Do you remember
That afternoon — that Sunday afternoon! -
When, as the kirks were ringing in,
And the grey city teemed
With Sabbath feelings and aspects,
LEWIS — our LEWIS then,
Now the whole world's — and you,
Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came,
Laden with BALZACS
( Big, yellow books, quite impudently French ),
The first of many times
To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay
So long, so many centuries -
Or years is it!— ago?
Dear CHARLES, since then
We have been friends, LEWIS and you and I,
( How good it sounds,‘ LEWIS and you and I!’ ):
Such friends, I like to think,
That in us three, LEWIS and me and you,
Is something of that gallant dream
Which old DUMAS — the generous, the humane,
The seven-and-seventy times to be forgiven! -
Dreamed for a blessing to the race,
The immortal Musketeers.
Our ATHOS rests — the wise, the kind,
The liberal and august, his fault atoned,
Rests in the crowded yard
There at the west of Princes Street. We three -
You, I, and LEWIS!— still afoot,
Are still together, and our lives,
In chime so long, may keep
( God bless the thought! )
Unjangled till the end.