ever breaks anew, And Uncle Georges voice trolls out, Easy, my man, easy! The kindly hand-grasp, just as warm: : The brotherhood; the gentle thought; C Only in wider circle taught.
 And young hearts, like the old, now beat For Uncle George. A louder shout Than erst on Sacramento Street Gives chorus when his voice trolls out Easy, my man, easy!
 Ah. not alone to us the truth, l The lesson of his life may reach Through all the world, for age as youth, A gentle soul may something teach.
 In him Bohemia's spirit dwells,
 Through all the years we've heard it call;
 And in this simple strain there dwells The true philosophy of all- Easy, my man, easy!
 The fight for fortune, craze for power. The pain of struggle and of strife For station that may last an hour; Brief triumph of the strenuous life: The rich man, worn with nameless fears, The poor man broken in the rout, But wearing five and four score years.
 Our Uncle Georges voice trolls out, Easy, my man, easy! Four score and five? could not tell The kindling eye, the crown of snow.