6,m 
 
^icc..,.^ ^ J^mr^KJi^ . 
 
 POEM, 
 
 VALEDICTORY ORATION. 
 
 
 PUOXul NCEU liKKdliK) THK, 
 
 SENIOR CLASS OF YALE COLLEGE, 
 
 JULY 5, 1 83T. 
 
POEM, ^:^3 
 
 -7/ y^ 
 
 WILLIAM THOMPSON BACON; 
 
 VALEDICTORY ORATION, 
 
 CHARLES ANDREW JOHNSON. 
 
 PRONOUNCED BEFORE THE SENIOR CLAt<S OF YALE COLLEGE, 
 
 JULY 5, 1837. 
 
 PUBUBHED BY KEQUEST OK THE CI.Asa. 
 
 NEW H A V E N : J 
 
 PRINTED BY B. L. HA ML EN. 
 
 MDCCCXXXVII. 
 
f 5 \o'M- 
 
POEM. 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF NATURE 
 
 INDIVIDUAL MIND 
 
POEM. 
 
 Of Nature, and the influence slie hatli 
 Upon the human spirit, and with what 
 A pleasing sympathy she steals the heart 
 Away from all its sorrows, and so fits us 
 To run life's rounds rejoicing — w^ould I sing ! 
 And if the sounding verse shall make truth sweeter, 
 Then is the poet paid for all his toils. 
 And sweet shall be his food for after thought, 
 And sweet shall be the thoughts of after years 
 When they come back to dwell upon this scene — 
 This scene of solemn beauty ! where young hearts, 
 Burning to join the world, stand hand in hand. 
 To drop a few sad tears, and say ' farewell !' 
 — And as I stand the teacher of the hour. 
 And with a gift Heaven lent, if lent at all, 
 I lead your minds off into faery land, 
 I pray you welcome me ; and should the Muse 
 Grow daring as she skims o'er the green earth, 
 Or dives into the caverns of the sea. 
 Or revels on the golden pave of heaven, 
 Still yield ye to her gentle ministry — 
 Nor deem that she did ever leave the heart 
 Less holy, or less fitted for the world. 
 
6 
 
 — There have been those who did not deem it well 
 
 To yield the warm heart thus, and there have been 
 
 Who did not deem her work a work of love ; 
 
 But O, it is an angel ministry ! 
 
 And when the heart is wearied with its cares, 
 
 And the dull plodding of this duller world, 
 
 'Tis sweet to turn away from common things, 
 
 To lose the sense of our dependencies. 
 
 To all forget what mortal things we are, 
 
 To all forget what earth and man have made us, 
 
 To all forget how we are linked and fettered 
 
 As eagles with dipt pinions in the dust. 
 
 And, borne upon the reach of thought sublime, 
 
 Gather the lessons of a better world ! 
 
 And sure we need such lessons. Look abroad. 
 How all of us do tie our sympathies 
 Down to this world — how little of our thought 
 Is given to things that profit us — how few 
 Of all our actions tell that solemn truth. 
 We're living for Eternity — how small 
 The space we give to lay that wisdom up, 
 The wisdom shall go with us to the grave — 
 How careless are we of the god-like gifts 
 We feel are ours ! The glorious and great mind. 
 Its matchless and unmeasured energies, 
 The which the wide world cannot circumscribe — 
 The which can go 'mid the rejoicing things, 
 The loveliness, the beauty, and the life 
 Nature spreads round us, and there show itself 
 The counterpart of that Invisible mind 
 
Which lives and thinks and breathes in every thing- 
 
 The which has power to write itself immortal, 
 
 To sweep the sky, to number all the stars. 
 
 To measure their capacities, and powers. 
 
 And times, and motions, and thus, as it were, 
 
 To tie the glittering heavens to the world — 
 
 The which has power to roam beyond the stars. 
 
 To track its way beyond remotest bounds 
 
 Of space or being, follow up to the light, 
 
 To the Eternal fountain of all light, 
 
 And there be merged in the pure God-head's beam- 
 
 This same proud mind of ours, how do we give 
 
 Its infinite and god-like faculties 
 
 To gods of our own making ! How we turn 
 
 The eye, which, like the eagle's, should be fixed 
 
 Full in the blaze of Heaven, and give ourselves 
 
 To brutal pleasures, mating with the dust ! 
 
 We are the creatures of a fantasy — 
 
 We live in nought but dreams. A shadow hath 
 
 More that will win us than the palpable 
 
 And proper forms of things. A single ray 
 
 Of an impure philosophy can draw us 
 
 From truth itself We can delight ourselves 
 
 By the dull stream that flows from it and drink, 
 
 Although we know 'tis poison. This we do 
 
 Day after day — the wise ones and the good, 
 
 They who have gone before us, have no voice 
 
 To reach our ears. The priceless gems their lips 
 
 Scatter abroad like ashes, we, in turn. 
 
 Tread on, and perish. Intellectual worth 
 
 Of other ages, purity and truth, 
 
8 
 
 A virtuous and civil liberty, 
 
 Grandeur and goodness ; these which, if obeyed, 
 
 Might build us up, and give that nourishment 
 
 The sick mind covets, these are things we use 
 
 Only to be our curse. We will not choose 
 
 To walk the ways of wisdom, though her paths 
 
 Invite us smilingly : we rather turn, 
 
 And, with the two before us, choose the one 
 
 Shrouded in darkness. Maxims and false creeds. 
 
 Dogmas and truths, so named — yet false as hell — 
 
 These we embrace, and weave from them a mesh 
 
 That might deceive an angel. This is decked, 
 
 And garnished out, and writ upon, and sealed 
 
 And sanctified by age, and on the world 
 
 Is foisted, and is called — philosophy ! 
 
 True wisdom, the meanwhile, lifts up her voice, 
 
 Yet lifts in vain. Strange ! strange ! O, more than strange f 
 
 Strange, that it takes so long to learn a truth 
 
 Which blazes from the cradle to the grave ! 
 
 Strange that it takes so long to learn a truth 
 
 Written among the stars in bands of fire. 
 
 And braided over all the Universe ! 
 
 The seasons teach it. Winter tells it to us 
 
 In his cold blasts and snows ; spring with its leaves, 
 
 Blossoms and buds ; the summer's matronly grace ; 
 
 The golden prodigality with which 
 
 The closing year takes up the solemn round. 
 
 The earth sends up the lesson. Light and shade. 
 
