 | At the holy well |  |
47
A BOY ON GAMBIER HILL.
THE RHYME OF AN OLD FRESHMAN: ADDRESSED TO A MIDDLE-AGED ALUMNUS.
The elm is green and glad in leaf—
'Tis June; the season's come again
(Ah, homesick Memory's idle grief!)
When first I took the flying train,
Fledged from the fond home nest. Renewed
Mix my dull pang, my eager thrill.
'Twas morn; when evening fell I stood
A boy on Gambier Hill.
'Tis June; the season's come again
(Ah, homesick Memory's idle grief!)
When first I took the flying train,
Fledged from the fond home nest. Renewed
Mix my dull pang, my eager thrill.
'Twas morn; when evening fell I stood
A boy on Gambier Hill.
48
What dreams of young ambition bold
Stirred my light blood with wings of pride!
Webster yet spake. Clay was not cold,
And—there were orators untried!
Old Kenyon's Genius pointed, far,
Her sons elect to cross and crown:—
“This wears the soldier's shoulder-star,
And this the Judge's gown.”
Stirred my light blood with wings of pride!
Webster yet spake. Clay was not cold,
And—there were orators untried!
Old Kenyon's Genius pointed, far,
Her sons elect to cross and crown:—
“This wears the soldier's shoulder-star,
And this the Judge's gown.”
The Freshman, my old friend, you knew
(His case, I think, was somewhat hard),
Remained an Under-Graduate; you
Passed an alumnus, happier-starred.
Ah, half a life-time lies between
(The rocket sparkled: here's the stick);
I know, yes, yes, what might have been—
A thought that cuts the quick!
(His case, I think, was somewhat hard),
Remained an Under-Graduate; you
Passed an alumnus, happier-starred.
Ah, half a life-time lies between
(The rocket sparkled: here's the stick);
I know, yes, yes, what might have been—
A thought that cuts the quick!
49
—Arma virumque cano: Lo,
“Small Latin”—mine's not far to seek;
Menin aeïdé, Théa, (so
Homer begins—and ends?)—“less Greek!”
Well, let me rest content: if you
Sucked her full milk, impute no crime;
She was my Alma Mater too—
Mine, weaned before my time!
“Small Latin”—mine's not far to seek;
Menin aeïdé, Théa, (so
Homer begins—and ends?)—“less Greek!”
Well, let me rest content: if you
Sucked her full milk, impute no crime;
She was my Alma Mater too—
Mine, weaned before my time!
... Where are the boys, the boys we knew?
Let's call some names. Ah me, grave men,
No doubt, shall answer. “Old boys?” True.
(Some showed, d'you mind, “the Old Boy” then!)
Where'er ye wander, wide apart
On life's rough road, or flowery track,
O fresh of face, O blithe of heart,
Come back, come back, come back!
Let's call some names. Ah me, grave men,
No doubt, shall answer. “Old boys?” True.
(Some showed, d'you mind, “the Old Boy” then!)
Where'er ye wander, wide apart
On life's rough road, or flowery track,
O fresh of face, O blithe of heart,
Come back, come back, come back!
50
Good flesh and blood, I know, some still
Draw vital air, with flower and fruit,
As when we fought on Gambier Hill
The war of Troy, and Ilium suit.
Ho, Holland! (English church-doors, “Here!”
Echo—warm friend, and Irish bard!)
Ho, Chapman, Homans, Sterling! (clear
Each answers)—ho, Tunnárd!
Draw vital air, with flower and fruit,
As when we fought on Gambier Hill
The war of Troy, and Ilium suit.
Ho, Holland! (English church-doors, “Here!”
Echo—warm friend, and Irish bard!)
Ho, Chapman, Homans, Sterling! (clear
Each answers)—ho, Tunnárd!
—“We younger brood are getting gr—”Eh?
(Speak for yourself, John!) Nonsense!—well,
We are not growing younger. Nay,
Fear not the wholesome truth to tell.
In fresher hearts our pulses beat,
Our spent dreams grow and quicken still—
Ay, boys of ours may each repeat
The old boy on Gambier Hill.
(Speak for yourself, John!) Nonsense!—well,
We are not growing younger. Nay,
Fear not the wholesome truth to tell.
In fresher hearts our pulses beat,
Our spent dreams grow and quicken still—
Ay, boys of ours may each repeat
The old boy on Gambier Hill.
51
Our joys in them may spring again,
Our boyish griefs have ebb and flood;
They, too, shall take the flying train
With quick wings fluttering in their blood;
Old Kenyon's Genius point them, far,
Her sons elect to cross and crown:—
“This wore the soldier's shoulder-star,
And this the Judge's gown.”
Our boyish griefs have ebb and flood;
They, too, shall take the flying train
With quick wings fluttering in their blood;
Old Kenyon's Genius point them, far,
Her sons elect to cross and crown:—
“This wore the soldier's shoulder-star,
And this the Judge's gown.”
Read in response to a toast at a banquet given to Hon. Stanley Matthews, Associate Justice of the United States Supreme Court, by his brother alumni of Kenyon College, at Cincinnati, June 21, 1881.
Rev. Richard George Holland, a native of Cork, having graduated from Kenyon College, in 1856, studied for the English Church at St. Adian's, Liverpool, was a curate at Faversham, in London, at Canterbury, &c., and, unknown to me, died, ten years before the date of these verses, at Limerick. He was an eloquent preacher and a good writer in both prose and verse.
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