 | Along the trail |  |
DARTMOUTH ODE
I
Out of the hills came a voice to me,
Out of the pine woods a cry:
Out of the pine woods a cry:
“Thou hast numbered and named us, O man. Hast thou known us at all?
Thou hast riven our rocks for their secrets, and measured our heights
As a hillock is measured. But are we revealed? Canst thou call
Ascutney thy fellow? Or is it thou Kearsarge invites?
What speech have we given thee, measurer—cleaver of stones?
For we talk to the day-star at dawning, the night-winds o' nights,
And our days are a tongue that thou hearest not, digger of bones!
Thou hast riven our rocks for their secrets, and measured our heights
As a hillock is measured. But are we revealed? Canst thou call
Ascutney thy fellow? Or is it thou Kearsarge invites?
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For we talk to the day-star at dawning, the night-winds o' nights,
And our days are a tongue that thou hearest not, digger of bones!
“O you who would know us, come out from the roofs you have made,
And plunge in our waters and breathe the sharp joy of the air!
Let the hot sun beat down on your foreheads, lie prone in the shade,
With your hearts to the roots and the mosses, climb till you stare
From the summit that juts like an island up into the sky!
Watch the clouds pass by day, and by night let the power of Altair
And Arcturus and Vega be on you to lift you on high!
And plunge in our waters and breathe the sharp joy of the air!
Let the hot sun beat down on your foreheads, lie prone in the shade,
With your hearts to the roots and the mosses, climb till you stare
From the summit that juts like an island up into the sky!
Watch the clouds pass by day, and by night let the power of Altair
And Arcturus and Vega be on you to lift you on high!
“For our heart is not down on the maps, nor our magic in books;
But the lover that seeks us shall find us, and keep in his heart
Every rune of our slow-heaving hillsides, the spaces and nooks
Of our woodlands, the sleep of our waters. His thoughts shall be part
Of our thoughts, and his ways shall be with us. His spirit shall flee
From the gluttons of fact. He shall dwell, as the hills dwell, apart.
He only that loves us and lives with us, knows what we be.”
But the lover that seeks us shall find us, and keep in his heart
Every rune of our slow-heaving hillsides, the spaces and nooks
Of our woodlands, the sleep of our waters. His thoughts shall be part
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From the gluttons of fact. He shall dwell, as the hills dwell, apart.
He only that loves us and lives with us, knows what we be.”
I hear you, O woods and hills!
I hearken, O wind of the North!
I hearken, O wind of the North!
II
Daughter of the woods and hills, Dartmouth, my stern
Rock-boned and wind-brown sibyl of the snows!
First in thy praise whom we can never praise
Enough, I lay my laurel in my turn
Before thee in thy uplands. No one goes
Forth from thy granite through the summer days,
And many a land of apple and of rose,
Keeping in his heart more faithfully than I
The love of thy grim hills and northern sky.
Rock-boned and wind-brown sibyl of the snows!
First in thy praise whom we can never praise
Enough, I lay my laurel in my turn
Before thee in thy uplands. No one goes
Forth from thy granite through the summer days,
And many a land of apple and of rose,
Keeping in his heart more faithfully than I
The love of thy grim hills and northern sky.
Mother of Webster! Mother of men! Being great,
Be greater; let the honor of thy past,
For which we sit in festival, elate,
Be but the portent of thy larger fate,
The adumbration of a deed more vast.
With eyes upon the future, thou and we
Shall better celebrate the past we praise,
And in the pledge of unaccomplished days
Find a new joy thrill through our pride in thee.
Be greater; let the honor of thy past,
For which we sit in festival, elate,
Be but the portent of thy larger fate,
The adumbration of a deed more vast.
With eyes upon the future, thou and we
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And in the pledge of unaccomplished days
Find a new joy thrill through our pride in thee.
III
O Dartmouth, nurse of men, I see your games
To make men strong, your books to make them wise;
But there is other sight than that of eyes,
And other strength than that which strikes and maims.
What hast thou done to purge the passions pure,
To wake the myriad instincts that lie sleeping
Within us unaroused and undivined,
As forests in a hazel-nut endure;
To fashion finelier our joy and weeping,
Inspire us intuitions swift and sure,
And give us soul as manifold as mind;
To make us scholars in the lore of feeling,
And turn the world to beauty and revealing?
