Part 5
When, homesick, heart-sick, tired, and desolate, He leans himself 'gainst Learning's iron gate, While all the future frowns upon his track, And all the past conspires to pull him back; When, with tired resolution in his looks, He bends above the cabalistic books, And strives, with knitted forehead throbbing hot, To learn what older students have forgot; And wonders how the Romans and the Greeks Could cry aloud and spare their jaws and cheeks; And wants the Algebraic author put On an equation, tied there, head and foot, Which then, with all Reduction's boasted strength, May be expanded to prodigious length; When he reflects, with rueful, pain-worn phiz, What a sad, melancholy dog he is, And how much less unhappy and forlorn Are all those students who are not yet born; When Inexperience like a worm is twined Around the clumsy fingers of his mind, And Discipline, a stranger yet unknown, Struts grandly by and leaves him all alone; What cheers him better than to feel and see Some other one as badly off as he? Or the sincere advice and kindly aid Of those well versed in Study's curious trade? What help such solace and improvement lends As the hand-grasp of Brothers and of Friends?
When, with a wildly ominous halloo, The frisky Freshman shuffles into view, And shouts aloud the war-cry of his clan, And makes friends with the devil like a man: When, looking upward at the other classes, He dubs them as three tandem-teams of asses, And, scarcely knowing what he does it for, Vows against them unmitigated war, And aims to show them that though they may tread In stately, grand procession o'er his head, The animated pathway that they scorn, May sometimes bristle with a hidden thorn; When, with a vigilance that to nothing yields, He scans the fruitage of the neighboring fields, And in the solemn night-time doth entwine Affection's fingers round the melon-vine; When the tired wagon from its sheltering shed To strange, uncouth localities is led, And, with the night for a dissecting-room, Is analyzed amid the friendly gloom; When the hushed rooster, cheated of his cry, From his spoiled perch bids this vain world good-bye; When, in the chapel, an unwilling guest, And living sacrifice, a cow doth rest; When from the tower, the bell's notes, pealing down, Rouse up the fireman from the sleeping town, Who, rushing to the scene, with duty fired, Finds his well-meant assistance unrequired, And, creeping homeward, steadily doth play Upon the third commandment all the way; When are fired off, with mirth-directed aims, At the staid Alma Mater, various games, As feline juveniles themselves regale In the lithe folds of the maternal tail, And when these antics have gone far enough, Comes from her paw a well-considered cuff, What more to soothe the chastened spirit tends Than sympathy from Brothers and from Friends?
When the deep Sophomore has just begun The study of his merits, one by one, And found that he, a bright scholastic blade, Is fearfully and wonderfully made; Discovers how much greater is his share Of genius than he was at first aware; When, with a ken beyond his tender age, He sweeps o'er History's closely printed page, Conjecturing how this world so long endured, With his co-operation unsecured; When, with his geometrical survey Trigonometrically brought in play, He scans two points, with firm, unmoved design To join them sooner than by one straight line; When he, with oratoric hand astir, Rolls back the tide of ages--as it were; When Cicero he decides for reading fit, And tolerates happy Horace for his wit; When he across Zoölogy takes sight, To see what creatures were created right, And looks the plants that heaven has fashioned through, To see if they were rightly finished, too;
When he his aid to any cause can lend, In readiness, on short notice, to ascend From any well-worn point, secure and soon, In his small oratorical balloon, Expecting, when his high trip's end appears, Descent upon a parachute of cheers; When he decides, beneath a load of care, What whiskered monogram his face shall wear; When, from his mind's high shoulders cropping out, Linguistic feathers constantly do sprout, Which, ere they meet the cool outsider's scoff, Require a quiet, friendly picking-off; What better to this healthy process lends, Than the critiques of Brothers and of Friends?
When the spruce Junior, not disposed to shirk, Begins to get down fairly to his work, Strives to run foremost in the college race, Or at least fill a creditable place; When he bears, o'er the rough and hard highway, The heat and burden of the college day, And hastes--his mental lungs all out of breath-- As if it were a race of life and death; When with some little doubt his brain is fraught, That he's not quite so brilliant as he thought, And he would strengthen his lame talent still, By wrapping 'round the bandage of his will; When, undergoing the reaction drear That follows up the Sophomoric year, He finds each task much harder than before, And tarries long at every phrase's door, And pauses o'er his dull oration's page, Then tears it into pieces in a rage; When, had he fifty ink-stands, he could throw Each at some devil fraught with fancied woe; And when, perchance, atop of all this gloom, In his heart's world there's yet sufficient room For Cupid to come blundering through the dark, And make his sensibilities a mark, And, viewing each the other from afar, Learning and Love frown dolefully, and spar; What for his trouble-phantoms makes amends Like the support of Brothers and of Friends?
