Classic Poem

Newark, Delaware, 1868.

A hundred years, less six, has White Clay run
Toward deep Christina, turgid in the sun,
Since from Gray's Hill the General through his glass
His threadbare army saw through Newark pass;
Its straggling villagers, their nervous chins
Poised on the windows of the shops and inns,
And much they hoped if battle he must seek,
Farther he'd go and choose the Red Clay creek.
The Red Clay country pleased him for a fight;

From Iron Hill he marked it by daylight;
The Stanton folks, the Newport people scattered,
Expecting, both, their hip roofs to be battered;
But General Washington advanced his line
Far North as Chadd's Ford on the Brandywine,
And after all this waiting and retreating,
Sir William gave him an effectual beating.

We've learned the lesson this Commencement dawn:
Defeat's inglorious tempted farther on!
This spot was picked to check the foe's advance,
'Tis nearest to his lines, Sir Ignorance!
Here on these classic stones again to thrive,
We seek our gracious College to revive,
To plant its standard drooping since lang syne,
To fight the action out upon this line,
And keep at heart, though Northward we might roam,
The snugger precept: " Educate at home! "

Not widest empires lure the reverend most:
The wisest Magi sought small Judah's coast,
The Russian Czar to modest Holland sped,
To little Weimar, Schiller, Goethe fled,
Famed Heidelberg in narrow Baden see,
And cramped Bologna fostered Italy.

Shut in the softest verdure of the East,
Our Delawarean nook, although the least,
Has soil enough for education's seeds,
And schools and students are what most she needs.
No sign we want to tell us when we roam:

" The schoolmaster has been away from home; "
For — if we say it need there be a blush? —
Good boys, unlike good wine, need most the bush .

The century flower has blossomed pleasantly
Above the tiles of yon Academy,
Which from the peaceful Penns derived its lease,
And six score years has taught the arts of peace.
In Seventy-six its boys marched with the " Blues, "
The girls behind them stitched their soldiers' shoes,
" Delightful task! to mend the tender boot,
And teach the young idea how to shoot. "

Here labored long those quiet Scottish Chiefs,
Holding for God His precious souls as fiefs,
McDowell, Ewing, Allison, and more
Whose gentle influence filled this Eastern Shore,
And humanized its homes from Chester creek,
Far as the lonely capes of Chesapeake.

In greenest graveyards sleep those pilgrim sires
By Swedish chapels or by English spires,
By country kirks wrapt soft in dews or mists,
Or lulled to peace by singing Methodists;
Tranquil their lives, not restless, nothing grand,
But melted in the epic of the land,
Part of the nation strong and vindicated,
Part of the school they cherished and created,
Part of the light and culture which endure,
The dawning arts and strengthening literature,
The social life, which seeks high thoughts for food,
And bulwarks of our pride of neighborhood.

Scarce fifty years had scattered Freedom's foes,
When, by the school, our pleasant college rose;
Loud spoke its bell — what melody did swing it
Whene'er the Janitor would let us ring it!
A score of years or more came, for its crack,
Fat boys from Cecil, lean from Accomac,
Pale boys from cities, from the country pink,
Queer boys from Duck and Appoquinimink,
Boys raised on Iron Hill — real mountaineers —
On shady Sassafras, oystery Tangiers,
From whate'er neck, or sound, or manor passengers,
They all stole pears and apples down at Hossenger's.

My hasty nuse, rouse up and once more show
The scenes in Newark twenty years ago!
The morning prayer, the bell's boom strong and sweet,
Swung down the one aisle of the village street,
" Day scholars " hurrying on foot, in gigs,
Professors smoothing out their hairs — or wigs —
The shy new student who can eat no pittance,
Mocked by the old boy spending his remittance,
That marvel of all Freshmen in their turn,
The one queer boy who came to school to learn,
That other wonder, whom the mass insist
To be sans peur, the College humorist:
An idle, jolly, impecunious elf,
Who jests on everything — except himself,
And, greater than all favorites of renown,
The boy whose pretty sister lives in town;
In all his woes rose dozens of redressers,
He was a favorite — even with Professors.

At Summer noon, the lanes and fields are seen,
To fill with urchins hastening to " The Green. "
Proud swimmer he, whose shy probation o'er,
Disdains less fathoms than the " Sycamore, "
Or nudis verbis whitely stands revealed
Poised on the " Deep Rocks " — as he calls it " peeled, "
And palms clasped a la mode, head foremost goes
To fetch up stones, while small boys tie his clothes.

Meantime the lovelorn student roams behind,
And carves his torment on the beech tree rind,
And to the dear initials makes his moan —
A bolder student slily adds his own.