 Sky, storm, and rain ; the winds, the woods, the waters, 
 
 Whisper it in our ears. And Morn and Eve, 
 
 With even alternation, the far sea, 
 
And the majestic ocean with liis waves, 
 Night and its glory, all these sound the truth 
 In tones of thunder ! Yet we heed it not. 
 We mock these stern monitions, and we take 
 A creed of wisdom blinder than thick night, 
 And with it we set forth, and throw away 
 The rule Heaven gave us to the moles and bats, 
 And, leaning on ourselves, go down to ruin. 
 
 Philosophy ! that other name for thought — 
 And wisdom, when that thought is purified — 
 And holiness, when God hath sanctioned it — 
 How shall we, in these dim and twilight times, 
 Approach thy fount and drink at thy pure stream ? 
 Six thousand years have thirsty cavilers 
 Despised the draught that might have quench'd their thirst. 
 And torn for aye the scales from their dimm'd eyes, 
 And bade them look unawed at the pure beam 
 Which flows from thee ; and yet their wisest ones — 
 The great, and good, and glorious of earth. 
 What have they done but shame thy purity, 
 Obscure the plain, involve complexities. 
 Till in a maze where error's self runs mad, 
 They've sat them down and dreamed that they were free? 
 — Egyptia sleeps in silence. The soft light 
 Of mild philosophy's aye cheering beam 
 That 'lumed her altars, shed a dying smile 
 Over her desecration and went out. 
 And now the darkness and the level wastes 
 Where stood her temples, hear the long lone howl 
 Of desert beasts that dig their caves ujiscared. 
 
 9 
 
10 
 
 Yet truth died not : and her philosophies, 
 Though cumber'd down with error and o'erwhelmed, 
 Had much of truth. Her prophets, priests, and kings, 
 Like comets when they traverse the high heavens, 
 Flung back their brightness ; and when Macedon 
 Its hosts poured forth, an iron sea of waves. 
 And whelmed her in their passage, light went forth, 
 Glanced round th' Egean and her hundred isles. 
 Till Greece and Italy blazed bright, and altars 
 Gleamed on their mighty shores. The sky was bright- 
 Miletus saw it and great Thales lived. 
 And bade the mind go free. Crotona's sage 
 Caught the enrapturing beam : his eager mind 
 Rose to the stars and bound them in their orbs, 
 And gave the key to man. And Socrates, 
 Whose influence like the light on good men's graves — 
 Then he arose ; and Plato, and the Stagyrite, 
 Until, like congregated stars, their beams 
 United seemed, o'erspreading the wide world. 
 — Yet freedom lagg'd : the mind hung back aghast. 
 And wonder'd at itself The heaven-plumed bird 
 Smote not with level wing the fields of air. 
 Its proper home — but, stooping from that height, 
 Hugg'd its fond chains and mingled with the dust. 
 And why 1 because that fountain's purity 
 Was less than pure, and mind would thirst again. 
 Like waters filtered through a shallow soil. 
 Wisdom welled up in the benighted soul, 
 And it was tainted. Thought was not pure thought — 
 Wisdom was not true wisdom — and man's free, 
 His great and glorious energies, were shackled 
 
11 
 
 With gyves of iron. Rome sprang into being, 
 
 Swelled unto vastness, and then passed away — 
 
 Because she was not free. It is not freedom 
 
 To tread on prostrate nations, and o'erwhelm 
 
 And desecrate their altars ; 'tis not freedom 
 
 To send the Doric column to the skies, 
 
 Pile towers on towers, and build up mausoleums 
 
 To human vanity ; it is not freedom 
 
 To make the marble speak, the canvas glow, 
 
 The heart leap into eloquence, or trip 
 
 To the light numbers of the poet's reed ; 
 
 This is not freedom ! But it is when mind, 
 
 * Struck from the burning essence of its God,' 
 
 Lives for high action, aims, and purposes. 
 
 Comporting with and dignified by truth ! 
 
 This is true freedom, which, when overlooked 
 
 By the strong errors of perverted nature, 
 
 At once strips mind of mind's prerogatives, 
 
 Cripples its splendid powers, and makes the man, 
 
 That vilest thing on earth — a shackled slave ! 
 
 — Europe was such a slave a thousand years, 
 
 And hugg'd the dust. The light that burnt so pure 
 
 In heathen Socrates, went up to Heaven 
 
 At his translation, and the human mind 
 
 (Part freed, and now flung back upon itself,) 
 
 Like an erratic star, then shot away 
 
 Wild from its orbit, and went flaming on 
 
 To wander in the solitude, and ' blackness 
 
 Of darkness' ever and ever ! Here behold 
 
 A picture of philosophy — or rather 
 
 A picture of the mind when unbaptized 
 
12 
 
 In the pure fountain which the God-head beams ! 
 
 'Tis all unfit for us ; we cannot drink, 
 
 But the strong mind of man will thirst again. 
 
 We need a purer element ; we need 
 
 A something that shall fresh the fever'd lip, 
 
 Cool the hot brow, and stop the ringing brain. 
 
 And pour a purer flood-tide through the heart — 
 
 We need a something that doth come from Heaven. 
 
 O I 'tis the thirst of man's immortal nature, 
 
 Mated and chain'd here to its gods of clay ! 
 
 It is the thirst which writes him glorious, 
 
 And gifted like the golden hosts of heaven ! 
 
 For in the solemn chambers of the soul, 
 
 The startling secret lives of its great powers, 
 
 And hence, we weary on from day to day, 
 
 And feel a void the bad world cannot fill. 
 
 Hence the strong thirst in man to set himself 
 High where the world shall see him as they run ; 
 Hence the strong feeling to perpetuate 
 And write one's name in light among the stars ; 
 And, sure, it is an independency 
 In character and keeping with his powers ; 
 And sure, the mind well train'd may rouse itself, 
 And ruffle its proud pinions to be free ; 
 But, yet, it is a sad experiment — 
 This giving it to freedom — for the world, 
 And these bright glorious objects that we see, 
 Have so much in them that is vanity. 
 They only lead astray and soil its wings. 
 Man is a gifted being ; there is that 
 
13 
 
 In the eternal temper of his mind, 
 
 Which showeth his affinity to Heaven ! 
 
 And greatness sits upon him naturally ! 
 
 And goodness — when the bad world is shut out, 
 
 And virtue — when the heart lives in itself, 
 
 And sweetness — when its sweet streams all are free : 
 
 And woman gives him her warm heart to keep, 
 
 And children climb his knee and lisp his name, 
 
 And widows call down blessings on his head, 
 
 And orphans steep his ashes in their tears, 
 
 And he is that bright being Heaven design'd ! 
 
