College of William and Mary - Colonial Echo Yearbook (Williamsburg, VA)

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Senior poem. Across the isle of song, a gentle breeze, Bearing melodious strains wliere ' er it went Played, as on liarps, upon tliL- tuneful trees. With phantom hands, and ever to the music blent Tlie sounds of many waters from whose roar Came the clear voices of the bards of yore. Though devious ways, 1 followed the strange sound Through rocky passes, over cliff and crag, Down meadows where the violets abound ; By marshes bordered with the reed and flag. Where dew-empearled lilies kiss the stream. And wake the water from its placid dream. 1 followed ever where the music led, And wondered at its mystic, magic power ; As sweet the voices at the bards long dead Soothed into sleep all sorrow of the hour. And made the sadne.ss of my soul to cease Till Joy, light-winged, led me on in peace. Followed through fields where gentle pansies grow, And sweetest lilies of the valley bloom : Where ' mid the glossy leaves magnolias blow. And rare carnations waft their rich perfume : Great fields with golden buttercups alight, And daisies like a rolling sea of white. Till I had wandered to an olden cave Mantled by ancient ivy clambering o ' er, From whence the music came, now gay, now grave. Low as a rill, or loud as tempest roar: Till like a symphony it swelled so grand It seemed an ocean dashing on the strand.

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many familiar faces were absent. This, impressing upon our minds that the chances of a college student ' s success is infinitely small, was an incen- tive that aroused all our latent powers, and for two -ears we labored incessantly. During this period our individuality was developed, our characters were formed, and our destinies were irrevocably fixed. Once more, and for the last time, we came together, but only ten. We came, not as formerly, members of an amalgamated body; but as individual members of a body in which the personality of each member, rather than the characteristics of the class, is prominent. We cannot properly be called a cla.ss for we are representative types of the great classes of men. Among our members are found the optimist and the pessimist, the philosopher and the fool, the statesman and the politician, the educator and the farmer. But for convenience we are organized into a class and called Seniors. As Seniors, we are striving for the precious and much-coveted degree ; but like the will-o ' -the-wisp it evades our grasp, and, by its flickering light, leads us on in pursuit of its alluring enchantments. We are constantly tantalized by the thought that unkind fate may deny us the honor of the success for which we have striven so long. But to fail is not to lose ; and the thought that we are well equipped to enter upon the duties of life is a balm that heals our wounded spirits. We are strong in the consciousness of the power that we have acquired, and of our preparation to go forth in our chosen spheres, whether in the whirlpools of social convulsion or in the eddies of a quiet life. Historian. 22

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Then for a time the music ceased, and lo ! Forth from the cave a white-robed maiden rame. She bore within her hand the silver bow Of great Apollo, god of tmieful fame, A wondrous beauty lit her sybil face And to her form there clung a mystic grace. Priestess, I cried, of the Farshooting One ! Sweet Calliope or whate ' er thy name ; Grant me this boon ere yet thy lord shall run To other lands to put the stars to shame; Ere yet upon life ' s weary way I start Teach thou a lesson to my fearful heart. A little band of soldiers yet untried Awaiting but the bugle call of life. Brave as the bravest that have fought and died And ready for the hardship and the strife. Do thou, O priestess, lift thy voice and pray To great Apollo that they win the day. The sybil heard and, speaking, raised her head, Wherefore, O mortal, comest thou to break The pleasant slumbers of the tuneful dead Men long have mocked at song and for my sake They sacrifice no longer as of old, Their lyres are broken; Phoebus fane is cold. Yet since thou comest to the isle of song, Apollo bid ' st the oracle to speak. The message heed, nor e ' er repeat it wrong. Lest on thy head the god his vengeance wreak. Hark! Hark! for I Apollo ' s lyre shall string, ' T is thine to hear and heed what I do sing. Lo ! what a splendor fills the eastern sky : Hark! loud and clear sounds out the bugle call. A soldier band prepared to do and die; To glorious stand or gloriously to fall. Starts like a caravan toward the West, Each with unblemished ' scutcheon on his breast. 24