When, with a strengthened soul and chastened brain, The Senior who has labored not in vain Looks back upon the four eventful years To see if any fruitfulness appears, When he stands, somewhat shadowed by remorse, In the bright Indian Summer of the course, And muses, had each opportunity Been seized, how smooth his present path might be; When, having blundered through each college hall, Bumping his head 'gainst Inexperience' wall, There burst upon him through the window-panes, Broad Knowledge' deep ravines and fertile plains; When, standing at the door, with gaze of doubt, He draws on his world-wrappings, and looks out Into the chillness of the winter's day, And almost wishes that he still might stay, What nearer to his beating heart extends, Than parting with his Brothers and his Friends?
When he at last has bid the school good-by, And finds that many matters go awry; Finds much amid Earth's uncongenial fog, Not mentioned in the college catalogue; Finds that The World, in writing his name down, Forgets, somehow, to add the letters on Which serve to make his fellow-mortals see How little rests behind a big degree; Finds, also, that it is inclined to speak Elsewise than in the Latin or the Greek; Finds that the sharp blade of his brightened mind Gets dulled upon the pachydermal kind; That The World by Declension understands The sliding-down of houses, stocks, and lands; And that Translation means, in this world's bother, Translation from one pocket to another; Mistrusts that if The World has, as is sung, A tail by which, perchance, it may be "slung," The blessed place so many hands infold, He can not find whereon he may take hold; Finds that he best makes ground o'er this world's road, As he his college nonsense doth unload; What sweeter sound with Life's alarum blends Than the kind voice of Brothers and of Friends?
* * * * *
And so, to-day, we live our old lives o'er-- The Freshman gay, the smiling Sophomore, The anxious Junior, and the Senior proud, The care-immersed Alumnus, sober-browed; To shake once more the quick-responding hand, To trade in jokes no others understand; Our fish-lines into Memory's ponds to throw For stories which were left there long ago (Which, like most fishy ventures, as is known, Through many changing years have bred and grown); To beat the big drum of our vanity, To clash the cymbals of our boisterous glee; To bind again the old-time friendships fast, To fight once more the battles of the past.
Beneath the blue of this clear sunlit sky, Beneath the storm-cloud, rudely lingering nigh, From night to night--from changing day to day-- Our grand Society has won its way. And as the lichen plant, when tempest-torn, And roughly from its native hill-side borne, Sucks moisture from the whirlwind's shivering form, And grows, while yet hurled onward by the storm, And when at last its voyage well is o'er, Thrives sweeter, purer, stronger than before, Our gallant little band has ever grown Stronger for all the struggles it has known; And, 'mid the smiles and frowns that heaven out-sends, Our hearts still beat as Brothers and as Friends.
OUR MARCH THROUGH THE PAST.
[ALUMNI REUNION--1885.]
When the tints of the morning had turned into gray, And the sun of our lives fast was finding its day, When we stood on that line where youth's journey was done, And our manhood and womanhood scarce had begun, When the word was no longer "How happy are we!" But "What can we suffer, and conquer, and _be_?" When the prairies of youth, with fresh flowers covered o'er, And all shaded with groves, were our playgrounds no more; And mountains stepped into the mist, from afar, And over the highest one's top, gleamed a star, 'Twas whispered to us, "If those heights you ascend, Much training its aid to your forces must lend; Ere you in the future the conflict have won, You must know what the minds of past ages have done." Then the old Alma Mater, with welcoming sign, Said, "That's what _I'm_ for; students, fall into line!" And with hearts still at home, but with eyes forward cast, We started away on our march through the past.
'Twas a long, weary march! full of toil and of pain; There were curbings of body, and lashings of brain; There were sinkings of heart, fraught with agony dire; There were roads we must walk full of thorns and of fire. For if he who much strength with the body would gain, Must clamber his way through fatigue and through pain, Then he who would mental efficiency find, Must suffer and strive with the nerves of the mind. If we turned all these woes in the quartz-mill of truth, And crushed out the gold from the woes of our youth, If we knew that all pain, when 'tis wisely endured, Will be paid for ten times, and the wound neatly cured, Then we gathered rich profits that doubtless will last Through ages to come--in our march through the past.