 — But in him is another ])rinciple 
 
 God-like and great; and in his hours of ease, 
 
 It Cometh with a voice of witchery, 
 
 And giveth his strong spirit to the world. 
 
 It is Ambition ! and upon his heart. 
 
 Robing itself like a flUlen child of light. 
 
 It sits and breathes a madness in his ears. 
 
 Around his brow it wreathes a band of fire. 
 
 Within his grasp a sceptre, and his foot 
 
 Treads proudly over graves and dead men's skulls. 
 
 Virtue is all forgotten ; all his dreams. 
 
 Distempered by the madness of his heart, 
 
 Are foul, and his great thoughts are thoughts of blood. 
 
 Peace is his discord ; the soft slavery 
 
 Of the domestic circle is despised. 
 
 And woman is the plaything of his lust. 
 
 And virtue is a thing that hath no name. 
 
 And so she leads him on, till, tearing out. 
 
 One after one the virtues from his heart. 
 
 She sends him to the grave — without one tear ! 
 
14 
 
 O, if ill this Imsli'd multitude before me, 
 There dwell ambition's victim — if there be 
 One bosom beating with unholy fire — 
 I pray you, take a better counsellor ! 
 And, if you will, the poet shall be yours, 
 And we will walk together in the fields, 
 And I will open with you, that sweet book 
 Writ in the loveliest language of the world. 
 It is the book of nature ; often scorned, 
 Yet not the less a book, and fiU'd with truth 
 Such as the careless scholar hath not learned. 
 It needs a gift to read it ; common minds 
 Are all too proud to win its unbought truths, 
 And passion here is an unholy thing. 
 It doth not come with study, nor is bought 
 By unwise maxims or the saws of books ; 
 The wisdom of the schools is out of place. 
 Its cumb'rous nothings must be thrown away, 
 And the heart nurtured into confidence, 
 Must all give up its boasted habitude. 
 And go back to the meekness of a child. 
 Then will she take the wanderer by the hand. 
 And she will lead him on from step to step, 
 And she will lead him up from height to height. 
 And she will show him beauty in all things, 
 And she will teach him true humility. 
 And what an ugly thing is human pride. 
 And she will show him how the world is crazed, 
 And what a foolish grief is at its heart, 
 And how it turns away from happiness, 
 And how it loves to feed itself, and — starve. 
 
15 
 
 And all is pure with her. There is no need 
 To measure, and combine, and separate ; 
 The lesson that she reads is one great whole, 
 A part of which when gained shall give you all. 
 It only needs a pure and teachable spirit, 
 And she becomes the veriest prodigal, 
 And is of her rich bounties free as Heaven. 
 
 —The humble and the gifted boy she loves, 
 And to him, in his hours of solitude, 
 And to him, in the coolness of the morn. 
 And in the dewy hush of eve, she comes ; 
 And if his state be poor she makes him rich, 
 And if his heart be sad she makes it light, 
 And if his heart be chilled she makes it warm — 
 Because she gives him what God gives to all, 
 A portion of the universal air, 
 A portion of the blue of the far sky. 
 And of the sweetness that is sent abroad 
 By brooks and bees and birds among the hills ! 
 This is all his — and he can feel it his — 
 And none can take this noble wealth away. 
 He can go out in the clear days of spring. 
 And he can feel a something at his heart. 
 The which the great world cannot understand. 
 The silence and the night are friends to him. 
 Because he has within, a gifted eye, 
 And when the outward world is all shut out, 
 He can refurnish with the past his dreams, 
 And thus make solitude a little world 
 Peopled with fancies which he knows arc friends. 
 
16 
 
 He has an eye for beauty, such as never 
 Beameth on common men : the merest leaf, 
 The golden glance of wings, the level plain 
 With its magnificent sweep of cloud-capp'd hills, 
 Propping the very heavens — all this is his ! 
 He has an ear for music too : the breeze 
 Dances among the locks of his bright brow. 
 And breathes into his heart ; the choral burst — 
 The anthem that the broad fresh world sends up, 
 Its jubilee ; the silver and sweet streams 
 Singing for happiness ; the bees, the birds, 
 And the soft music tliat his fancy brings 
 In from the rolling spheres — all this is his ! 
 You cannot take it from him, for the gift 
 Was given him with being, and it is 
 As priceless as the attributes of Heaven. 
 
 Have you not sometimes felt in those calm hours, 
 When the wild pulse of pleasure had run down, 
 And life had all become a weariness — 
 When you have turn'd away from the wild whirl, 
 Its madness and its mockeries, and space 
 Was given for reflection, and those thoughts 
 That do administer to the sick soul. 
 And soften it when fretted by the world — 
 When you have thus turned off, perhaps at morn 
 Wlien the bright flood of life came pouring in 
 After the morning star, or noon, or at calm eve 
 When the soft twilight had come quivering down. 
 And, with a presence like deep holiness, 
 Press'd on your spirit — or when deeper night 
 
17 
 
 Had flung its solemn shadows over things, 
 And tlie loud-voiced streams had louder grown, 
 And the light rivulet, that ran all day 
 With a continuous murmur, and a tone 
 Of joy self satisfied, more shrilly piped — 
 When sleep lay on the valleys, and a soft 
 And silvery veil hung round upon the hills — 
 And over all, the circumambient walls 
 Of Heaven, with its bright innumerable points 
 Of sparkling flame, bent down upon the scene — 
 Have you not felt a something at your heart, 
 As if an angel had been pleading there 1 
 A something in you softening to all things. 
 Even the meanest things that God has made ? 
 Until, while sweet thoughts gush'd up into tears, 
 You have knelt down and prayed for this bad world ? 
 — O when ini/ heart has ached, and I have felt 
 As if this world had cast me from its love. 
 The young, and the beloved, and beautiful ; 
 When I have paused, and with a half formed curse 
 Upon my lips, and thoughts of bitterness 
 Have crowded up so fast, and forced the tears, 
 The mad, mad tears into my woman eyes. 
 Until, tired with the dashing them away, 
 I've let them unrepress'd steal silent down ; 
 In such sad moments — and there's not a heart 
 That's gifted with the sensibility 
 That's given brutes, but can count over such 
 Many and bitter ; in such moments I 
 Have left my dwelling, and walked forth alone 
 Beneath the sky of midnight, when the stars 
 3 
 
IS 
 
 Shone from their habitations, and the moon, 
 
 The young and beautiful moon, looked like a spirit 
 
 Sent from a purer region ; and its mild 
 
 And most unearthly light has won its way 
 
 Quick to my madden'd feelings ; and my heart, 
 
 The throbs of my proud yet most injured heart, 
 
 Have hushed themselves beneath its influence. 
 
