THE REVIEW
Drum-beat and sound of the conch-shell Ghostly, remlote and far.
Yell of the man of the forest—Primeval Wah-Hoo-Wah.
Ring of the axe on the pine tree; Magical house in the wood; There the "First Sprout of the College," There where the founder stood.
Toiling and watching and praying, Cheered by New England rum, Out from the land of the shadows The first "Men of Dartmouth" come.
Gallant old Wheelock advances, Partner and ally of God, Teaching his youthful retainers To "plug" while upturning the sod; Follow him four learned striplings-Frisbie and Ripley and Gray,
And Wheelock, the son of Eleazar, All groomed for Commencement Day.
Tears flowed, history says, when these heroes Their Latin orations had done; Tears—though the punch hadn't started For these A. B.'s of '71.
Yet deathless their fame in our annals; Still, though the centuries pass, Glasses on high for those youngsters: Young Dartmouth's—old Dartmouth's first Class.
NOTE :—This poem was read at the annual banquet of the Boston Alumni Association, January 22, 1915.
On marches brave Eleazar; Wilderness clear as he goes, Fighting the world and the devil And other domestic foes.
Poverty's white horse he lashes To make the old nag share his load, And when the dark angel o'ertakes him, He's travelled a good bit of road. Peaceful he rests in the village, Yet challenges he like a man.
"Traveler," his epitaph sayeth, "Traveler, go, if you can, "Deserve the reward of such merit." And this, you'll observe down in front, Means "go found another old Dartmouth." And that, as they say, is "some stunt."
The curtain falls and rises. Who comes here?
Young Prince John Wheelock, riding home from war, To take the sceptre by his father's will, And make his pompous vanity the law. An ass, tradition calls him, and it maybe That sometimes he put on the donkey's ears; Yet, like the donkey, hard and long he labored, And Dartmouth flourished with the passing years.
Till—frabjious day—a pretty row religious Burst from that modest church we knew of old And plunged the Hanoverian plain in woes litigious— Go search the archives; there the story's told: How Prince John's head fell plump into the basket; How Dartmouth's twain were called by one big bell; How Francis Brown, soft-spoken, steel-gloved parson, Fought University Allen passing well.
How student rows and broken heads scored largely In that curriculum of double "D's", With library doors smashed in and church beleagured, And "townies" punched and "Profs" brought to their knees.
Good Lord, may no more such a rumpus hit us— Small danger, though, that ever any can.
A sorcerer's wand enchanted seven judges; The wizard hand was that of great "Black Dan."
His smouldering eye, his organ voice, his logic, His torrent of emotion filled the souls Of those old gentlemen in dark regalia; They spoke—the University scrolls Became waste paper, and the College cohorts Burned them with pious glee on that old plain Where Eleazar wrestled with privation And where his ghost, they say, came back again At the glad tidings, cheered by spiritous noises, That Dartmouth, one, inseparable, should reign.
"A college small, but there are those who love her"— So spoke with tender heart her men of might, "A college great, and there are more who love her, "And love her to the end," we say tonight.
Let the years slip along in old Time's panorama; We can't stop for the show, though it's worth it, my son.
"Prexy" Dana's kind face flashes by like a phantom; He hardly was settled before he was done. And Tyler's smooth "phiz" is not much more familiar, Though Tyler made Dartmouth, at home and abroad, Respected and liked, and he cleaned out the rubbish For keen-eyed, green-spectacled, stout Nathan Lord.
A wonderful man with the boys was that Nathan; He called them "young gentlemen"—sometimes in vain.
He chased themu and raced them and kept them quite busy; But he did mighty things on the Hanover plain.
Never mind his queer views on the blessings of bondage, Throw all his small faults in the dustbin away.
The man and the men that he made are illumined.
The Nathan Lord stamp has endured to this day.
But if some of you feel in your hearts a warm corner For the suave city President, man of good pith, Drink a toast on the side to that genial old "Prexy", That getter of money, smooth Asa Dodge Smith.
