Ad Sodalem, Cujus octavum trepidavit ætas Clandere lustrum. Consule Planco ! We were young When Plancus filled the curule chair, Or—done into the vulgar tongue— When Walker was Lord Mayor. The days were longer then, I trow ; The nights were shorter, that I’ll swear, The Future was a shining row Of Castles in the Air. We chased the hours with flying feet, We loved the ‘ round,’ we scorned the ‘ square,’ And even found it passing sweet To sit upon the stair. It hath been said, or rather, sung, ‘ Behind the horseman sits Black Care ;’ ’Tis true ; but when the rider’s young, He does not know ’tis there. Yet if we reckon gain and loss, If Past with Present we compare, Although the gold has lost its gloss, Is not the balance fair ? We could not button now—I grant— The waistcoats that we used to wear, But compensation comes—we want Less time to brush our hair. We scarce could tell, when we were boys, Château Lafitte from ‘ ordinaire,’ We had not learned what subtle joys Lurk in a vintage rare. The lamp a clearer light may pour, Now that the wick has ceased to flare ; Life has some pleasures yet in store And we will take our share. Frank Ritchie.