 As doth the breathings of a child, that sinks 
 
 From sorrow to the quiet arms of sleep. 
 
 And as that soothing and most heavenly calm 
 
 Has come upon me, I have thought that earth 
 
 Was a sweet spot to dwell in ; that its thousand 
 
 And tens of thousand varied influences. 
 
 Its waters and its winds, its sounds by day 
 
 And melodies by night, had something dearer 
 
 Than witchery in them ; that they were the voices 
 
 Of the Invisible, whispering in these, 
 
 His most neglected agencies, that truth 
 
 Which he would write upon the soul of man ! 
 
 And I have thought that man was not thus vile 
 
 As I had deemed him — that revengeful being 
 
 Stern and relentless, dark e'en in his love, 
 
 And darker in the moments of his pride ; 
 
 That I had wronged him — and a soften'd feeling 
 
 Fraternal has come gushing through my heart. 
 
 And I have knelt down on the cold damp earth, 
 
 With nought but night around me, nought above 
 
 Save the deep heavens and the eternal stars 
 
 Which God has hung there, and — have pardon' d all. 
 
 And I would write this lesson on your hearts 
 With a fraternal feeling ; I would fix 
 
19 
 
 This truth, \vliich I did never learn from hooks, 
 
 Upon tiie eternal tablet of your souls. 
 
 So that, in after life, wherever you are, 
 
 And you are soured or sickened with life's ills. 
 
 You may have one sweet friendship stored away, 
 
 Where you may give your sorrows and your tears. 
 
 And for this end, I will relate to you 
 
 A dream — a dream I had long years ago ; 
 
 And it shall show you in a newer light. 
 
 The witching ministry of natural things. 
 
 To take the spirit back and keep it pure, 
 
 When it hath been imprison'd by the world. 
 
 THE DREAM. 
 
 I had a dream. 
 
 Summer was o'er the earth 
 With her flush matronly hues, and she had flung 
 Her loveliest garlands down, and there beneath 
 The gentle softness of a summer's day. 
 The landscape slept in beauty. Not a breath, 
 Or wing of bird was heard through the wide heaven, 
 Nor idled there a single lazy cloud ; 
 But all was bright as the fresh penciling 
 That doth distain the violet. The waters. 
 Theirs was the only melody I heard — 
 (Save that inaudible music which is born 
 Of silence, and her sister solitude) 
 And, lured by these soft sounds, I hill-ward turned. 
 And up a channel'd rift, whence leapt a brook 
 Sparkling with foam, I hurried me alert. 
 
20 
 
 And on a carpet of the mountain moss, 
 
 Laid me as sillily as a pleased child 
 
 To drink earth's beauty in. For I had been 
 
 Early, a lover of rocks, and solitudes. 
 
 And woods, and waters ; and they had the power 
 
 To steal me from my sadness when the world 
 
 Stung me with its ingratitude, or when 
 
 I sighed for my own heart, which like a reed, 
 
 Bent to its base-born passions. Thitherward 
 
 I turned, and laid me on the Ijreezy fern, 
 
 Silent and pleased, until the outward sense 
 
 Of beauty, and the outward forms of things 
 
 Pass'd from before mo, and I silent slejM — 
 
 The victim of a revery. 
 
 I dreamed 
 I saw a pale Hiced melancholy boy 
 That might have seen twelve summers. He was seated 
 Among his equals, and a holiday 
 With its accompan) ings, loud laughs and jests 
 And boisterous mirth, sped merrily, and there 
 Were those around him that did tender him 
 A most peculiar love — a tenderness 
 Such as one gives a sister. In his face 
 Little you'd mark that pleased at a first glance, 
 Or little to blame. You saw indeed a boy 
 Of sweet though mournful countenance, but yet 
 It was the solemn stillness of his eye 
 That startled you, and made you turn again 
 To note the lad. The jest, the sharp quick laugh, 
 The whoop, the joyous shout — you could but note 
 His pain'd and working features, as they rang 
 
21 
 
 Louder and louder, and you'd sec him turn 
 And rest his forehead on his tliin pale hand, 
 And sorrow bitterly. Then would his mates 
 Gather and soothe him, as aware their mirth 
 Had grieved him ; and as if they had forgot 
 In their wild joyance, him they loved and knew 
 Was of so tender a spirit ; and as they circled 
 And sat them there upon the turf around, 
 He'd lay his head upon a fellow's lap, 
 And seem to be slumbering. 
 
 Then the vision changed ! 
 I saw that boy again : he seemed a restless 
 And most peculiar spirit, to himself 
 A burden, and to those that clung to him, 
 A dear yet strange companion ; for his heart 
 Was sensitive as a woman's, and he loved 
 And hated with a suddenness, that made 
 His eccentricities weakness. Things that pleased 
 And won the love of others, pleased not him 
 Or pleased him little. Suddenly he'd seize, 
 Fierce as a starvling, on some single thing 
 He deem'd would pleasure him, and then as sudden 
 Cast it aside with a heart sickening hate, 
 And weep his disappointment. Books he sought, 
 And made him a reputation with them. Oft 
 He wearied out the long unsocial night, 
 And dived into the subtlest theories — 
 In silliest theories, mysteries, reasonings, 
 And truths sublime he wearied, and then threw them 
 Aside disgusted. Wealth he had in hoards ; 
 And pictures he bought, and statues, such as where 
 
22 
 
 The soul speaks (iom the marble, and the high 
 
 And living attributes of angels — these 
 
 He vvorshipp'd, and then hated them. At last, 
 
 Sick with himself — sick with the chase for something 
 
 To gorge the deathless craving at his heart, 
 
 lie took a beggar's sandals, scrip, and staff, 
 
 And turned him to the silence of the hills, 
 
 The old magnificent mountains, where the forests 
 
 Slumbering for ages in the solitudes. 
 
 Their lightning scorch'd, primeval branches threw 
 
 Upward in many a fold, and the gray rocks 
 
 Gigantic as the fragments of a world, 
 
 Frown'd in their silent massiveness, and the cataract 
 
 Shook with its anthem the deep wilderness ; 
 
 And tliere he sat him down, and, strange to him ! 
 
