Read Ebook: A Williams Anthology A Collection of the Verse and Prose of Williams College 1798-1910 by Lehman Edwin P Edwin Partridge Compiler Park Julian Compiler

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"Great poet souls and people yet unborn Shall lay their speechless homage at thy feet, And still thy life be in its rosy dawn, Whose eve eternity alone shall greet. While I, to whom thy changeless smile were sweet As heaven, long mingled with earth's vilest mould, Shall be forgot! What wealth of fame can mete The loss of love? None, none! Thy fate is cold, But oh, what starry treasures might it not unfold!"

He ceased. A lambent halo seemed to play About her head, as lightnings round the moon; Her marble tresses streamed in golden spray-- A tremor throbbed along her limbs of stone, And sky-hued veins with life's warm pulses shone. One thought of wordless love beamed from her eyes, Then, gently floating from her shining throne 'Mid blushing smiles half drowned in tearful sighs, She faded slowly heavenward through the sunset skies.

OPPORTUNITY

JOHN J. INGALLS '55

Master of human destinies am I; Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait. Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late, I knock unbidden once on every gate. If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise before I turn away; it is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore; I answer not, and I return no more.

AUTUMN

JAMES A. GARFIELD '56

Old Autumn thou art here! upon the Earth And in the heavens, the signs of death are hung; For o'er the Earth's brown breast stalks pale decay, And 'mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail, And, sighing sadly, chant the solemn dirge O'er summer's fairest flowers, all faded now. The Winter god, descending from the skies, Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth His coming.

Before the driving blast The mountain oak bows down his hoary head, And flings his withered locks to the rough gales That fiercely roar among the branches bare, Uplifted to the dark unpitying heavens. The skies have put their mourning garments on And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds. Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow And lie entombed in Winter's icy grave.

Thus passes life. As hoary age comes on The joys of youth--bright beauties of the spring, Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night Of Death's chill Winter comes. But as the spring Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter's waste, And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light, So o'er the tomb, the Star of Hope shall rise, And usher in an ever during day.

IN THE FOREST

ANON.

We lie beneath the forest shade Whose sunny tremors dapple us; She is a proud-eyed Grecian maid And I am Sardanapalus; A king uncrowned whose sole allegiance Resides in dusky forest regions.

How cool and liquid seems the sky; How blue and still the distance is! White fleets of cloud at anchor lie And mute are all existences, Save here and there a bird that launches A shaft of song among the branches.

Within this alien realm of shade We keep a sylvan Passover; We happy twain, a wayward maid, A careless, gay philosopher; But unto me she seems a Venus And Paphian grasses nod between us.

Her drooping eyelids half conceal A vague, uncertain mystery; Her tender glances half reveal A sad, impassioned history; A tale of hopes and fears unspoken Of thoughts that die and leave no token.

"Oh braid a wreath of budding sprays And crown me queen," the maiden says; "Queen of the shadowy woodland ways, And wandering winds, whose cadences Are unto thee that tale repeating Which I must perish while secreting!"

I wove a wreath of leaves and buds And flowers with golden chalices, And crowned her queen of summer woods And dreamy forest palaces; Queen of that realm whose tender story Makes life a splendor, death a glory.

CORSICA

ANON.

A lonely island in the South, it shows Its frosted brow, and waves its shaggy woods, And sullenly above the billow broods. Here he that shook the frighted world arose. 'Twas here he gained the strength the wing to plume, To swoop upon the Arno's classic plains, And drink the noblest blood of Europe's veins-- His eye but glanced and nations felt their doom! Alas! "how art thou fall'n, oh Lucifer, Son of the morning!" thou who wast the scourge And glory of the earth--whose nod could urge. Proud armies deathward at the trump of war! And did'st thou die on lone Helena's isle? And art thou nought but dust and ashes vile?

LOOKING BACKWARD

WASHINGTON GLADDEN '59

From one who belonged in a remote antiquity to the fraternity of college editors, a contribution to this centennial number has been solicited. Perhaps I can do no better than to recall a few impressions of my own life in college. Every year, at the banquet, I observe that I am pushed a little nearer to the border where the almond tree flourishes, and I shall soon have a right to be reminiscent and garrulous. At the next centennial I shall not be called on; this is my last chance.

