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                               TWO POEMS

                               Two Poems

                            CLASS DAY POEM
                           THE PURPLE HILLS

                                 BY
                         HENRY RUTGERS CONGER

                      WILLIAMSTOWN, MASSACHUSETTS
                            PRINTED FOR THE
                     CLASS OF EIGHTEEN NINETY-NINE
                                  OF
                           WILLIAMS COLLEGE
                                MCMXXI

Henry Rutgers Conger, Poet of the Class of Eighteen Ninety-Nine of
Williams College, died at his home in Fanwood, New Jersey, on Friday the
eighteenth of June, Nineteen Hundred and Twenty, while his Class was
holding its Reunion in Williamstown, Massachusetts.

These two poems, written by him while an undergraduate in Williams
College, are now printed by his Class as a loving tribute to his
memory.

             CLASS DAY POEM

             I

    _In the hush of the early summer,
      âNeath the smile of the soft June sky,
    We, who have lived together,
      Gather to say good-by.
    And now, with our labor ended,
      And the hours we may linger few,
    We kneel for our motherâs blessing,
      As is our right to do._

    _Stately and tall is our mother,
      Tender and strong and wise;
    With the light of infinite knowledge
      In the depths of her steadfast eyes.
    And as we kneel before her,
      Her voice rings clear and slow,
    As she speaks the words of the blessing
      That she gives to her sons, ere they go._

             II

    âSons of my four yearsâ nurture,
       Ye who have eaten my bread,
     Pause ere you take the journey
       Down the wide roads ahead!
     Listen! that I may tell you
       In simple speech and plain,
     How from the debt that ye owe me
       Ye may quit yourselves again!

     The wisdom of generations
       I have spread for your delight;
     And the truths that men have died for
       Ye may claim as your simple right.
     Heirs of the hoarding ages,
       How use ye your legacy?
     Masters of many talents
       Render account to me.

             III

    âAre ye puffed with the pride of learning?
      Are ye pleased with the praise of fools?
    Have your minds grown cramped and narrow
      With the lore that ye learned in schools?
    Has your knowledge made you slothful,
      And your culture made you vain,
    That ye think to gain without labor
      What another must toil to gain?

    Then are your years here wasted
      As pearls that are cast to swine!
    Then are ye servants of servants,
      And no true sons of mine!
    For they who began behind you
      Shall pass you in the race;
    And untaught men shall shame you
      In the open market-place!

             IV

    âFrom the quiet heart of the mountains
      Ye must take journey, down
    To the world, that is ever careless
      Of the skirts of a scholarâs gown.
    And the sheltered life of college
      Ye must leave behind you then,
    And bear your parts in the battle
      Where men fight hard with men.

    There there is naught to help you
      But your wit and strength of limb,
    There every man is your master
      Until you have mastered him.
    For a great law governs the fighting
      And all are ruled thereby--
    âHe that is strong shall conquer!
      He that is weak must die!â

             V

    âTherefore, that ye may merit
      Menâs praise when your heads are gray,
    Cling to the good ye have gathered
      From my teaching that ends to-day.
    Ye have learned many true sayings
      And many wise maxims heard,
    For some ye know the reason,
      And for some ye must take my word.

    But, though ye forget the others,
      These two hold firm and clear:
    The first is--â_He that would win must work_,â
      The second--â_Thou shalt not fear!_â
    For the vices of a strong man
      Are pardoned in the end;
    But he that is born a coward
     Hath neither foe nor friend!

             VI

    âBe tender, and quick to pity
      At the sight of anotherâs wrong,
    Humble before a weaker,
      Cringing not to the strong.
    Paying each service twofold,
      Nor counting the debt clear then;
    Keeping your faith with women,
      Speaking the truth to men.

             VII

    âHigh in the purple mountains,
      Where the worldâs strife cannot come,
    Ringed by the iron cordon
      Of the hills that guard my home,
    I gather my sons about me
      And teach them at my knee,
    And when they have learned their lesson,
      My sons go forth from me.

    Over the world they wander,
      In the sunshine and wind and storm,
    But I sit here in the quiet room
      And keep the hearthstone warm;
    Watching and listening and waiting
      For their footsteps at the door,
    Till one by one as the years go by
      My sons come home once more.

    Then I fling wide the portal
      And welcome them to the hall,
    With praise for the strong, and pity
      For the weak, and love for all.
    And the welcome that I give them
      Is reward for those that win;
    And they who are spent with fighting
      Find a new strength therein.

    And when they have told their stories,
      And rested a little space,
    They rise, and get them forth again
      Each man to his own place;
    To take the task that waits him,
      And labor to the end,
    That he may earn a living
      For wife and child and friend.

    Careless of sneers and frowning
      From curs that cringe and shirk,
    Asking no greater pleasure
      Than the sight of his finished work.

             VIII

    âYe who to-day must follow
      Whither your fates shall lead,
    These are your elder brothers!
      Prove yourselves of the breed!
    See that ye count as shameful
      No work your hands can do;
    And when ye are spent, come back to me
      That I may comfort you.

    Now, through the open portal,
      Rise and go forth to-day!
    And a motherâs blessing go with you,
      To help you on your way.â

Williamstown, June 20, 1899.

      THE PURPLE HILLS

      Air--âAnnie Lisleâ

    Dying echoes fill the valley,
      Heralding the night,
    As we gather on the campus
      In the waning light.
    In the west the sunsetâs crimson
      All the heaven fills,
    And its glory rims the edges
      Of our purple hills.

    Fast the lengthâning shadows gather,
      Sunset dims to grey,
    And the calling winds of evening
      Through the branches play.
    With the far stars pale above them
      While dayâs tumult stills,
    Watching us who know and love them,
      Stand the purple hills.

    Safe within our little valley
      From the outer strife,
    Are enshrined the happy memâries
      Of our college life.
    And when darker days have found us,
      âMid this old worldâs ills;
    Still our hearts will turn with gladness
      To our purple hills.

Williamstown, 1898.


End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Two Poems, by Henry Rutgers Conger
{'title': 'Two Poems: Class Day Poem; The Purple Hills by Henry Rutgers Conger', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}