 He felt a peace pervading his whole heart, 
 
 A bliss of feeling, such as earth till then 
 
 Had never proffer'd him. A feeling new, 
 
 And thrilling and powerful as new, awoke ; 
 
 A spirit had seemed to pass o'er all, imparting 
 
 A portion of its spirituality, 
 
 And such a sympathy was at his heart 
 
 With all around him, rocks, hills, woods and streams, 
 
 He seemed transformed into another's being. 
 
 Nature a freshness wore, a melancholy 
 
 Yet a most witching aspect. Things that once 
 
 He gazed upon in listless apathy. 
 
 Became a source of interest. The streams 
 
 That rippled by him had a mirth in them 
 
 They never had before ; the small wood birds 
 
 Whistled in pleasanter cadence ; and the wind 
 
23 
 
 That whisper'd in the pine tops, seemed to him 
 
 So like a spiritual presence, that he gazed 
 
 As if he would win to his visual orb, 
 
 The substanceless shadow. Then he rose, and stood, 
 
 And shouted his joy ; the dim-lit forest aisles 
 
 Prolonged the shout, and the gray rocks around 
 
 Mimick'd his gladness. Far into the heart 
 
 Of the old forest, as a creation new 
 
 Burst into glorious action, life, thoughts, powers, 
 
 Feeling, and sympathy — sensation all ! 
 
 He hurried. By the borders of the streams 
 
 That wind far up into the innermost haunts 
 
 Of solitude. 'Mid thickets, and the springs. 
 
 And dells and bosky bornes, where gushed all day 
 
 The wood-bird's melancholy plaint, unanswer'd 
 
 Save by the brook's wild laughter. 'Neath the cliff's, 
 
 Where, crumbled headlong down and dash'd and wedg'd, 
 
 Vast rocks and shatter'd slabs lay piles on piles, 
 
 Strown by the thunder. On the highest peaks 
 
 Blacken'd and bleak, whose rugged capitals 
 
 Breasted the north, and battled with the storms 
 
 First in the upper heaven ; where never a leaf 
 
 Shook in the south wind, nor a single bird 
 
 Stoop'd for its eyrie. Where he could drink in 
 
 With a wild pleasure, the wide stretch of wood 
 
 And field and fell and flood, and the far sweep 
 
 Of the magnificent circuit of the heavens ! 
 
 Which, coming down upon this lower world, 
 
 Did seem to rest its pillars on the hills, 
 
 Shutting them round, and framing a temple vast 
 
 For man to worship in. Where he might hear, 
 
24 
 
 Roll'd up with many a murmur from below, 
 
 The voice of the forest, which, shook by the wind, 
 
 Heaved in long swells like waves that swing and strike 
 
 The shore of ocean. A quick thrill, a voice 
 
 Electrical shot vivid through his frame. 
 
 Bringing a newer life ; and former things 
 
 Loosing their thousand folds about his heart. 
 
 The soften'd images of natural forms, 
 
 And hues, and shapes of joy, his soul filled full ; 
 
 Until his heart beat with a pulse and power 
 
 That lifted up his being, and he felt 
 
 His individual imind, a counterpart 
 
 Of the vast universe ! 
 
 Then the vision changed. 
 I saw him in the city, when these pure 
 And high and holy dreamings had grown coarse, 
 And he had, like an eagle dash'd in dust, 
 Come down from his proud altitude, and given 
 His life unto base pleasures ; when that sweet 
 And inward revelation of the life 
 Which is in nature, was a letter dead 
 Now to his readings, and he had forgot 
 The harmony which once had filled his soul 
 With such sweet passions. Like a harp, a broken one. 
 Which still retained the half of its first sweetness, 
 His heart would ring the changes ; yet its gloom. 
 And mockery of past hours did make him loth 
 T'repeat the strain, and so in one mad hour 
 He closed his ears for ever. Purposing so. 
 But listen — he could never change his nature. 
 The heart, though we do shut it to the voice 
 
Of its humanities, in better moments 
 Will, sicken'd with its vain philosophies, 
 Turn back to the fresh foinitains of gone years. 
 Meek as a child, with its first thirst unslaked. 
 And ofttimes in his solitudes, would come 
 The voice of waters, and they would leap up 
 Sparkling and clear amid the dells and steeps 
 Of his own native mountains, and their voices 
 Would seem so like realities, that oft 
 The still sad whispers of that exquisite 
 And passionate love of beauty, might be heard 
 Echoing through all the chambers of his heart. 
 And in these moments, in its own true light 
 Would rise upon him his inglorious life. 
 And, gathering force, the charm would almost break 
 That fetter'd him, and would his life go back 
 Unto its early freshness. Then would tears, 
 Scalding and fast, burn furrows in his cheek — 
 His yet youth's cheek ; and conscience, for as yet 
 Conscience had powers, read him the memories 
 Of moments hallowed by the soft regards 
 Of beauty, and high excellence, and virtue, 
 — The gift of a more sweet philosophy 
 Than reason has skill to fashion. He would hear 
 The music of his innocent gay years. 
 The soften'd pleadings of parental hearts 
 Mingled in prayer for him, and too would come 
 The hours when his own sinless feelings went 
 Up to the God of Heaven. Then when ail 
 The force of natural reason, and the low 
 Deep w hispcrs of Divinity within 
 4 
 
26 
 
 Olfer'd him freedom, would he burst away 
 
 As if to win it — yet turn back again 
 
 And be to his rebeUious passions, a 
 
 Worse slave than ever. Oh ! 'tis sad ! most sad ! 
 
 The heart that's fallen of virtue, and would turn 
 
 To virtue once again, finds little there 
 
 To aid its frailties; for with that fall, 
 
 Losing the will was but that error's half — 
 
 It loses the power of change, and, too, the eye 
 
 Which once made virtue pleasing. 
 
 Then it changed, 
 I saw that boy a man, and he was changed. 
 The eye had lost its restlessness, the lip 
 Its madd'ning sensibility, and he 
 Did walk and talk as meekly as a child, 
 Loving all things. I stood beside him now. 
 And gathered wisdom — it was like a stream 
 Flowing from mines of gold. When morning came 
 Strange for its very freshness, we went out 
 Together to the hills, and spent the day 
 Kindly as brothers. All his pride had gone, 
 And in its place did gush up from his heart, 
 Such a sweet feeling of humanity. 
 He talked me into tears. The simplest flower 
 Laid by our pathway, insects for the first 
 Trying their thin wings in the dewy beam, 
 And e'en the breeze that dallied with the twigs 
 Of the gigantic forest tops, had something 
 That linked his spirit by association 
 I understood not, with that other world 
 Made for the pure in heart. The world — to him 
 
27 
 
 The busied world, he liad cast from his heart, 
 But not his love. He felt it was his brother, 
 Men were his brethren ; the same air was theirs 
 To live and breathe in, the same sky bent down 
 To whisper in the silence of the night, 
 Benevolence, and to distil on man 
 The dew of its rich blessings ; but its passions, 
 O ! he had got beyond them, and their whirl 
 Disturbed him not. Its knowledge had he tried — 
 It gnawed his life like ashes ; fame, renown, 
 Ambition, they were nothing now to him, 
 What more was needed 1 He had learned to see 
 Things as they are — he saw man rush on death 
 Despising truth, and flinging Heaven away 
 To feed on folly ; and, by Nature taught. 
 The reflex influence of th' Incomprehensible — 
 His heart now loved true wisdom, and his hope 
 Was on the rock of ages. 
 