'Twas a bright, glorious march! full of joys that were new; Of hopes that kept budding, and friends that kept true; And powers just awaking and op'ning their eyes, That dashed through our souls with a thrill of surprise; Of facts 'twas a luxury just to possess; Of growth that was full of the fire of success. To you who now fret under college control, Keep this truth in your mind--let it call on your soul: You never will find, through terrestrial source, A pathway more smooth than the old college course. In spite of the foes that may lie in the way, In spite of the clouds that may blot the best day, In spite of the gibes ignoramuses throw forth, In spite of the cares of the world, flesh, etc., There's nothing you'll find, tho' you live a long while, That will show you so many sweet flowers to the mile, Though running through some woeful weeds on the way, As this same college course you are taking to-day. When, nearing Death-station, on life's crooked track, You scan your time-table, and take a look back O'er all of the different stations you've passed, You'll own, as you trundle along to the last, That nothing will strike you with such pleasant force, As that time that you spent in the old college course! You will find that it lighted your life, all the way, And gave you material for effort, each day; That you traveled much freer, for the luggage amassed In the work-checkered days of your march through the past.
'Twas a bonnie October, as autumn months go, From our camp on the tolerably placid St. Jo., We shouldered our--books, for grim heroism's home, For sweet, wicked, charming, licentious old Rome!
And ere the last month of our journey was through, What picturesque characters came to our view! Came Cicero, full of extremes good and bad; The only great orator Rome ever had! Philosopher, statesman, attorney, he rose The higher for each of his enemies blows! A lesson to halt not that foes be appeased, And not to turn back when some fools are displeased. Keep on, with what light heaven will lend to your eyes; If fools call you fool, 'tis a sign you are wise. Came Livy, who, when we approached him, first fired A volley of Preface, that made us all tired; Describer of Rome, both as glorious and base, With mod rate correctness, and infinite grace; Who told how a wolf, in her blood-spattered home, Took charge of the two city fathers of Rome; How Remus resigned, from some reasons of weight, And Romulus seemed to endure it, "first-rate;" How his guests from the Sabines escaped with their lives, But left all their best-looking daughters for wives (Let this be a warning, by fathers e er carried; Keep daughters from school if you don't want them married!); Yes, what characters old, and yet startlingly new, Did that same historian pilot us to! Came Hannibal, trapper of Romans; whose might Put even the courage of heroes to flight! Unhelped by his own, and not conquered e'en then, Till the sun was eclipsed and made cowards his men; Yet even, when _down_--full of age and neglect-- His enemies feared him, and gave him respect! Came brave, grand Horatius, who kept bridge one day, And took bloody toll from whoe'er came that way; Then swam back in triumph--the pride of all nations-- And hero of--several school declamations! If we used these fierce stories our courage to feed, And learned that Resolve is the master of need, If we made up our minds that success is a prize That under the rubbish of hard labor lies, That like Rome, with its victory-banners unfurled, We would fight till we conquered our share of the world, But unlike old Rome, we would _not_ settle down, And let Sloth and Luxury tarnish our crown, Then we gained o'er ourselves a good influence vast, From that savage old land--in our march through the past.
What country is this, that looms brightly to me, Washed well by the waves of the Ægean sea? 'Tis the land where blind Homer, with harp of pure gold, Sang stories that never will cease to be told; Where Socrates, keeping an unruffled face, Took his cup of cold poison, with infinite grace; Where brave old Leonidas glory achieved, Was at home in Thermopylæ's pass, and received; Who to eloquence threw all a hero could give, And died--that a thousand orations might live! Where youthful Demosthenes, famous to be, With pebbles for troches, harangued the whole sea; While only himself and the wild breezes heard, And the ocean, though masculine, got the last word; How bad old Ulysses, on water and land, Showed how an old robber could even be grand; Where grim old Diogenes comfort defied, And lived--a tub full of the meanest of pride; Who flattered himself he had no one to thank, And earned--though received not--the name of a crank; And other old worthies, and unworthies, too, Whose sorrows and joys will forever be new. If these and their motives we struggled to reach, And studied their natures, as well as their speech, If we went through those mines of thought silver and gold, That seldom run barren and never grow old, Took what we could carry, and held to it fast, Then a good growing time, was our march through the past!
What country is this? where some strange-looking men Make odd-looking figures with pencil and pen; The ghost of old Daboll stalks grimly about; And this one is Greenleaf--now, Thomson steps out; Charles Davies has come, arm-and-arm with Bourdon, While Robinson, Loomis, and others crowd on. Conundrums they offer; strange riddles they state; And set each poor wretch to maltreating his slate. How the hands of a clock meet at high twelve--and then, When will that old time-piece its fists clench again? How two famous trav'lers, who never have met, Set out for some place (and have not arrived yet!); How a man had three sons: to the first one he gave One-third of what he from the others could save; The others both shared, in a figurative way (Those boys haven't a cent of their cash to this day!); How a person had four casks: the first of which, filled From the second, left four-sevenths of what was not spilled (I always stopped right in the midst of my tasks, To guess at the taste of the stuff in those casks); How a man had ten daughters: the first one's age reckoned Three-fourths of eight-ninths of nine-tenths of the second; Numbers 3, 4, and 5, also 6, 7, and 8, Used also in problems their ages to state; The other two, being quite chickens, in fact, Dropped ciphering, and stated their ages exact. (If you went through that long computation again, You'd find those girls just the same age they were then.) Then the triangles, rectangles, quadrangles too, And other sad wrangles we had to go through; The sines and the co-sines that at us were hurled, Till we wished that there wasn't such a thing in the world; These fell on our minds, like a cold winter blast, But strengthened us much, in our march through the past.
