THE SOWERS

Written for the Fiftieth Anniversary of the Founding of St. Lawrence University

I know the hills that lift the distant plain,

The college hall—the spirit of its throngs,

The meadows and the waving fields of grain,

Full well I know their colors and their songs.

I know the storied gates where love was told,

The grove where walked the muses and the seers,

The river, dark or touched with light of gold,

Or slow, or swift so like the flowing years.

I know not these who sadly sit them down

And while the night in half-forgotten days;

I know not these who wear the hoary crown

And find a pathos in the merry lays.

Here Memory, with old wisdom on her lips,

A finger points at each familiar name—

Some writ on water, stone or stranded ships,

Some in the music of the trump of fame.

Here oft, I think, beloved voices call

Behind a weathered door 'neath ancient trees.

I hear sad echoes in the empty hall,

The wide world's lyric in the harping breeze.

It sings of them I loved and left of old,

Of my fond hope to bring a worthy prize—

Some well-earned token, better far than gold,

And lay it humbly down before their eyes.

And tell them it were rightly theirs—not mine,

An harvest come of their own word and deed;

I strove with tares that threatened my design

To make the crop as noble as the seed.

So they might see it paid—that life they knew—

A toilsome web and knit of many a skein,

With love's sweet sacrifice all woven through,

And broken threads of hope and joy and pain.

On root-bound acres, pent with rocks and stones,

Their hope of wealth and leisure slowly died.

They gave their strength in toil that racked their

bones,

They gave their youth, their beauty, and their pride.

Ere Nature's last defence had been withdrawn

That those they loved might have what they could

not—

The power of learning wedded to their brawn

And to the simple virtue there begot.

My college! Once—it was a day of old—

I saw thy panes aglow with sunset fire

And heard the story of thy purpose told

And felt the tide of infinite desire.

In thee I saw the gates of mystery

That led to dream-lit, vast, inviting lands—

Far backward to the bourne of history

And forward to the House not made with hands.

You gave the husbandman a richer yield

Than any that his granary may hold;

You called his children from the shop and field,

Taught them to sow and reap an undredfold.

To sow the seed of truth and hope and peace,

And take the root of error from the sod;

To be of those who make the sure increase,

Forever growing, in the lands of God.

THE NEW WORLD

Read before the Lambda Chapter of Phi Beta Kappa, June 24, 1902

Idle gods of Old Olympus—Zeus and his immortal

clan,

Grown in stature, grace and wisdom, meekly serve

the will of man.

Every elemental giant has been trained to seek and

raise

Gates of the "impossible" that lead to undiscovered

ways.

Man hath come to stranger things than ever bard

or prophet saw.

Lo, he sits in judgment on the gods and doth amend

their law.

Now reality with wonder-deed of ancient fable teems—

Fact is wrought of golden fancy from the old

Homeric dreams.

Zeus, with thought to load the fulmen gathered for

his mighty sling,

Hurls across the ocean desert as 'twere ut a pebble-fling;

Titans move the gathered harvests, push the loaded

ship and train,

Rushing swiftly 'twixt horizons, shoulder to the

hurricane.

Hermes, of the winged sandal, strides from midday

into night.

Pallas, with a nobler passion, turns the hero from

his fight.

Vulcan melts the sundered mountain into girder,

beam and frieze.

Where the mighty wheel is turning hear the groan

of Hercules.

Eyes of man, forever reaching where immensity

envails,

View the ships of God in full career with light upon

their sails.

Read the tonnage, log, and compass—measure each

magnetic chain

Fastened to the fiery engine towing in the upper

main.

Man hath searched the small infernos, narrow as a

needle's eye,

Rent the veil of littleness 'neath which unnumbered

dragons lie.

Conquered pain with halted feeling, baned the

falling House of Life,

As with breeding rats infested, ravening in bloody

strife.

Change hath shorn the distances from little unto

mighty things—

Aye, from man to God, from poor to rich, from

peasants unto kings.

Justice, keen-eyed, Saxon-hearted, scans the records

of the world,

Makes the heartless tyrant tremble when her stem

rebuke is hurled.

