 | Farm legends |  |
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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.
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.
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,
122
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.
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.
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!
125
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,
126
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 Thermopylae'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!
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 Thermopylae'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.
Make odd-looking figures with pencil and pen;
127
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.
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;
128
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!
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;
129
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 rattle-snake, 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!
'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;
130
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 rattle-snake, 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!
Forward march! though that past lies in burial lands,
We must toil in the future, with heads, hearts, and hands;
Forward march! is the order that comes from on high,
And rules the great college that graces the sky!
They say Art is long, and they say very true;
But so, by-the-way, is Eternity, too!
No study to-day gets our effort and love,
But has its completion in text-books above;
No work over which the clouds struggle and beat,
But finished may be, with the clouds 'neath our feet;
Then with eyes upon Earth, but with hearts forward cast,
We will thank happy Heaven for our march through the past!
We must toil in the future, with heads, hearts, and hands;
Forward march! is the order that comes from on high,
And rules the great college that graces the sky!
They say Art is long, and they say very true;
But so, by-the-way, is Eternity, too!
No study to-day gets our effort and love,
But has its completion in text-books above;
No work over which the clouds struggle and beat,
But finished may be, with the clouds 'neath our feet;
Then with eyes upon Earth, but with hearts forward cast,
We will thank happy Heaven for our march through the past!
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