I came to college in the fall of 1856. My class had been in college for a year, so that the vicissitudes of a freshman are no part of my memory. I shall never forget that evening when I first entered Williamstown, riding on the top of the North Adams stage. The September rains had been abundant, and the meadows and slopes were at their greenest; the atmosphere was as nearly transparent as we are apt to see it; the sun was just sinking behind the Taconics, and the shadows were creeping up the eastern slopes of Williams and Prospect; as we paused on the little hill beyond Blackinton the outline of the Saddle was defined against a sky as rich and deep as ever looked down at sunset on Naples or Palermo. I thought then that I had never seen a lovelier valley, and I have had no occasion to revise that judgment. To a boy who had seen few mountains that hour was a revelation. On the side of the picturesque, the old way of transportation was better than the new. The boy who is dumped with his trunks at the station near the factory on the flat gets no such abundant entrance into Williamstown as was vouchsafed to the boy who rode in triumphantly on the top of Jim Bridges' stage.

The wide old street was as hospitable then as now; if the elms were something less paternal in their benediction their stature was fair and their shade was ample; but the aspect of the street--how greatly changed since then! There were two or three fine old colonial houses, which are standing now and are not likely to be improved upon; but most of the dwellings were of the orthodox New England village pattern, built, I suppose, to square with the theology of the Shorter Catechism, or perhaps with the measurements of the New Jerusalem, the length and breadth and height of which are equal. The front yards were all enclosed with fences, none of which were useful and few of which were ornamental. The broad-shouldered old white Congregational meeting-house stood at the top of the street in Field Park; it was the goal of restless Sophomores for several hours every Sunday, and it was also the goal of all ambitious contestants for college honors. Griffin Hall was then chapel, museum, laboratories, and recitation-rooms; East, South, and West Colleges, with Kellogg Hall, on the West lawn,--"factories of the muses," in Lowell's expressive phrase,--stood forth in their naked practicality much as they stand to-day. Lawrence Hall library, in its earlier, wingless character of colossal ink-pot, Jackson Hall and the little magnetic observatory, still standing, completed the catalogue of the college buildings.

The faculty of that day can be recalled without difficulty: President Hopkins, whose clear and venerable name no eulogy of mine shall here disfigure; his stern-faced but great-hearted brother Albert; Emmons the geologist; Griffin, Tatlock, Lincoln, and Chadbourne, who succeeded Hopkins in the presidency; Bascom, the only survivor to-day, and Perry, the best-known of them all. I have taken no pains to refresh my memory of the faculty of 1856, but I am confident that here are no omissions. It will be somewhat less easy for undergraduates to-day, writing so many eventful years after their entrance, to recall the names of their teachers. One only of our memorable nine is now in service, and long may he serve the community! All these were ranked as professors; there had been tutors and instructors before our days, but none in our time.

College singing was hearty and spirited, but our repertoire was limited. I recall many evenings of blameless hilarity on the benches under the trees in front of East College. For more ambitious musical performance we had our "Mendelssohn Society," whose concerts were not probably so classical as we then esteemed them, but whose rehearsals gave us not a little pleasure. Athletics had hardly a name to live. Now and then a football was mysteriously dropped into the West College yard, and kicked about in a very promiscuous fashion; the freshmen and sophomores generally had a match of what was by courtesy called base-ball. The only intercollegiate contest of which I had any recollection, and as it seems the first ever to take place, was a ball game at Pittsfield between Williams and Amherst. Amherst was the challenging party, and the college by vote selected its team with much care and went forth to the contest with strong hopes. The game was not lacking in excitement. It was none of your new-fangled, umpire-ridden matches: the modern type of base-ball had not, of course, been invented. Foul balls were unknown, the sphere could be knocked toward any quarter of the earth or sky; runners between bases could be pelted with it by any of the outfielders. I think that the score stood something like 60 to 40, and it was not in favor of Williams. It was a melancholy company that trailed homeward after this contest past the Lanesboro pond; but since then I understand that times have changed.

TO THE MOUNTAINS OF WILLIAMSTOWN

ON THE INTRODUCTION OF THE NEW RAILROAD

ANON.

Ye guardian mountains of the western world, Enthroned like monarchs of primeval days! Ye that hold lofty converse with the stars, And bind your shaggy brows with clustering clouds As if with wreaths of laurel! ye that count Your years by thousands, and your bosoms robe With all the pageantry of Autumn's gold, And lull your sleep of ages with the wild And murmurous drone of woodland waterfalls, And multitudinous song of windy groves!

What spell hath bound ye now? what lethargy O'ercomes your ancient power? that undisturbed Ye slumber on, as if ye heeded not The piercing shriek from yonder fuming car, Which saith that even here presumptuous man Has dared intrude upon the green domain, Which ye inherited when Time was born. Awake! arise! are ye forever dumb? Let Greylock, most majestic of your band, Stand up and shout aloud to Audubon, Until from peak to peak the sound rolls round, Until yon mountain that o'erlooks the west Takes up the cry, of vengeance upon him Whose strange devices break your long repose.