Thought-ways, reaching under oceans or above the

mountain height,

Drain to distant, darkened realms the ceaseless

overflow of light.

In the shortened ways of travel Charity shall seek

her goal,

Find the love her burden merits in the commerce

of the soul.

Right must rule in earth and heaven, though its

coming here be slow;

Gods must grow in grace and wisdom as the mind

of man doth grow;

Law and Prophet be forgotten, deities uprise and

fall

Till one God, one hope, one rule of life be great

enough for all.

FAITH

Being some words of counsel from an old Yankee to his son Bill when the latter is about to enter college.

Faith, Bill? You remember how ye used to wake

an' cry,

An' when I lit a candle how the bugaboos 'u'd fly?

Well, faith is like a father in the dark of every

night—

It tells ye not t' be afraid, an' mebbe strikes a

light.

Now, don't expect too much o' God, it wouldn't

be quite fair

If fer anything ye wanted ye could only swap a

prayer;

I'd pray fer yours, an' you fer mine, an' Deacon

Henry Hospur,

He wouldn't hev a thing t' do but lay abed an'

prosper.

If all things come so easy, Bill, they'd hev but little

worth,

An' some one with a gift o' prayer 'u'd mebbe own

the earth.

It's the toil ye give t' git a thing—the sweat an'

blood an' care—

That makes the kind o' argument that ought to

back yer prayer.

Fer the record o' yer doin'—I believe the soul is

planned

With some self-workin' register t' tell jest how ye

stand.

An' it won't take any cipherin' t' show, that

fearful day,

If ye've multiplied yer talents well, er thrown 'em

all away.

When yer feet are on the summit, an' the wide

horizon clears,

An' ye look back on yer pathway windin' thro' the

vale o' tears;

When ye see how much ye've trespassed, an' how

fur ye've gone astray,

Ye'll know the way o' Providence ain't apt t' be

your way.

God knows as much as can be known, but I don't

think it's true.

He knows of all the dangers in the path o' me an'

you.

If I shet my eyes an' hurl a stun that kills—the

King o' Siam,

The chances are that God 'll be as much surprised

as I am.

If ye pray with faith believin', why, ye'll certainly

receive,

But that God 'll break His own good law is more 'n

I'll believe.

If it grieves Him when a sparrow falls, it's sure as

anything,

He'd hev turned the arrow, if He could, that broke

the sparrow's wing.

Ye can read old Nature's history that's writ in rocks

an' stones,

Ye can see her throbbin' vitals an' her mighty rack

o' bones,

But the soul o' her—the livin' God, a little child

may know

No lens er rule o' cipherin' can ever hope t' show.

There's a part o' God's creation very handy t' yer

view,

All the truth o' life is in it an' remember, Bill, it's

you.

An' after all yer science ye must look up in yer

mind

An' learn its own astronomy the star o' peace t' find.

There's good old Aunt Samanthy Jane that all her

journey long

Has led her heart to labor with a reveille of song.

Her folks hev robbed an' left her, but her faith in

goodness grows;

She hasn't any larnin', but I tell ye, Bill, she knows!

She's hed her share o' troubles; I remember well

the day

We took her t' the poor-house—she was singin' all

the way.

Ye needn't be afraid t' come where stormy Jordan

flows,

If all the l'arnin' ye can git has taught ye half she

knows.

There's a many big departments in this ancient

school o' God,

An' ye keep right on a l'arnin' till ye lay beneath

the sod,

All the books an' apperaytus, all the wisdom o'

the seers

Will be jest a preparation fer the study o' the years.

BALLAD OF THE SABRE CROSS AND 7

A troop of sorrels led by Vic and then a troop of

bays,

In the backward ranks of the foaming flanks a

double troop of grays;

The horses are galloping muzzle to tail, and back

of the waving manes

The troopers sit, their brows all knit, a left hand

on the reins.

Their hats are gray, and their shirts of blue have

a sabre cross and 7,

And little they know, when the trumpeters blow,

they'll halt at the gates of heaven.

Their colors have dipped at the top of a ridge—

how the long line of cavalry waves!—

And over the hills, at a gallop that kills, they are

riding to get to their graves.

"I heard the scouts jabber all night," said one;

"they peppered my dreams with alarm.

"That old Ree scout had his medicine out an'

was tryin' to fix up a charm."

There are miles of tepees just ahead, and the

warriors in hollow and vale

Lie low in the grass till the troopers pass and then

they creep over the trail.

The trumpets have sounded—the General shouts!

He pulls up and turns to the rear;

"We can't go back—they've covered our track—

we've got t' fight 'em here."

He rushes a troop to the point of the ridge, where

the valley opens wide,

And Smith deploys a line of the boys to stop the

coming tide.

A fire flames up on the skirt of the hills; in every

deep ravine

The savages yell, like the fiends of hell, behind a

smoky screen.

"Where's Reno?" said Custer. "Why don't he

charge? It isn't a time to dally!"

And he waves his hat, this way and that, as he

looks across the valley.

There's a wild stampede of horses; every man in

the skirmish line

Stands at his post as a howling host rush up the

steep incline.

Their rifles answer a deadly fire and they fall with

a fighting frown,

Till two by two, in a row of blue, the skirmish line

is down.

A trooper stood over his wounded mate. "No use

o' yer tryin't' fight,

"Blow out yer brains—you'll suffer hell-pains

when ye go to the torture to-night.

"We tackled too much; 'twas a desperate game—

I knowed we never could win it.

"Custer is dead—they're all of 'em dead an' I

shall be dead in a minute."

They're all of them down at the top of the ridge;

the sabre cross and 7

On many a breast, as it lies at rest, is turned to the

smoky heaven.

Three wounded men are up and away; they're

running hard for their lives,

While bloody corses of riders and horses are

quivering under the knives.

Some troopers watch from a distant hill with hope

that never tires;

There's a reeling dance on the river's edge; its

echoes fill the night;

In the valley dim its shadows swim on a lengthening

pool of light.

The scattered troops of Reno look and listen with

bated breath,

While bugle strains on lonely plains are searching

the valley of death.

"What's that like tumbled grave-stones on the

hilltop there ahead?"

Said the trooper peering through his glass, "My

God! sir, it's the dead!

"How white they look! How white they look!

they've killed 'em—every one!

"An' they're stripped as bare as babies an' they're

rotting in the sun."

And Custer—back of the tumbled line on a slope

of the ridge we found him;

And three men deep in a bloody heap, they fell as

they rallied 'round him.

The plains lay brown, like a halted sea held firm

by the leash of God;

In the rolling waves we dug their graves and left

them under the sod.

WHISPERIN' BILL

So ye 're runnin' fer Congress, mister? Le 'me tell

ye 'bout my son—

Might make you fellers carefuller down there in

Washington—

He clings to his rifle an' uniform—folks call him

Whisperin' Bill;

An' I tell ye the war ain't over yit up here on

Bowman's Hill.

This dooryard is his battle-field—le's see, he was nigh

sixteen

When Sumter fell, an' as likely a boy as ever this

world has seen;

An' what with the news o' battles lost, the speeches

an' all the noise,

I guess ev'ry farm in the neighborhood lost a part

of its crop o' boys.

'T was harvest time when Bill left home; ev'ry stalk

in the fields o' rye

Seemed to stan' tiptoe to see him off an' wave him

a fond good-bye;

His sweetheart was here with some other gals—the

sassy little miss!

An' purtendin' she wanted to whisper 'n his ear, she

give him a rousin' kiss.

Oh, he was a han'some feller! an' tender an' brave

an' smart,

An' though he was bigger 'n I was, the boy had a

woman's heart.

I couldn't control my feelin's, but I tried with all

my might,

An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin' till Bill was

out o' sight.

His mother she often tol' him, when she knew he

was goin' away,

That God would take care o' him, maybe, if he

didn't fergit to pray;

An' on the bloodiest battle-fields, when bullets

whizzed in the air,

An' Bill was a-fightin' desperit, he used to whisper

a prayer.

Oh, his comrades has often tol' me that Bill never

flinched a bit

When every second a gap in the ranks tol' where

a ball had hit.

An' one night, when the field was covered with the

awful harvest o' war,

They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o' the cause

he was fightin' for.

His fingers was clutched in the dewy grass—oh,

no, sir, he wasn't dead,

But he lay kind o' helpless an' crazy with a rifleball

in his head;

An' he trembled with the battle-fear as he lay there

in the dew;

An' he whispered as he tried to rise: "God 'll take

care o' you."

An officer wrote an' toL' us how the boy had been

hurt in the fight,

But he said the doctors reckoned they could bring

him around all right.

An' then we heard from a neighbor, disabled at

Malvern Hill,

That he thought in the course of a week or so he'd

be comin' home with Bill.

We was that anxious t' see him we'd set up an'

talk o' nights

Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars an'

put out the Northern Lights;

We waited an' watched fer a month or more, an'

the summer was nearly past,

When a letter come one day that said they'd started

fer home at last.

I'll never fergit the day Bill come—'twas harvest

time again—

An' the air blown over the yeller fields was sweet

with the scent o' the grain;

The dooryard was full o' the neighbors, who had

come to share our joy,

An' all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o'

that soldier boy.

An' all of a sudden somebody said: "My God!

don't the boy know his mother?"

An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like, an' a-starin'

from one to another;

"Don't be afraid, Bill," says he to himself, as he

stood in his coat o' blue,

"Why, God 'll take care o' you, Bill, God 'll take

care o' you."

He seemed to be loadin' an' firin' a gun, an' to act

like a man who hears

The awful roar o' the battle-field a-soundin' in his

ears;

Ten thousan' ghosts o' that bloody day was marchin'

through his brain

An' his feet they kind o' picked their way as if

they felt the slain.

An' I grabbed his hand, an' says I to Bill, "Don't

ye 'member me?

I'm yer father—don't ye know me? How frightened

ye seem to be!"

But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if

'twas all he knew,

"God'll take o' you, Bill, God'll take care o'

you."

He's never known us since that day, nor his

sweetheart, an' never will;

Father an' mother an' sweetheart are all the same

to Bill.

An' he groans like a wounded soldier, sometimes

the whole night through,

An' we smooth his head, an' say: "Yes, Bill,

He 'll surely take care o' you."

Ye can stop a war in a minute, but when can ye

stop the groans?

Fer ye've broke our hearts an' sapped our blood

an' plucked away our bones.

An' ye've filled our souls with bitterness that goes

from sire to son,

So ye best be kind o' careful down there in Washington.

THE RED DEW

Being some small account of the war experience of an East River pilot, whose boat was the Susquehanna, familiarily known as the Susq, and who lost his leg and more at Gettysburg.

At de break o' day I goes t' bed, an' I goes to work

at dusk,

Fer ev'ry night dat a boat can run I takes de wheel

o' de Susq.

De nights is long in de pilot-house? Well, now

d'ye hear me speakin'?

No night is long since de one I spent wid me sta'b'ard

side a-leakin'.

I'd gone t' de war an' was all stove in, an' I seen

how a little white hand

Can take holt of a great big chump like me an'

make him drop his sand.

An' her face! De face o' de Holy Mary warn't

any sweeter 'n hern!

If ye like I'll set de wheel o' me mind an' let 'er

drift astern.

We'd fit all day till de sun was low an' I t'ought de

war was fun,

Till a big ball skun de side o' me face an' smashed

de end o' me gun.

Den anodder one kicked me foot off—see? an'

I tell ye it done it cunnin',

An' I trun meself in de grass, kerplunk, but me

mind kep' on a-runnin'.

Next I knowed I was feelin' o' somebody's face,

an' I seen de poor devil was cryin',

An' he tumbled all over me tryin't' r'ise, an' he

cussed an' kep' turnin' an' tryin';

"Good Gawd!" sez I, "what's de matter wid you?

Shut up yer face an' hark,"

An' s' help me, de odder man's face was mine an'

I was alone in de dark.

When I lay wid me back ag'in de world I seen how

little I was

An' I knowed, fer de firs' time in me life, how deep

an' broad de sky was;

An' me mind kep' a-wanderin' off 'n de night, till

it stopped where de Bowery ends,

An' come back a-sighin' an' says t' me dat it couldn't

find no friends.

Den I fumbled me breat' till I cert'inly t'ought

I never could ketch it ag'in.

If I'd bin a-bawlin' t' git a prize ye bet cher life

I'd 'a' win.

If ye're dyin' an' ain't no home in de world an'

yer fr'ends is all on de shelf,

An' dere's nobody else t' bawl fer ye—ye're goin'

t' bawl fer yerself.

De sun peeped over de hills at last, an' as soon as

I seen his rim

De dew in de valley was all afire wid a sort o' a

ruby glim.

De blue coats lay in de tumbled grass—some

stirrin' but most o' 'em dead—

'Pon me word, de poor devils had bled so much,

de dew in de valley were red!

An' what d'ye t'ink? de nex' t'ing I knowed, a

lady had holt o' me hand,

An' smoothed de frills all out o' me face an' brushed

off de dew an' de sand.

No lady had ever mammied me an' I were scairt

so I dassent say boo,

I warn't in no shape t' help meself an' I didn't

know what she'd do.

An' me heart was a-t'umpin' ag'in me ribs, an' me

lettin' on I was dead!

Till she put down her cheek so close to me mug

dat I had t' move me head.

An' she lifted me head wid her sof' white hands

an' I don't know all she done;

I was blubberin' so dat I couldn't see, but I knowed

I were havin' fun.

I lay wid me head 'n de lady's lap while de doctors

cut an' sawed,

An' dey hurted me so dat me eyes was sot, but I

never cussed er jawed.

An' she patted me cheek an' spoke so sof' dat I

didn't move a peg,

An' I t'ought if dey'd let me lay dere awhile dey

could saw off de odder leg.

Fer de loss o' me leg, t'ree times a year, I gets me

little wad,

But dere ain't any pension fer losin' yer heart

unless it comes from Gawd.

If anythin' busts ye there, me boy, I t'ink ye'll be

apt t' find

Ye'll either drop out o' de game o' life, er else go

lame in yer mind.

I never c'u'd know de reason why, till de lady

helt me head,

Dat a man 'll go broke fer de woman he loves er

mebbe fight till he's dead.

When I t'inks dat I never had no friends an' what

am I livin' fer?

I fergits dat I'm holdin' de wheel o' de Susq, an'

I sets an' t'inks o' her.

An' I t'inks how gentle she spoke t' me, an' I t'inks

o' her sof', white hand,

An' de feel o' her fingers on me face when she

brushed off de dew an' de sand.

An' I set a-t'inkin' an' turnin' me wheel, sometimes

de whole night t'rough,

An' de good Gawd knows I'd a giv' me life, if she'd

only 'a' loved me too.

THE BABY CORPS

Being some account of the little cadets of the Virginia Military Institute, who stood the examination of war at New Market, Va. May 15, 1864, in the front line of the Confederate forces, where more than three hundred answered to their names and all were perfect.

We were only a lot of little boys—they called us a

baby corps—

At the Institute in Lexington in the winter

of '64;

And the New Year brought to the stricken South

no end of the war in sight,

But we thought we could whip the North in a week

if they'd only let us fight.

One night when the boys were all abed we heard

the long roll beat,

And quickly the walls of the building shook with

the tread of hurrying feet;

And when the battalion stood in line we heard the

welcome warning:

"Breckinridge needs the help o' the corps; be

ready to march in the morning."

And many a boastful tale was told, through the

lingering hours of night,

And the teller fenced with airy foes and showed

how heroes fight.

And notes of love were written with many a fevered

sigh,

That breathed the solemn sacrifice of those about

to die.

Some sat in nature's uniform patching their suits

of gray,

And some stood squinting across their guns in a

darkly suggestive way.

The battalion was off on the Staunton pike as soon

as the sun had risen,