With his shiny shirt-front and his black satin neck-piece He cut a fine figure in Hanover town; He wasn't all show, that delightful old fellow, For he shook the plum-tree, and the plums tumbled down.
Now the College fed well on the food he provided, And the men he turned out were of brawn and of brain.
Look the catalogue over in Asa's dominion Shall I name a few samples to make myself plain?
Well, there's—no use; I see him; he's blushing already; They are all modest chaps of the vintage of Smith.
So I turn the next. slide and the Iron Man enters, And the times that he brings are my own kin and kith.
But hark—from out the long-gone years The slow, triumphant dirges flood No memory now of futile tears, But pride in that unselfish blood That wet the field of many a fray; That kept a nation's flag untorn; That showed a country Dartmouth's way Of sacrifice for men unborn.
Of all her sisters in the land She gave the most from what she had.
She gave the grizzled, stalwart man, She gave the ardent, gallant lad,
And some came home, but some went on To that Valhalla heroes prize, And some are here tonight,, thank God, With life's strong purpose in their eyes.
Cheers for the living—for the dead Eternal memory, rest serene.
Old Dartmouth's honor roll shall stand. Till spring no more brings back the green.
Here comes the Iron Man, alert and strong, Short, sinewy, incisive, violent right or wrong,
Keen-witted, brilliant fighter, first and last, He drew the lightning and the tempest blast. The row that raged around him seemed to some The final crack o' doom, old Kingdom Come.
But in the end we saw that all that storm Had cleared the air and kept our Dartmouth warm; That "Prexy" Bartlett, 'ere his day was through, Had builded more and better than we knew.
His role upon the fates' completed page Is "Man of Iron in an Iron Age," Crude, noisy, swaggering times were those, I ween, The days of pumps, stoves, mud and kerosene; Of midnight hencoops cackling in dismay When the Dartmouth spirit passed along their way; Of country dances ending oft in riot; Of tin-horn symphonies to break the quiet That professorial homes demand by right, And now obtain, I'm told, by day or night; Of wondrous costumes shrieking to the air; Of Babylonian beards and perfumed hair; Of Kibling's Op'ry House, that Thespian den Where tragic hamfats roared on six by ten; Where dear Hank White retold his minstrel jest And Barnabee's "Cork Leg" led all the rest; Where the "Mikado" burst upon the town And College fiddlers squeaked the chorus down.
Such were the features of the age I sing, And we, who walked therein, this tribute bring:
Uncouth perhaps it was, uncultured, raw, Aesthetic joys of life it seldom saw.
Yet from that smelter was the iron wrought That made men stout of soul and firm of thought, Who kept the "league of heart to heart," indeed, And made their College love their strongest creed.
Swift have the years sped away with the equinox' races; Swift have the springs filled the air with their blossoming perfume; Swift have the winters thrown down their rich robes of pure ermine Over the sentinel hills standing guard 'round our Dartmouth.
Now come and gone are the wonderful days of the master, He whom we honor and love, and as one in our fealty Send a great wave of affection and reverence On through the night to his beautiful home in the Northland.
Yet, though his work is done, onward it goeth; Loyal and earnest the ruler on whom fell the mantle; New, ever newer, the Dartmouth we find on returning.
Changed are the streets and the ancient, familiar places; Temples spring up as by magical craft of Aladdin; Rub but the lamp and behold the genii are ready, Serving their masters and bringing whatever is called for.
Vast is the change in the outerward dress and appearance, Vaster the number who sit at the feet of the Mother.
Yet in the keen air we catch the old spirit of Dartmouth, Hear in the shouts and the songs the same splendid fealty; See in the faces of youth nothing less of endeavor; Know that in spite of the years the old Dartmouth endureth.
This is the golden age, truly, the epoch of beauty, Yet is the iron beneath it, the iron bequeathed us.
We have adorned it, but, thanks to the fates, we have kept it.
Drum-beat and sound of the conch-shell; "Taps" Eleazar blows.
Back to the land of the shadows Dartmouth's grand army goes.
Yet in its passing it hails us, Cries from the old watch-towers: "Spirit of all that is Dartmouth Be yours, as it was ours."
