KNOWLEDGE, ART AND FELLOWSHIP

Phi Beta means, not science and not art; It means, the fellowship of men who know: The union of the body, mind, and heart For strength, thought, love, through fellowship; and so We welcome you to this society Of scholars, from now on with, us to be Comrades in science, sharers in the glory Of newest knowledge, oldest art and story.

For knowledge alone gives a bitter taste in the brain, But knowledge and friendship together bring courage again; And art alone is a weakling to meet the strife, But art and love together can conquer life.

[Mr. Keyes is at present convalescing after an operation and has been unable to prepare his editorials as usual. In place of them the poem written by Professor Page and read at the Phi Beta Kappa dinner is printed. Two of the lyric passages have already been separately published by Professor Page in The Century, and one in TheForum, to which periodicals acknowledgement is hereby made.]

Now the word of knowledge alone is: can man know? .... For Time and Space and Number flow Ever onward ; can man know Whence they come, or where they go?

Who shall say?— They will not bend Their majestic course; nor blend— Infinite—with things that end.

Can man know?—The mind may sound Dreaming voids, and find no bound To the wall-less prison round.

Winding-sheet of woven shade, None shall e'er thy word evade; None shall know ! 'Tis thou hast said—

None!—unless Man too may climb Clear of bounds, till Thought sublime Conquer Number, Space, and Time.

But knowledge in strength of fellowship standeth strong, And it flings in the face of failure, its courage in song:

Comrades, whatever betide, Be life our own;. Armored in strength, abide The challenge thrown By doubt in his mocking tone.

Comrades, we will survive Life's tragedy. Courage to live and strive Without a cry Is greater than courage to die.

Day is for song and deed, Night for the soul; Give <lay and life their meed, Then yield the whole Back to the night's control.

Now the word of art alone: seek not to know, For all is but illusion; love the show Of Beauty—ye may find the eternal so, And only so.

The Sacred Maya speaketh thus to men, The great Supreme Illusion speaketh thus:— "What is your life, and Nature's life, but lies?— The kindly green of hard rock-hearted earth, The tender blue of empty, cruel skies, The shining splendor of the death-paved sea, And the immortal love of mortal eyes Are lies! .... All life is evil, all is lies!

"Then, love the lies that half console for life, The sacred lies of art and poesy; Revel in color; rest in clear-cut line; Rejoice in harmonies of haunting sound. So shall ye conquer life, until ye win The great Supreme Illusion—till ye rest In sacred .Maya, mother of all lies."

But beauty alone holds life in a cruel tether; Now this is the word of beauty and love together:

All is false; yet love! Love, dream, and desire. Bare thy throat, bare thy heart To the knife, to the fire.

All is lies; yet believe! Love, desire, and dream. Spend thy life for the love Of the things that seem.

By thy side gapes the grave.— Flash thy life at the sky! Then go down to the dark. Dream, desire, love, die.

Yet more is needful for the perfect whole: Clean, sturdy manhood, strong to serve the soul.

Clean-living- bodies clear the thinking brain, Make duty easy, giving "will" for "must"— So let no sober moralist dare disdain The creak of the snow-shoes, the swish of the skis, on the crust.

What joy to face the sting of the air, to feel The hard and hale and hearty buffeting air, To meet the rush of the rollicking winds a-reel, To call to the cold in his caves, and fling him a dare!

Shout loud to the spirit of snow and challenge him forth, Beg of the sleet to bite and the frost to be bold! Hail to the winds of Winter, come down from the North ! Thrill body and nerve and brain with the sting of the cold!

Bathe all your being deep in the stream of the storm, And drink long draughts, lung-full, of its free-flung flood, Till every vein is aglow and throbbing and warm, Thrilled through and through with the health of the leaping blood.

And as the body thrills with the sting of the North, So bathe your soul in the joy of unyielding strife; In each day's task be all of your strength put forth. 'Tis a bitter cordial, to sweeten the taste of life.

But life's best gift, yes, better than tasks well done, Higher than thought or art or the fame thereof, Best cheer of the race, best prize when the goal is won, Better than truth or beauty or strength, is love.

So the last best word is the first—our fellowship here. Of College life—and of all our life, in truth— We hail the best we have known, when we greet with a cheer The last best toast—stand up!—to the friends of our youth!

For there's courage and strength in the very thought of a friend; And we know the truths that forever and ever stand Most sure—and all human beauty, life's highest end— In the clasp of a comrade's hand.