 I awoke ! 
 But on my heart there was a truth writ down 
 I have forgot not. It has been with me 
 Now for long years ; and when my heart grows strong, 
 And my pride masters reason, I have sought it ; 
 And when the world has deemed that I cared not, 
 And call'd me cold, and proud, and passionless, 
 I have been kneeling where but God could hear. 
 Weeping away my shame. 
 
 This is the truth, 
 Will you not take it ? love, love all the world ! 
 He wrongs his nature who has learned to hate. 
 God hath made nothing man should dare despise. 
 
28 
 
 Nature is surely holy. How she speaks 
 
 In the fresh sun and airs, the healthful change 
 
 Of the sweet seasons, the reviving breath 
 
 Of her cool morns and eves. The smallest star 
 
 Sends us a kindly influence, and the moon 
 
 Hangs out at eve her glinting sentinels 
 
 To watch a sleeping world. And then to gaze 
 
 Upon the face of beauty, and to feel 
 
 Those deep affections in us — here is truth 
 
 And preached to all ; for our affections are 
 
 Heaven's influences, that by the good they do 
 
 Betray their origin. And how is man 
 
 Fitted for this strange being ! — the far scene 
 
 By curious laws comes to him, and his ear 
 
 Performs its delicate functions, and takes up 
 
 The quivering pulses of the air, and pours them 
 
 Into his heart. The breath snatch'd from the flowers, 
 
 Or the green fields or the reviving earth, 
 
 All, all are his. There's gladness and deep joy 
 
 Every where round him, and midst these bright things, 
 
 He walks, and talks, and feels how good Heaven is ! 
 
 O, there is nothing in the world but love ! 
 
 Shout it, the valleys and the level plain — 
 
 Shout it, the woods, the waters and the seas — 
 
 Shout it, the mountains and tlie far old hills — 
 
 And let the ocean join the jubilee. 
 
 Till the high arch of heaven takes up the voice. 
 
 And rolls the thunder round the universe ! 
 
 No there was nothing given us to despise. 
 The fountains, and the feelings, and the thoughts 
 
29 
 
 That make up virtue, God hath so advised, 
 
 Shall only bring the heart true happiness, 
 
 And he but starves himself who turns away. 
 
 The natural passion of the heart is virtue. 
 
 Its streams flow backward when hate centers there. 
 
 It lives in its affections, and the man 
 
 With a warm bosom may look down on kings ! 
 
 The world has more of truth in't than appears. 
 
 He's but half villain who seems wholly so. 
 
 Nero was all a villain — yet one heart 
 
 Loved him, and strewed fresh garlands on his grave. 
 
 And at this parting hour, should truth have weight. 
 
 Sorrow is most forgiving, and to be 
 
 Made humble by it is true nobleness. 
 
 Forgiveness is true happiness, and he 
 
 Is happiest most who shall the most forgive. 
 
 And happiness is holiness, for he 
 
 Can only holy be whose heart is love. 
 
 So live — and, trust me, a long life is yours ! 
 
 So live — and ye shall proudly walk with men ! 
 
 The great man with you shall forget his greatness, 
 
 The good shall come to you and call you theirs, 
 
 And she, to whom man's slavery is no sin, 
 
 Why even she shall lay aside her pride, 
 
 And come to you and tell ye of her love. 
 
 And when that last, dread, parting hour comes on, 
 
 And the bright sky, and the bright world around 
 
 With all it hath of beauty and of sweetness, 
 
 With all it hath of poetry and life. 
 
 With all it hath to elevate, and purify. 
 
 And make men's natures noble ; when all these 
 
30 
 
 Fade from thy vision, and thy hold on life 
 
 Is frail and feeble, then lift up thine eye, 
 
 And where the star of faith hangs in the heavens. 
 
 Look ! and go hence — rejoicing. 
 
 Fare ye well. 
 
VALEDICTORY ORATION. 
 
ORATION. 
 
 Among the causes that have operated to retard the 
 progress of human knowledge, especially to restrict its 
 general diffusion, is its own obvious tendency to elevate 
 and to equalize. Ambition, usually allied to superior 
 powers, sustained by that indiscriminate admiration which 
 its important workhigs easily command, has ever found 
 its interest in opposition to the improvement of the mass 
 of men ; and the institutions of religion equally with the 
 established maxims of civil polity, till a late period, derived 
 their principal efficiency from ignorance and force. On 
 the other hand the reciprocal influence of the prevalent 
 intelligence gave color to the influence of commanding 
 minds, by whatever motives actuated, characterizing am- 
 bition in every modification, as well in the purer exam- 
 ples of its development in action, as in its more flagrant 
 forms, in which a concern in its consequences united men 
 in condemnation of its excess. Even patriotism, with a 
 spirit litde exalted and in most recent times, neglecting 
 the best, nay, only means to the great end which in purity 
 it proposes to itself, being short-sighted in aims, has of 
 consequence been partial and equivocal in its benefac- 
 tions. The condition of the common mind as thus affect- 
 ed by influences in which its own controlling sentiments 
 
34 
 
 participate, is the source of one most instructive lesson 
 from all-wise History ; especially is such instruction to be 
 gleaned in tracing the progress of human intelligence, 
 by scanning events and measures with reference to their 
 effect on this, which is the gauge of national as it is of 
 individual happiness. 
 