Our fine girl then, nor skater was, nor sailor;
Therefore her children in our days are frailer;
Let us admit we both did something err:
Ungallant she to Nature, we to her.
She never wrote in ice her epigram,
Cutting " High Dutch " on Dean's or Curtis' dam,
Nor down the Roseville rapids showed her skill, boys,
Risking a flogging for it from the mill boys.
She never wished the Northern hills to climb
Which on our border lean their ribs of grime,
And strangle streams which hurl more mill wheels' arms,
And bathe more sheep, and beautify more farms —
That royal road, the North, she did not dare,
Like our wild hearts pent up in Delaware,
And wondering what beyond those hilltops lay
When trudging toward them on a Saturday.
Not in that fashion did our sweetheart journey,
But only with a power of Attorney,
Two trunks, a muff, a bridesmaid, and a fan,
She sacrificed the scenery for the man.

'Twas still her triumph when Commencement came
And tallow candles made the College flame;
For her alone the Athenaeums speak,
The Delta Phians don their badge of Greek,
For her, for nothing less, do both submit
To wear a coat cut in the nether pit,
And hear the pert Academicians cry,
In chorus: " When the Swallows Homeward Fly. "

Nothing between a boy and book can slip,
Like the soft vision of an eye and lip,
And let us stand upon it if we fight there,
Nothing has more excuse or much more right there!

Much more, if time and art, like memory, held,
Might we recover from this cloister eld;
Rise up ye tutors, sacrificed for us:
Our lack of love, our Natures boisterous —
Whose blood and tears we drew and never knew it.
Ah! the perversity! Could we undo it!

Are boys to boys more generous than men?
Do we desire our boyhood back again?
Is it the right, the gallant, roseate time?
" Yea, " say the Poets, in the same old rhyme.
All college orators insist upon it,
Decrying manhood ere they have begun it;
Candor compels a more prosaic ruling:
Much of the talk on boyhood joys is pulling!

The strong young savage, moving on his muscle,
Ready to rob an orchard, try a tussle,
Of everlasting restlessness pursuant,
Mocking his tutor, selfish, hooking truant,
Of ravenous appetite, ungrateful, vain,
His keenest sense of pleasure, giving pain,
What man would ask to be a boy again?

Who would resign the calm and chastened bliss,
The fireside faith, sealed in his goodwife's kiss,
The measured duties of the father, neighbor,
And sense of manhood dignified by labor,
To roam again an urchin by the creek,
And learn to swear about a shinny stick?

Of all the frauds which schools from schoolmen ape
None is more empty than the college " scrape. "
Books have been made on scrapes, and maidens tell them
Sad, for their sex, that no such larks befel them;
The college scrape, as I remember it,
Was ruffianism in the mask of wit,
Played on a tutor's feelings, a child's terror,
A strong boy's dignity or weak boy's error:
To tip the bell up and freeze water in it,

Or by a hidden cord all night to din it.
To call the poor, pinched tutor but a " flat, "
And yell from hiding places: " what a hat! "
A horse to whitewash, most superb of all! —
To tie the grass that wayfarers might fall,
Let down the farmer's bars, write terms of spite
By darkness, for the town to read by light.

Our sculptor, Crawford, in a noble mood
A subject chose from boyhood's habitude:
A little spaniel, terrified and worn,
Its fleeces dabbled and its white feet torn,
Climbs spent, beseeching, to one gentle breast —
The one brave boy humane among the rest —
Who cuts the kettle which had driven it wild,
And strokes it, as a father soothes his child.
Worthy this statue for our halls of State —

A boy indignant and considerate!
For, if the boy were Father of the man,
As the trite line of some old poet ran,
Apt might the boy be to affix a can
Behind his sire, and chase him with a clan.

The sports of schools have now a higher fame
With baseball clubs where women watch the game,
While tidy barge crews down the rivers spin
And play is beautified by discipline.

To these high joys of the Curriculum,
Must meaner " larks " and older " scrapes " succumb;
For, 'tis the student gives the school address,
His best diploma is his manliness:
The sense of honor seldom can be taught,
Lost it may be or not in vain be sought;
It is that breath of good men which survives,
The floating aroma of fragrant lives,
The gentler thoughts superior souls dispense.
And fruit of every noble influence.

" Surely, " says one, " our poet's a free lance;
The boys are with us; give the boys a chance! "
No! these young students who would build again
Our crumbled ramparts are not boys — but men,
The boys in frolic, some twelve years or more
Departed, locked this venerable door,
A newer, better generation comes,
Out of the roll of Freedom's victor drums,
A race of boys made men by manlier walk,
By gentler thinking and by truer talk.
On darkened latitudes no more intent,
But, like a sailor, in the firmament
Searching for lamps, and midst them, strong and far.
Shines down the magic of the Northern Star.

Retire then men, who puerile have grown.
Be men for them ye boys of better date,
And let this College be the corner stone
Of a humane and reawakened State;