On the occasion of my seventieth birthday in 1877, I was the
     recipient of many tokens of esteem. The publishers of the Atlantic
     Monthly gave a dinner in my name, and the editor of The Literary
     World gathered in his paper many affectionate messages from my
     associates in literature and the cause of human progress. The lines
     which follow were written in acknowledgment.

Beside that milestone where the level sun,
Nigh unto setting, sheds his last, low rays
On word and work irrevocably done,
Life's blending threads of good and ill outspun,
I hear, O friends! your words of cheer and praise,
Half doubtful if myself or otherwise.
Like him who, in the old Arabian joke,
A beggar slept and crowned Caliph woke.
Thanks not the less. With not unglad surprise
I see my life-work through your partial eyes;
Assured, in giving to my home-taught songs
A higher value than of right belongs,
You do but read between the written lines
The finer grace of unfulfilled designs.