 In the history of the most polished nations, we can but 
 observe how far their most improved policy has aimed only 
 at relative advancement, at that advancement of which the 
 mass of men is not the subject, but in the maintenance of 
 which it is of necessity regarded rather in the light of an 
 unintelligent engine. To such a standard would individual 
 ambition naturally conform itself; it was admirably suited 
 to its aims, it was dangerously compatible with its attempts 
 after individual aggrandizement. Hence by its own en- 
 ergy it made religion subservient to its support, and sanc- 
 tified the barbarous rudeness of political science, that 
 entailed on successive and recent generations their inheri- 
 tance of degradation. Such briefly, is the picture that 
 many ages present us of the state and spirit of the com- 
 mon mind, with reference to itself, its own expansion, that 
 which is the end of life, and which reason proclaims alone 
 consistent with its true nature. As respects the spread of 
 truth, the growth of all science, and as respects their in- 
 fluence on the social condition of men, how new is the 
 scene upon which our eyes have opened : how stirring is 
 the call of truth herself upon all who are familiar with 
 her voice, to perpetuate her reign, to extend her compre- 
 hensive principles to their every consequence. Hardly 
 has that generation departed that brought to their maturity 
 the great principles of civil and religious freedom, and of 
 
35 
 
 those subsidiary truths that sprintr naturally from them, 
 and whose operation begins to mark the present day, is 
 one whose practical value is both dimly discerned, and 
 languidly pursued, that truly fundamental one that makes 
 knowledge, in its full extent, the common birthright. 
 
 It is this one idea, my Classmates, that I would throw 
 before you for reflection, and for some of whose probable 
 results, when carried into action, especially as they may 
 be apprehended among us, I would claim your considera- 
 tion ; yours as subjects of a free government — as defend- 
 ers of liberal institutions ; yours as educated minds, as 
 those whose training by the past is valuable only as it 
 shall benefit the future, who revere the Heaven-derived 
 principles of religion and liberty, and would prove man's 
 nature adequate to the responsibilities which they impose ; 
 who might not demand your consideration for one means 
 suitable to so great an end ? 
 
 The obvious and the only efficient means will be found 
 •not merely in promoting the growth of human knowledge 
 in individual minds, however it may exalt their influence, 
 and to distinguish a learned order ; but by making it, like 
 our liberty and our equal laws, the inheritance of our 
 people. 
 
 A general and easy access to the sources of all practical 
 science, (and there is little in the range of truth which 
 the phrase may not rightfully embrace,) and by this means 
 the exaltation of the common mind to the comprehension 
 of the few great laws that govern its true interests, is a 
 scheme which so far as regards any seeming impractica- 
 bility attending it, has had a more than parallel in every 
 reform of moment that history records. Consider the 
 
36 
 
 magnitude of the end, and in the comparison the facility 
 of the means ; consider the unprecedented intellectual 
 elevation that must ensue, the likeness to those parent 
 truths that worked the startling yet permanent reform in 
 the very constitution of civil society of old ; observe its 
 striking consonance with the spirit of our equal laws ; 
 and were there no more imperious motive, philanthropy, 
 the philanthropy of minds cultivated, of passions purified, 
 of aims ennobled by the humanizing influences of the 
 very means in question, might urge you to promote a 
 cause which, were it not at the basis of the first interests 
 of improved society, can so renew each feature of hu- 
 manity. What though passion be unextinguishable and 
 its aims unchanged : what though the perfection of such 
 a scheme seem possible only to distant observers of the 
 common mind, to blinded reasons that can realize an 
 Utopia even from the imperfect elements of human na- 
 ture as it is, how is it more irrational, than to hope, that 
 an exalted spiritual religion ; that free principles, the 
 abstract of the whole experience of men, and a labor of 
 most refined philosophy, can be practically matured even 
 to the promise of the symmetry and fullness that theoret- 
 ically they present — until the common mind is raised by 
 knowledge to understand their origin, their relations, their 
 possible effects. Let him who doubts the efficacy of light 
 and knowledge to this end — to purge passion, to modify 
 its character, to improve the mass of men ; let him wit- 
 ness its effect in that renovated sentiment, that within the 
 memory of the living has so smoothed the rough features 
 of old policy ; let him witness those internal, social re- 
 forms that a half century ago existed only in the specula- 
 tions of enthusiasm. 
 
37 
 
 But the pervading reciprocal influence of popular in- 
 telligence and popular institutions is the primary conside- 
 ration, and that which invests with its real importance the 
 cause of general and high knowledge. Set before your 
 minds for one moment the picture — a nation of millions 
 united into one grand society, without the invidious con- 
 ventionality of established grades, without any inherent 
 preeminence in privileges, with no inequality in duties or 
 in rights ; in which religion is a principle of enlightened 
 minds and not a dogma of ignorance or craft ; in which 
 government as never before is based on reason, neither 
 strengthened by the energies of wary selfishness — nor 
 secure in the general imbecility to which ignorance and 
 oppression give birth ; survey it, reflect what estimate 
 of man is here implied ; say what but intelligence, high 
 and wide spread, can be the conservative principle of such 
 a system ; an intelligence not limited to the flattering 
 axiom of the political importance of men, that transcends 
 even the sometimes complicated problem of their inter- 
 ests. It is needless at this day to resort to the nature of 
 the case to substantiate what seems a very postulate in 
 the philosophy of elective government itself, which is only 
 exemplified in the events of passing experience. Nor is 
 it for the bare admission of so plain a principle that we 
 contend, but rather for the full application of the truth, 
 to the exclusion of all political expediency so called ; that 
 transient, uncertain reliance, that partial substitute for 
 the universally enlightened public mind, that weak stay, 
 even fortified by wisdom aud by virtue, against the hosts 
 of ignorant passion, practiced upon by self centering ambi- 
 tion. Such truths afford a lesson of practical wisdom for 
 
38 
 
 us, with whom the common mind is reflected in so many 
 shapes — where it leaves its marks on every relation, politi- 
 cal, civil, nay, social ; in the light of these truths let me 
 ask how unusually exalted is the destiny that awaits us in 
 the simple possession of liberty, if we rest it on no stabler 
 foundation than predominant interests : if the career of 
 power, fame, influence, for which the flower of our youth 
 are girding themselves, is to lie along tlte beaten paths of 
 that soiled, perverted ambition that has flourished abun- 
 dantly in every known form of polity, and only on the 
 errors of man, that lias its end as well as origin in his 
 passions. 
 
 In the estimate of the comparative value of the gov- 
 ernment under which we live, there is place for the con- 
 sideration of other than fundamental essential advantages. 
 Did we aim to strike a balance in view of the latter only, 
 it might be matter of more indifference than common 
 zealots for the rights of man have made it; the perfection 
 of civil liberty attained, it is a question of moment to the 
 perpetuity of the principle itself, how far the common 
 mind in its excess of liberalism, nay, how far the great 
 apostles of its cause, have in the assertion of accorded 
 rights, looked beyond them to all that gives them value, 
 to the means that shall preserve them, to the innumerable 
 relations in which they have yet to be developed. 
 