So 'mid all these countries we marched, night and day, And many the strange things that came in our way; The _reasons_, that seemed from us walled, hedged, and fenced; The roots of dead verbs, that we stumbled against; The pitiless logic of syllogism thin, That puzzled us where to conclude or begin; Rough notes of philosophy, harder than sweet, That pained our teeth, ere we cracked through to the meat; Our fright when "Analogy" round us careened, And made Joseph Butler show up like a fiend; The chemistry that in our minds somewhat sank, And showed us what queer things we ate, breathed, and drank; Zoology, where 'twas laboriously shown That man isn't the only queer animal known; We studied the rocks--rugged children of flame-- And sweet-scented flowers, and the fields whence they came. Then our innocent pastimes we cannot forget, Though some not the sensiblest mirth ever met; And most of them--now that vacation grows long-- Seem rather uncalled for, if not rather wrong. The old standard jokes that young blood keeps to spare, Such as borrowing wagons to lend to the air, And sampling much fruit--alas! stolen and sweet! To learn if 'twas fit for the owner to eat; And making strange brutes go to college by force-- These all seem a part of the regular course. If from such foolish pranks, we have garnered the truth That blood frisks and glows, when 'tis seasoned with youth, That young nerves with life and with mischief must thrill, And youth may be gay, and have principle still, If we that experience give a kind use, And form for the faults of the young, an excuse, And not at each bubble of sport stand aghast-- Our fun bore some fruit as we marched through the past.
But memory is wide; and remains the abode Of the girls and the boys that we left on the road! They started off with us, their hopes were as bright As any of ours--and their spirits as light; Their efforts were brave, and their motives were good; And they made the long march just as well as they could. These gold days of June, each a floral surprise, Gave a thrill to their hearts, and a gleam to their eyes; The meadows that mantle yon valley's cool breast, To them, as to us, were the symbols of rest; By them as by us the fresh hill-sides were seen, When corn-fields were tossing their ribbons of green; For them the wide grain waved its flags richly free, And promised fruition, in days soon to be; For them faithful hands gave a clasp that was true, And proud kindred hearts kept their triumphs in view; They marched by our side, with no burden of dread-- They saw not the grave, just a few steps ahead; They looked for the time, when sweet blessings would grow From the rich earthly truths they had struggled to know; But too weary the march, or too heavy the load; And they laid down their armor and died on the road. Whatever the splendors and joys of to-day, Whatever the flowers that may flash in our way, Whatever our joy at assembling once more, Though God in his love grant the same o'er and o'er, We will always remember, with sweet love bestowed, The names of those comrades who fell on the road. The flags of our triumphs shall droop at half mast, For those whom the future claimed out of the past!
Not as youths now we meet, but grave women and men; 'Mid bright summer days, we must soon part again. We know not the future, or what hands our own May clasp, when another half decade is flown; Our efforts may yet for a season be told (For we re not so distressing, confoundedly old; The crows may have stood at the edge of our eyes, And left some tracks there that we haven't learned to prize; The frost in our hair may be carelessly flung; But our minds and our hearts and our souls may be young), Still, grass-stalks, e'en now, may have lifted their heads, That may die of the spades that will make our last beds; But whatever our fate--to enjoy or endure-- To quote from great Webster, 'The past is secure;' So I would to-night move a vote of warm thanks, To the living and dead who commanded our ranks; To our enemies, who, in their short busy stay, Did all that they could, to encumber our way; Who postured and crouched in their poisonous slime, Becoming step-ladders, on which we could climb; Who told our worst faults, and then lied themselves hoarse, And spurred us along with their tongues, in our course; Who lived low--conceived, intellectual moles-- "Next door to" our bodies--but not to our souls. The rattlesnake, viper, and toad have a use, And so has the vile tongue that rots with abuse. A thank to the friends who looked high for our mark, And lighted the way when 'twas dreary and dark; For he that has groped through the fog of despair, 'Till he fought his way out to the light and the air, Has one thing he never forgets, you will find; And that's the first help of a friend that is kind. Do you think, O true friend! who for e'en a short while, Have helped a young student with deed, word, or smile, That his memory, howe'er distracted or vexed, Will drop out your name, in this world, or the next? Among the good angels of earth you are classed, You who helped us along in our way through the past!