Classic Poem

What mean the gladsome bells to-day,
Which on our natal morning wait,
And greet the sunrise on its way
From Boston to the Golden Gate?
What mean yon flags that rustle free
From staff and spire and lofty dome,
And proudly float o'er every sea,
From tropic waste to Saxon home?

They mean the triumph of a race —
A race that made old England new,
Which far from kindred sought a place
To worship God with conscience true —
A handful tossed by wintry waves,
A struggle on a desert strand;
Ask what they mean of Plymonth graves,
And Valley Forge's starving band.

What do they mean? Each stripe of red
Speaks of the price our fathers paid;
The blue whereon those stars are spread
Is ours by holiest offering made.
Their fortune, life, and sacred name
Are woven in that triple dye;
Their deeds are consecrate to fame,
The " May-flower " blossomed in July.

They mean that every lasting gain
Is won through struggle fierce and long,
That up through martyrdom and pain
The yearning world is growing strong.
The chosen motto of your State
Proclaims the history of the years —
" Ad Astra " points with promise great,
" Per Aspera " means through toil and tears.

Each rustling field of growing corn
Whispers your motto near and far,
Each golden stubble newly shorn
By scissored knife and shuttled bar,
Proclaims this truth and something more —
With honest toil all war shall cease;
The scythe-wheeled chariots of war
Become the chariots of peace.

Each muscle of yon moving train,
Each engine harnessed in a mill,
The wires which make one throbbing brain
Of all the land wherein we dwell;
Each whisper 'neath the ocean vast
To other realms beyond the sea,
Proclaims the struggle of the past,
The promise of the bright to-be.

" Per Aspera! " Years of patient toil
Which rear the individual man
Who comes to till the virgin soil,
And make sublime the primal ban!
By manly work to earn his bread,
To wipe the sweat-drops from his brow!
More blest than king with crowned head
The man who guides the pen and plough.

What does it mean — this tented grove,
These camps that slope unto the stream?
Arcadian bliss where lovers rove,
And quiet haunts where scholars dream?
Where music lives forevermore,
And joyous song and sweet refrain?
It means Chautanqua to the core —
A partnership of soul and brain.

These vistaed trees with open halls,
These aisles with light and shadow flecked,
Where Nature rears her college walls,
With rustling vine and foliage decked,
Proclaim that truth to all is free,
And hope and everlasting love —
Free as the brooks that chant in glee,
Free as the stars that shine above.

O song sublime! that ever floats
Amid these leaves from year to year,
With soul still marching to the notes
That rose above North Elba's bier!
Ring out the fountain and the stream
That washed from off our flag its stain,
While freedom crowns the martyr's dream
Along thy banks, Marais des Cygnes!