 Two Poems by Henry Rutgers Conger, read for LibriVox.org by Bruce Kachok. Dedication Henry Rutgers Conger, poet of the Class of 1899 of Williams College, died at his home in Fanwood, New Jersey on Friday the 18th of June, 1920, while his class was holding its reunion in Williamstown, Massachusetts. These two poems, written by him by an undergraduate in Williams College, are now printed by his class as a loving tribute to his memory. End of Dedication This recording is in the public domain. Class Day Poem by Henry Rutgers Conger, read for LibriVox.org In the hush of the early summer, Neath the smile of the soft-dune sky, We who have lived together, Gather to say goodbye, And now with our labour ended, And the hours we may linger a few, We kneel for our mother's 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. Sons of my four years' 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 he 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. Are 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 labour, 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. From the quiet heart of the mountains Ye must take journey down To the world that is ever careless Of the skirts of the scholar's 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 not 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. He that is strong shall conquer. He that is weak must die. Therefore that he may merit Men's praise when your heads are grey, Playing to the good ye have gathered From my teaching that ends today. 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 to hold firm and clear, The first is he that would win must work. The second thou shalt not fear. For the vices of a strong man Are pardoned in the end. But he that is born a coward, Hath neither foe nor friend. Be tender and quick to pity At the sight of another's 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. High in the purple mountains, Where the world's 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 currs that cringe and shirk, Asking no greater pleasure Than the sight of his finished work. Ye who today must follow, Wither 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 today, And a mother's blessing Go with you to help you on your way. Williamstown, June 20th, 1899 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Purple Hills by Henry Rutgers Conger Read for LibriVox.org Air Annie Lyle Dying Echoes fill the valley, Herodding the night, As we gather on the campus In the waning light. In the west the sun sets crimson, All the heaven fills, And its glory rims the edges Of our Purple Hills. Fast the lengthening shadows gather, Sunset dims to gray, And the calling winds of evening Through the branches play, With the far stars pale above them, While days tumult stills, Watching us who know and love them, Stand the Purple Hills, Safe within our little valley, From the outer strife, Our enshrined, the happy memories Of our college life. And when darker days have found us Mid this old world's hills, Still our hearts will turn with gladness To our Purple Hills. Williamstown, 1898 End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. End of Two Poems by Henry Rutgers Conger.