I see the patient mother read, With aching heart, of wrecks that float Disabled on those seas remote, Or of some great heroic deed On battle-fie1ds where thousands bleed To lift one hero into fame.
Anxious she bends her graceful head Above these chronicles of pain, And trembles with a secret dread Lest there among the drowned or slain She find the one beloved name.
VII
After a day of cloud and wind and rain Sometimes the setting sun breaks out again, And touching all the darksome woods with light, Smiles on the fields, until they laugh and sing, Then like a ruby from the horizon's ring Drops down into the night.
What see I now? The night is fair, The storm of grief, the clouds of care, The wind, the rain, have passed away;The lamps are lit, the fires burn bright, The house is full of life and light:
It is the Golden Wedding day.
The guests come thronging in once more, Quick footsteps sound along the floor, The trooping children crowd the stair, And in and out and everywhere Flashes along the corridor The sunshine of their golden hair.
On the round table in the hall Another Ariadne's Crown Out of the sky hath fallen down;More than one Monarch of the Moon Is drumming with his silver spoon;The light of love shines over all.
O fortunate, O happy day!
The people sing, the people say.
The ancient bridegroom and the bride, Smiling contented and serene Upon the blithe, bewildering scene, Behold, well pleased, on every side Their forms and features multiplied, As the reflection of a light Between two burnished mirrors gleams, Or lamps upon a bridge at night Stretch on and on before the sight, Till the long vista endless seems.
MORITURI SALUTAMUS
POEM FOR THE FIFTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF THE CLASS OF 1825IN BOWDOIN COLLEGE
Tempora labuntur, tacitisque senescimus annis, Et fugiunt freno non remorante dies.--OVID, Fastorum, Lib.vi.
"O Caesar, we who are about to die Salute you!" was the gladiators' cry In the arena, standing face to face With death and with the Roman populace.
O ye familiar scenes,--ye groves of pine, That once were mine and are no longer mine,--Thou river, widening through the meadows green To the vast sea, so near and yet unseen,--Ye halls, in whose seclusion and repose Phantoms of fame, like exhalations, rose And vanished,--we who are about to die Salute you; earth and air and sea and sky, And the Imperial Sun that scatters down His sovereign splendors upon grove and town.
Ye do not answer us! ye do not hear!
We are forgotten; and in your austere And calm indifference, ye little care Whether we come or go, or whence or where.
What passing generations fill these halls, What passing voices echo front these walls, Ye heed not; we are only as the blast, A moment heard, and then forever past.
Not so the teachers who in earlier days Led our bewildered feet through learning's maze;They answer us--alas! what have I said?
What greetings come there from the voiceless dead?
What salutation, welcome, or reply?
What pressure from the hands that lifeless lie?
They are no longer here; they all are gone Into the land of shadows,--all save one.
Honor and reverence, and the good repute That follows faithful service as its fruit, Be unto him, whom living we salute.
The great Italian poet, when he made His dreadful journey to the realms of shade, Met there the old instructor of his youth, And cried in tones of pity and of ruth:
"O, never from the memory of my heart Your dear, paternal image shall depart, Who while on earth, ere yet by death surprised, Taught me how mortals are immortalized;How grateful am I for that patient care All my life long my language shall declare."To-day we make the poet's words our own And utter them in plaintive undertone;Nor to the living only be they said, But to the other living called the dead, Whose dear, paternal images appear Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here;Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw, Were part and parcel of great Nature's law;Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid "Here is thy talent in a napkin laid,"But labored in their sphere, as men who live In the delight that work alone can give.
Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest, And the fulfilment of the great behest:
"Ye have been faithful over a few things, Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings."And ye who fill the places we once filled, And follow in the furrows that we tilled, Young men, whose generous hearts are beating high, We who are old, and are about to die, Salute you; hail you; take your hands in ours, And crown you with our welcome as with flowers!
How beautiful is youth! how bright it gleams With its illusions, aspirations, dreams!
Book of Beginnings, Story without End, Each maid a heroine, and each man a friend!
Aladdin's Lamp, and Fortunatus' Purse, That holds the treasures of the universe!
All possibilities are in its hands, No danger daunts it, and no foe withstands;In its sublime audacity of faith, "Be thou removed!" it to the mountain saith, And with ambitious feet, secure and proud, Ascends the ladder leaning on the cloud!
As ancient Priam at the Scaean gate Sat on the walls of Troy in regal state With the old men, too old and weak to fight, Chirping like grasshoppers in their delight To see the embattled hosts, with spear and shield, Of Trojans and Achaians in the field;So from the snowy summits of our years We see you in the plain, as each appears, And question of you; asking, "Who is he That towers above the others? Which may be Atreides, Menelaus, Odysseus, Ajax the great, or bold Idomeneus?"Let him not boast who puts his armor on As he who puts it off, the battle done.
Study yourselves; and most of all note well Wherein kind Nature meant you to excel.
Not every blossom ripens into fruit;
Minerva, the inventress of the flute, Flung it aside, when she her face surveyed Distorted in a fountain as she played;The unlucky Marsyas found it, and his fate Was one to make the bravest hesitate.
