Before the Curfew | Page 9

cell,
One crystal drop with
measured cadence fell.
Still, as of old, forever bright and clear,
The
fissured cavern drops its wonted tear,
And wondrous virtue, simple
folk aver,
Lies in that teardrop of la roche qui pleure.
Of old I wandered by the river's side
Between whose banks the
mighty waters glide,
Where vast Niagara, hurrying to its fall,
Builds
and unbuilds its ever-tumbling wall;
Oft in my dreams I hear the rush
and roar
Of battling floods, and feel the trembling shore,
As the
huge torrent, girded for its leap,
With bellowing thunders plunges
down the steep.
Not less distinct, from memory's pictured urn,
The
gray old rock, the leafy woods, return;
Robed in their pride the lofty
oaks appear,
And once again with quickened sense I hear,
Through
the low murmur of the leaves that stir,
The tinkling teardrop of la
roche qui pleure.
So when the third ripe century stands complete,
As once again the
sons of Harvard meet,
Rejoicing, numerous as the seashore sands,

Drawn from all quarters,--farthest distant lands,
Where through the
reeds the scaly saurian steals,
Where cold Alaska feeds her
floundering seals,
Where Plymouth, glorying, wears her iron crown,

Where Sacramento sees the suns go down;
Nay, from the cloisters
whence the refluent tide

Wafts their pale students to our Mother's
side,--
Mid all the tumult that the day shall bring,
While all the
echoes shout, and roar, and ring,
These tinkling lines, oblivion's easy

prey,
Once more emerging to the light of day,
Not all unpleasing to
the listening ear
Shall wake the memories of this bygone year,

Heard as I hear the measured drops that flow
From the gray rock of
wooded Fontainebleau.
Yet, ere I leave, one loving word for all
Those fresh young lives that
wait our Mother's call:
One gift is yours, kind Nature's richest
dower,--
Youth, the fair bud that holds life's opening flower,
Full of
high hopes no coward doubts enchain,
With all the future throbbing
in its brain,
And mightiest instincts which the beating heart
Fills
with the fire its burning waves impart.
O joyous youth, whose glory is to dare,--
Thy foot firm planted on the
lowest stair,
Thine eye uplifted to the loftiest height
Where Fame
stands beckoning in the rosy light,
Thanks for thy flattering tales, thy
fond deceits,
Thy loving lies, thy cheerful smiling cheats
Nature's
rash promise every day is broke,--
A thousand acorns breed a single
oak,
The myriad blooms that make the orchard gay
In barren beauty
throw their lives away;
Yet shall we quarrel with the sap that yields

The painted blossoms which adorn the fields,
When the fair orchard
wears its May-day suit
Of pink-white petals, for its scanty fruit?

Thrice happy hours, in hope's illusion dressed,
In fancy's cradle
nurtured and caressed,
Though rich the spoils that ripening years may
bring,
To thee the dewdrops of the Orient cling,--
Not all the
dye-stuffs from the vats of truth
Can match the rainbow on the robes
of youth!
Dear unborn children, to our Mother's trust
We leave you, fearless,
when we lie in dust:
While o'er these walls the Christian banner
waves
From hallowed lips shall flow the truth that saves;
While o'er
those portals Veritas you read
No church shall bind you with its
human creed.
Take from the past the best its toil has won,

But learn
betimes its slavish ruts to shun.
Pass the old tree whose withered
leaves are shed,
Quit the old paths that error loved to tread,
And a

new wreath of living blossoms seek,
A narrower pathway up a loftier
peak;
Lose not your reverence, but unmanly fear
Leave far behind
you, all who enter here!
As once of old from Ida's lofty height
The flaming signal flashed
across the night,
So Harvard's beacon sheds its unspent rays
Till
every watch-tower shows its kindling blaze.
Caught from a spark and
fanned by every gale,
A brighter radiance gilds the roofs of Yale;

Amherst and Williams bid their flambeaus shine,
And Bowdoin
answers through her groves of pine;
O'er Princeton's sands the far
reflections steal,
Where mighty Edwards stamped his iron heel;
Nay,
on the hill where old beliefs were bound
Fast as if Styx had girt them
nine times round,
Bursts such a light that trembling souls inquire
If
the whole church of Calvin is on fire!
Well may they ask, for what so
brightly burns
As a dry creed that nothing ever learns?
Thus link by
link is knit the flaming chain
Lit by the torch of Harvard's hallowed
plain.
Thy son, thy servant, dearest Mother mine,
Lays this poor offering on
thy holy shrine,
An autumn leaflet to the wild winds tost,
Touched
by the finger of November's frost,
With sweet, sad memories of that
earlier day,
And all that listened to my first-born lay.
With grateful
heart this glorious morn I see,--
Would that my tribute worthier were
of thee!
POST-PRANDIAL
PHI BETA KAPPA
WENDELL PHILLIPS, ORATOR; CHARLES GODFREY
LELAND, POET
1881
"THE Dutch have taken Holland,"--so the schoolboys used to say; The

Dutch have taken Harvard,--no doubt of that to-day!
For the
Wendells were low Dutchmen, and all their vrows were Vans; And the
Breitmanns are high Dutchmen, and here is honest Hans.
Mynheers, you both are welcome! Fair cousin Wendell P.,
Our
ancestors were dwellers beside the Zuyder Zee;
Both Grotius and
Erasmus were countrymen of we,
And