 Knowledge, high, wide, and free to every class of men, 
 is in its relations to our civil creed and civil institutions a 
 principle essentially republican ; republican in its grand- 
 est feature, its tendency to equalize yet elevate, its ten- 
 dency to that elevation which is real and of the mind and 
 man, independent of the fortuitous titles that still govern 
 
39 
 
 the old world and are much exalted among us. Since the 
 sufficiency and clanishness of wealth, since even the dig- 
 nity and influence of necessary power are so obnoxious to 
 the leveling spirit of democracy, would that the omnipo- 
 tence of that jealous sovereignty might make as well it 
 might, the fountains of knowledge to flow in upon itself; 
 that in the vaunted possession of equal laws, equal rights, 
 equal duties, and eijual privileges, it might no longer slight 
 this grandest, most effectual equalizer of human condi- 
 tion. Nor need its influence be confined to that effect on 
 which educated and high toned minds alone might set 
 the highest estimate, but co-operating with that enlight- 
 ened economy, which is benevolence of the most compre- 
 hensive order, to which the cause of common charity is at 
 this day indissolubly allied, widening the channels of na- 
 tional and individual wealth, quickening the spirit of that 
 general independence, the offspring of equal laws and 
 modern policy, the first, great result should be the 
 healthful, vigorous performance of the vital functions of 
 which the mass of mind is the irresponsible organ. This 
 were to give it conscience, to implant in its nature that 
 only rational responsibility, responsibility to enlightened 
 self. This secure and all is secure that makes liberty a 
 blessing worth the striving for ; all that men prize in life 
 is sure — each noble aim, all that conduces to that great- 
 est end, the advancement of mankind. 
 
 What character should views like these impart to the 
 ambition of those whose talents shall one day raise them 
 to stations of influence, there to affect the interests of hu- 
 manity through their last hope, the virtue of free princi- 
 ples ; for the cause of free principles is one with the cause 
 
40 
 
 of human advancement ; and this nation that has taken 
 upon itself to test the capacity of its millions for the phi- 
 losophic duty that involves the honor of truth with the 
 good of men, how shall she acquit herself, if with every 
 means and motive to the consummation, she fail through 
 criminal neglect ; neglect of that means which, in the 
 eye of an enlarged philanthropy, in the full scope of a dis- 
 interested patriotism, is not too much exalted when mag- 
 nified into the end of life ? Indeed the mind of our own 
 philosophic and patriot-statesman has declared it. " Our 
 proper business is improvement," and every thing in each 
 characteristic trait of our civil frame declares it ; our po- 
 sition among the nations declares it, the spirit of religion 
 and liberty declares it ; the progress of opinion demands 
 it, the great pervading bond of common interest, the 
 strongest bond of our Union demands it, the preservation 
 of every other blessing demands it. All bespeak the in- 
 separable relation of the unmortal, heaven-descended 
 three, religion, liberty and knowledge. 
 
 My Classmates : Mindful how various and opposite are 
 the walks in life that you will tread, I have yet aimed to 
 present you one subject for reflection and for action, of 
 equal and common moment ; of concern to you, with 
 whom as eager to link an honorable name with the good 
 fortunes of your country, each motive that truth presents 
 should have its force as well in practice as in speculation. 
 I see some leaning to the thousand avenues, yet untrod- 
 den, where science promises to reveal in new relations 
 the one harmonious purpose of a divinely ordered uni- 
 verse : — There are the arduous duties of society, its high 
 posts ; — who of you aspires to stay the stupendous, the 
 
41 
 
 jarring fabric? Let him think well of it, let him be 
 aware that as never before it shall one day strain to their 
 intensity the energies of mind and soul ; — and such as 
 dedicate themselves to the eternal cause and to the sub- 
 lime works of heavenly benevolence, let them gird them- 
 selves with their best armor, with their master's strength. 
 Wherever life shall lead you, it has a common end, be- 
 ginning now, now rising before you, that all live to the 
 advancement of our common nature ; to this end through 
 you and all that have preceded you, have tended the life- 
 long, anxious labors of these, our academic fathers. Be- 
 lieve us, sirs, there is honor for you from a thousand 
 foster-sons, scattered the land over, where long since you 
 saw of the full fruits of your influence, where is seed ger- 
 minant that shall flourish after you : Classmates, may 
 your fruits tell of the stock whence you were grafted. 
 May the spirit of our gracious Mentor walk with us 
 through life ; may the wisdom that his lips have dropped 
 ever rise up between us and the sirens of an untried 
 world ! 
 
 But if your feelings chime with mine, you are not so 
 eager for these fast coming realities as readily to shake 
 from you the impressions of the past. We are here spend- 
 ing the best of those green days, that, springing on the 
 genial soil of youth, and watered by our memories, shall 
 bloom fresh and thick upon us in the autumn of life. 
 Who then would dash the pleasure of these fleeting mo- 
 ments with anticipated ill ? 
 
 I do not feel myself called on to deduce the moral 
 that this occasion always and imperatively suggests. It 
 is written on every heart. It meets us in those involun- 
 6 
 
^ 
 
 
 42 
 
 tary retrospections, that carry us away, now, vvliile we 
 think to loose our hold of these circumstances of time and 
 place that have known us thus long, that have entered 
 so largely into our existence here. But there are inci- 
 dents that have their peculiar meaning. Yesterday and 
 we joyed to think how for years we had gone on together 
 a full band, though we remembered those who fell as it 
 were on the threshhold of their course,* before time could 
 weave the cords that have since bound us so closely to- 
 gether — but again, and we have read death's doings, on 
 the features of a brother, who has drooped by the way 
 side,t beneath the morning sun. Oh, when coming and 
 not distant years shall add another and another to this 
 catalogue, let the melancholy fate be lightened of one 
 pang, let the vain labors — the blighted hopes, anticipate 
 at least this recompense, the fond memory of those who 
 best knew us, of the friends of our youth. 
 
 But adieu the past, and fly quickly the present ! Life 
 calls. Life has a thousand ends well worth the living for. 
 Await it then, with stout hearts and noble aims ; but let 
 this last halcyon-day be unclouded ; let all hands grasped 
 in parting, seal a fervent God speed you. 
 
 * Draper, Dickinson, Butler, T. Parsons, 
 t L. Scarborough. 
 
 LI: 13