C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Thomas Dunn English (1819–1902)

DON’T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt—

Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,

Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,

And trembled with fear at your frown?

In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt,

In a corner obscure and alone,

They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,

And Alice lies under the stone.

Under the hickory-tree, Ben Bolt,

Which stood at the foot of the hill,

Together we’ve lain in the noonday shade,

And listened to Appleton’s mill.

The mill-wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,

The rafters have tumbled in.

And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you gaze

Has followed the olden din.

Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,

At the edge of the pathless wood,

And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,

Which nigh by the doorstep stood?

The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt;

The tree you would seek for in vain;

And where once the lords of the forest waved,

Are grass and the golden grain.

And don’t you remember the school, Ben Bolt,

With the master so cruel and grim,

And the shaded nook in the running brook

Where the children went to swim?

Grass grows on the master’s grave, Ben Bolt,

The spring of the brook is dry,

And of all the boys who were schoolmates then

There are only you and I.

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,

They have changed from the old to the new;

But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth,

There never was change in you.

Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt,

Since first we were friends; yet I hail

Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth,

Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale!