[The following poem, from Counselor W. C. Wilkinson’s volume, recently published by Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, tells the story of the author’s first meeting with a friend of his, who is also a friend of every reader ofThe Chautauquan—the Rev. John H. Vincent, D.D. The friendship thus formed, not less than twenty years ago, endures yet between the two as vivid as ever. It is bearing fruit not then anticipated in the associated labors which they perform for the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.]
[The following poem, from Counselor W. C. Wilkinson’s volume, recently published by Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, tells the story of the author’s first meeting with a friend of his, who is also a friend of every reader ofThe Chautauquan—the Rev. John H. Vincent, D.D. The friendship thus formed, not less than twenty years ago, endures yet between the two as vivid as ever. It is bearing fruit not then anticipated in the associated labors which they perform for the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.]
Thorwaldsen’s Lion, gray and grim,Rock in his rocky lair,On who would rend his lily from him,Glowered out with dying glare.I mused awhile the sculptured stone,My pilgrim staff in hand;Then turned to hold my way alone,And lone, from land to land.But God had other hap in store:Even as I turned I metA manly eye ne’er seen before—I seem to see it yet!Vanish the changeful years between,Like morning-smitten rack;As, morning-like, that crescent sceneComes dawning swiftly back.Again, above, that mellow noonAnd soft Swiss heaven doth yearn;Frowns still on us in pilgrim shoonThe Lion of Lucerne.Once more each other’s hands we take,The pass-words fly betwixt;Though slack the speed that speech may make,When heart with heart is mixed.I see the green Swiss lake asleepWith Righi in her dream;We cross the lake, we climb the steepTo watch the world agleam.The paths are many up the slope,And many of the mind,We catch the flying clue of hope,And wander where they wind.The paths are fresh, the pastures green,In walk or talk traversed;The Alpland meadow’s grassy sheenWith many a streamlet nursed,And the fair meadows of the soulForever fresh with streamsFrom the long heights of youth that roll,The Righi-Culm of dreams.We speak of summits hard to gain,And, gained, still hard to keep;Of pleasure bought with glorious pain,Of tears ’twas heaven to weep;And of a blessed Heavenly FriendWho, struggling with us still,Would break the blows else like to bendThe lonely human will;Or with some sudden vital touch,At pinch of sorest need,Would lift our little strength to much,And energize our deed.Our talk flows on, through strain or rest,As up the steep we go;Each untried track of thought seems bestIn hope’s prelusive glow.We loiter while the sun makes haste,But we shall yet sit downTo watch the gleams of sunset chasedFrom mountain crown to crown.Too long, too late—the splendor wentOr e’er we reached the goal;But a splendor had dawned that will never be spentThat day on either soul.
Thorwaldsen’s Lion, gray and grim,Rock in his rocky lair,On who would rend his lily from him,Glowered out with dying glare.I mused awhile the sculptured stone,My pilgrim staff in hand;Then turned to hold my way alone,And lone, from land to land.But God had other hap in store:Even as I turned I metA manly eye ne’er seen before—I seem to see it yet!Vanish the changeful years between,Like morning-smitten rack;As, morning-like, that crescent sceneComes dawning swiftly back.Again, above, that mellow noonAnd soft Swiss heaven doth yearn;Frowns still on us in pilgrim shoonThe Lion of Lucerne.Once more each other’s hands we take,The pass-words fly betwixt;Though slack the speed that speech may make,When heart with heart is mixed.I see the green Swiss lake asleepWith Righi in her dream;We cross the lake, we climb the steepTo watch the world agleam.The paths are many up the slope,And many of the mind,We catch the flying clue of hope,And wander where they wind.The paths are fresh, the pastures green,In walk or talk traversed;The Alpland meadow’s grassy sheenWith many a streamlet nursed,And the fair meadows of the soulForever fresh with streamsFrom the long heights of youth that roll,The Righi-Culm of dreams.We speak of summits hard to gain,And, gained, still hard to keep;Of pleasure bought with glorious pain,Of tears ’twas heaven to weep;And of a blessed Heavenly FriendWho, struggling with us still,Would break the blows else like to bendThe lonely human will;Or with some sudden vital touch,At pinch of sorest need,Would lift our little strength to much,And energize our deed.Our talk flows on, through strain or rest,As up the steep we go;Each untried track of thought seems bestIn hope’s prelusive glow.We loiter while the sun makes haste,But we shall yet sit downTo watch the gleams of sunset chasedFrom mountain crown to crown.Too long, too late—the splendor wentOr e’er we reached the goal;But a splendor had dawned that will never be spentThat day on either soul.
Thorwaldsen’s Lion, gray and grim,Rock in his rocky lair,On who would rend his lily from him,Glowered out with dying glare.
Thorwaldsen’s Lion, gray and grim,
Rock in his rocky lair,
On who would rend his lily from him,
Glowered out with dying glare.
I mused awhile the sculptured stone,My pilgrim staff in hand;Then turned to hold my way alone,And lone, from land to land.
I mused awhile the sculptured stone,
My pilgrim staff in hand;
Then turned to hold my way alone,
And lone, from land to land.
But God had other hap in store:Even as I turned I metA manly eye ne’er seen before—I seem to see it yet!
But God had other hap in store:
Even as I turned I met
A manly eye ne’er seen before—
I seem to see it yet!
Vanish the changeful years between,Like morning-smitten rack;As, morning-like, that crescent sceneComes dawning swiftly back.
Vanish the changeful years between,
Like morning-smitten rack;
As, morning-like, that crescent scene
Comes dawning swiftly back.
Again, above, that mellow noonAnd soft Swiss heaven doth yearn;Frowns still on us in pilgrim shoonThe Lion of Lucerne.
Again, above, that mellow noon
And soft Swiss heaven doth yearn;
Frowns still on us in pilgrim shoon
The Lion of Lucerne.
Once more each other’s hands we take,The pass-words fly betwixt;Though slack the speed that speech may make,When heart with heart is mixed.
Once more each other’s hands we take,
The pass-words fly betwixt;
Though slack the speed that speech may make,
When heart with heart is mixed.
I see the green Swiss lake asleepWith Righi in her dream;We cross the lake, we climb the steepTo watch the world agleam.
I see the green Swiss lake asleep
With Righi in her dream;
We cross the lake, we climb the steep
To watch the world agleam.
The paths are many up the slope,And many of the mind,We catch the flying clue of hope,And wander where they wind.
The paths are many up the slope,
And many of the mind,
We catch the flying clue of hope,
And wander where they wind.
The paths are fresh, the pastures green,In walk or talk traversed;The Alpland meadow’s grassy sheenWith many a streamlet nursed,
The paths are fresh, the pastures green,
In walk or talk traversed;
The Alpland meadow’s grassy sheen
With many a streamlet nursed,
And the fair meadows of the soulForever fresh with streamsFrom the long heights of youth that roll,The Righi-Culm of dreams.
And the fair meadows of the soul
Forever fresh with streams
From the long heights of youth that roll,
The Righi-Culm of dreams.
We speak of summits hard to gain,And, gained, still hard to keep;Of pleasure bought with glorious pain,Of tears ’twas heaven to weep;
We speak of summits hard to gain,
And, gained, still hard to keep;
Of pleasure bought with glorious pain,
Of tears ’twas heaven to weep;
And of a blessed Heavenly FriendWho, struggling with us still,Would break the blows else like to bendThe lonely human will;
And of a blessed Heavenly Friend
Who, struggling with us still,
Would break the blows else like to bend
The lonely human will;
Or with some sudden vital touch,At pinch of sorest need,Would lift our little strength to much,And energize our deed.
Or with some sudden vital touch,
At pinch of sorest need,
Would lift our little strength to much,
And energize our deed.
Our talk flows on, through strain or rest,As up the steep we go;Each untried track of thought seems bestIn hope’s prelusive glow.
Our talk flows on, through strain or rest,
As up the steep we go;
Each untried track of thought seems best
In hope’s prelusive glow.
We loiter while the sun makes haste,But we shall yet sit downTo watch the gleams of sunset chasedFrom mountain crown to crown.
We loiter while the sun makes haste,
But we shall yet sit down
To watch the gleams of sunset chased
From mountain crown to crown.
Too long, too late—the splendor wentOr e’er we reached the goal;But a splendor had dawned that will never be spentThat day on either soul.
Too long, too late—the splendor went
Or e’er we reached the goal;
But a splendor had dawned that will never be spent
That day on either soul.