260 THE DEPARTURE OF THE PILOT
But the overland locomotive snorteth
Johns Hopkins
must be begun.
But since both
are voyaging
after truth and progress
And quoth he: "O brother brave,
Wisely thou hast steered and well, Now all fair are wind and wave,Come and tarry with us still."
“Wave and wind at last are fair,
Rosy-bright the new-born day, Hope and faith are in the air, Come and sail with us for aye!"
But the pilot's shallop-prow
Chafes against the vessel's side : "Nay, true heart, thy wisdom now
Shall the good ship's fortunes guide."
“On the morrow they shall launch Yonder from the Eastern shore, Yet another vessel, staunch,
Sound as e'er was built before.
Hopes and prayers upon her wait:
Her deep bosom, grand and free, Bears a wealth of mystic freight : I must guide her to the sea.
"But upon our voyage far
We shall meet in other days, Since the same pure polar star
Shines to beacon both our ways.
THE DEPARTURE OF THE PILOT 261
"Far away where favoring gales
Blow from many a spicy beach, We shall see our shining sails Nodding friendly, each to each.
Many a morning that shall dawn With its radiant prophecy, Still shall greet us sailing on- Comrades on the glorious sea."
the ships shall sail in
sight &
TO THE YALE CLASS OF 1861, READ JUNE 28, 1876
DEAR friends, ask not from me a song: The singing days to spring belong, And in our hearts, as in this clime, Spring has long turned to summer-time. The morning dreams have fled afar, When every dew-drop held a star: The broad, full noon is here The stars have drawn away to heaven.
With you 't is June; and rosebuds blush, And golden sunsets glow and flush: While every breeze, with Psyche wings, Wafts promise of immortal things; And every shower of perfumed rain Brightens to rainbow hope again. 'Tis meet that in that fragrant air Your songs defy old Time and care, While overhead the elms shall swing, And hand to hand old friendships cling: Ah, sweet and strong your voices ring!
But here, upon the planet's verge, The grassy velvet turns to serge: No shower has wet the hillocks sere Since April shed her parting tear. The poppies on the hill are dead, And the wild oat is harvested:
The canyon's flowers are brown with seed, And only blooms some wayside weed. No leafy elms their shadows throw, No moist and odorous breezes blow; But all the bare, brown hills along The ocean wind sweeps sad and strong. Then ask not, friends, from me a song!
Yet think not that this sombre strain Would, dear old friends, of fate complain. Though spring has gone, and singing days, The sunshine, and the starshine, stays. If no more bloom the hillsides yield, The tented sheaves are in the field: The tawny slopes are sending down Their harvest loads to farm and town. If early spring-time fled with tears, Yet earlier harvest-time appears. And if far off, as in a dream, I see your merry faces beam, And if far off, as through the deep, I hear your songs their cadence keep, I know 't were childishness to weep.
For all the time is grand indeed!
And whether June bring flower or seed- And whether softest breezes blow, Or ocean's organ-music flow,
Not backward only turn our eyes, But forward, where along the skies The brighter dawn-lights break and rise. For all the love these years have stored Wells up to manlier deed and word. The nerveless grasp of girlish youth Grips now the banner staff of truth; The careless song, half sung, rings out Changed to a mighty battle-shout; And we that kept our holiday
With wine and fragrant mists and play, Shall yet, perchance, even such as we, Fulfill our half-heard prophecy.
The vision we but half divined,
Wrought out with steadier heart and mind,
Shall bless the world of humankind.
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