To make men strong, your books to make them wise;
But there is other sight than that of eyes,
And other strength than that which strikes and maims.
What hast thou done to purge the passions pure,
To wake the myriad instincts that lie sleeping
Within us unaroused and undivined,
As forests in a hazel-nut endure;
To fashion finelier our joy and weeping,
Inspire us intuitions swift and sure,
And give us soul as manifold as mind;
To make us scholars in the lore of feeling,
And turn the world to beauty and revealing?
O justly proud of thy first strenuous years!
Be not content that thou hast nurtured well
The hardy prowess of thy pioneers.
Among thy fellows bold, be thou the first,
Still guarding sacredly the antique well,
To seek new springs to quench the ages' thirst.
Take up the axe, O woodman of the soul,
And break new paths through tangled ignorance;
Dare the unknown, till on thy jubilant glance
The prairies of the spirit shall unroll.
For thou mayest teach us all that thou hast taught,
Nor slay the earlier instinct of the Faun,
Whose intimacy with earth and air withdrawn,
There rests but hearsay knowledge in our thought.
And thou mayest make us the familiars of
The woodlands of desire, the crags of fate,
The lakes of worship and the dells of love,
Even as the Faun is Nature's intimate.
For God lacks not his seers, and Art is strong,
And spirit unto spirit utters speech,
Nor is there any heaven beyond the reach
Of them that know the masteries of Song.
Be not content that thou hast nurtured well
The hardy prowess of thy pioneers.
Among thy fellows bold, be thou the first,
Still guarding sacredly the antique well,
To seek new springs to quench the ages' thirst.
Take up the axe, O woodman of the soul,
And break new paths through tangled ignorance;
Dare the unknown, till on thy jubilant glance
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For thou mayest teach us all that thou hast taught,
Nor slay the earlier instinct of the Faun,
Whose intimacy with earth and air withdrawn,
There rests but hearsay knowledge in our thought.
And thou mayest make us the familiars of
The woodlands of desire, the crags of fate,
The lakes of worship and the dells of love,
Even as the Faun is Nature's intimate.
For God lacks not his seers, and Art is strong,
And spirit unto spirit utters speech,
Nor is there any heaven beyond the reach
Of them that know the masteries of Song.
IV
Oh, the mind and its kingdoms are goodly, and well for the brain
That has craft to discover and cunning to bind to its will
And wisdom to weigh at its worth all the wealth they contain.
But the heart has its empire as well, and he shall fare ill
Who has learned not the way to its meadows. His knowledge shall be
A bitter taste in his heart; he shall spit at his skill;
And the days of his life shall be sterile and salt as the sea.
That has craft to discover and cunning to bind to its will
And wisdom to weigh at its worth all the wealth they contain.
But the heart has its empire as well, and he shall fare ill
Who has learned not the way to its meadows. His knowledge shall be
A bitter taste in his heart; he shall spit at his skill;
And the days of his life shall be sterile and salt as the sea.
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Ay, save the man's love be made greater, even knowledge shall wane,
And burn to the mere dry shrivelled mummy of thought,
As the sweet grass withers and dies if it get not the rain.
But we—oh, what have we done that the heart should be taught?
We have given men brawn—without love 't is the Brute come again;
We have given men brain—without love 't is the Fiend. Is there aught
We have given to greaten the soul, we who dare to shape men?
And burn to the mere dry shrivelled mummy of thought,
As the sweet grass withers and dies if it get not the rain.
But we—oh, what have we done that the heart should be taught?
We have given men brawn—without love 't is the Brute come again;
We have given men brain—without love 't is the Fiend. Is there aught
We have given to greaten the soul, we who dare to shape men?
Oh, train we the body for beauty, and train we the soul
Not only as mind but as man, not to know but to be!
Give us masters to fashion our hearts! Let the fool be a mole
And burrow his life out; the wise man shall be as a tree
That sends down his roots to the mole-world, but laughs in the air
With his flowers, and his branches shall stretch to the sun to get free;
And the shepherds and husbandmen feed of the fruit he shall bear.
Not only as mind but as man, not to know but to be!
Give us masters to fashion our hearts! Let the fool be a mole
And burrow his life out; the wise man shall be as a tree
That sends down his roots to the mole-world, but laughs in the air
With his flowers, and his branches shall stretch to the sun to get free;
And the shepherds and husbandmen feed of the fruit he shall bear.
125th anniversary of the college, 1894
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