In vain! ye are indeed forever dumb, Obedient to the will of Destiny, Who sits enthroned among the stars of heaven, And unto man's inquiring vision points Toward the westering sun forevermore. Such is the law that rules the universe;-- Planets and systems, e'en the sun himself, Around one common point progressive move. And thus a few millenniums more shall man Proclaim the march of mind, and when ye pass Into oblivion with your weight of years, When galaxies and suns are quenched in gloom, Th' unshackled soul of man, itself a star Lit by the smile of God, shall wing through space, The destined heir to immortality.

THE YELLOW JASMINE

FRANKLIN CARTER '62

Ye golden bells, that toss your heaven-born fragrance On air around, And know to make the most harmonious music Without a sound!

Ye fragile flowers, whose delicate, dear tendrils Upward do climb, Reveal to us the sweet, mysterious secret Of love sublime!

Entwining with your gentle cunning fingers The ragged tree, Ye leave behind ye crowns and chaplets wondrous, Of jewelry!

Not pearls nor diamonds of a radiance peerless, Not amethyst. When softly swaying on the human bosom, Or flexile wrist,

Can add to life and beauty lustrous splendor, With grace divine, As when ye wreathe on gnarled oak and holly Your trailing vine!

Oh, love of God! in gracious ways unnumbered, With gentlest touch, Thou teachest men and pitifully showest Of patience much!

We pray, dear Father, teach thine erring children This lesson meet-- To climb through fragile, earth born, human tendrils To life complete.

AFTER DINNER SPEECHES

FRANKLIN CARTER '62

According to common opinion Americans are the nation most addicted to speechmaking. Laboulaye makes a good point by representing the son of a leading character in "Paris in America" discovered by his father before a large audience, in the full tide of political speech, and maintaining afterwards to the old gentleman that it is the common practice among all the boys to make a speech on every possible occasion, that they may thus fit themselves for public life.

In New York, which tends rapidly to become the center of activity for most of the important influences of our country, there are every year many dinners, anniversaries, and assemblies, at which oratory of an ephemeral nature finds expression and attention. All the nationalities, all the religious and literary societies, all the clubs, all the distinguished foreigners, and all the leading and following colleges, must have a dinner, and every dinner must have at least a dozen speeches. Most of these speeches are more eloquent to the opinion of their authors than to the minds of their hearers.

Yet not every speech made on those occasions is dull. Now and then the happy mingling of fun and sense really lifts the company out of the tiresome monotony. Were it not for these addresses beautiful and rare, we can believe that dinner speeches would be abandoned, or exchanged for a single oration from one competent to delight.

For the distinguishing mark of the dinner speech should be that it amuse not in the rough, coarse way of the demagogue, but in the subtle, fine way of the man of culture.

The dinner speeches with which the readers of this paper are perhaps most familiar, those made when the alumni of a noble college gather around the table of their alma mater, ought to be characterized by the broad sympathy, the quick insight, the flexible grace and the genial humor of the thoroughly educated man. Although to make fine dinner speeches can never be an aim worthy of an earnest man, yet to have the power and culture from which such a speech usually comes, is the highest aim in a literary regard that any man can have. It is a short-sighted and one-sighted earnestness that despises the wit and banter of society, and affects the isolation and grandeur of pure thought. The mountain summit is too far removed from the walks of men to make it possible for the recluse to wield all the influence that his powers may entitle him to exert. The metaphysician less than the poet, the country minister less than the successful lawyer, is the autocrat of the dinner-table.

Because Williams and Yale have produced great and useful men, it does not follow that their commencement dinners are always marked by the finest flow of wit and wisdom, nor that pioneers in civilization who bring great honor to their alma mater should always and everywhere speak for her. Dinner-speaking is a fine art, not one for which men need absolutely European travel and study, but one which is never mastered except by those who love and perhaps know how to reach all the beautiful thoughts of every age and clime. It is the cultured gentleman of social experience, who may or may not be a man of great ability, but who knows how to weave the poetic and humorous and commonplace into beautiful or grotesque forms, that delights and surprises a dinner company. Social experience and good abilities will not alone make the successful speaker. Underneath and back of all must be the gentleman. A lawyer, though of splendid position, can ill afford to say at the festal table of his alma mater, "Harvard takes great poets and historians to fill her vacant professorships; my college takes boys, who have proved their qualifications by getting their windows broken." Those who go deeper than the surface will perhaps surmise that Harvard has had better material to work upon than some colleges; not perhaps material of finer abilities, but material that has been more under the influence of sweetness and light. Possibly her graduates are as superior at making dinner speeches as are her trustees in choosing professors.

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