Centennial

A hundred times the bells of BrownHave rung to sleep the idle summers,And still to-day clangs clamouring downA greeting to the welcome comers.

And far, like waves of morning, poursHer call, in airy ripples breaking,And wanders to the farthest shores,Her children's drowsy hearts awaking.

The wild vibration floats along,O'er heart-strings tense its magic plying,And wakes in every breast its songOf love and gratitude undying.

My heart to meet the summons leapsAt limit of its straining tether,Where the fresh western sunlight steepsIn golden flame the prairie heather.

And others, happier, rise and fareTo pass within the hallowed portal,And see the glory shining thereShrined in her steadfast eyes immortal.

What though their eyes be dim and dull,Their heads be white in reverend blossom;Our mothers smile is beautifulAs when she bore them on her bosom!

Her heavenly forehead bears no lineOf Time's iconolastic fingers,But o'er her form the grace divineOf deathless youth and wisdom lingers.

We fade and pass, grow faint and old,Till youth and joy and hope are banished,And still her beauty seems to foldThe sum of all the glory vanished.

As while Tithonus faltered onThe threshold of the Olympian dawnings,Aurora's front eternal shoneWith lustre of the myriad mornings.

So joys that slip like dead leaves down,And hopes burnt out that die in ashes,Rise restless from their graves to crownOur mother's brow with fadeless flashes.

And lives wrapped in traditions mistThese honoured halls to-day are haunting,And lips by lips long withered kissedThe sagas of the past are chanting.

Scornful of absence' envious barBROWN smiles upon the mystic meetingOf those her sons, who, sundered far,In brotherhood of heart are greeting;

Her wayward children wandering onWhere setting stars are lowly burning,But still in worship toward the dawnThat gilds their souls' dear Mecca turning;

Or those who, armed for God's own fight,Stand by His Word through fire and slaughter,Or bear our banner's starry lightFar-flashing through the Gulf's blue water.

For where one strikes for light and truth,The right to aid, the wrong redressing,The mother of his spirit's youthSheds o'er his soul her silent blessing.

She gained her crown a gem of flameWhen KNEASS fell dead in victory gory;New splendour blazed upon her nameWhen IVES' young life went out in glory!

Thus bright for ever may she keepHer fires of tolerant Freedom burning,Till War's red eyes are charmed to sleepAnd bells ring home the boys returning.

And may she shed her radiant truthIn largess on ingenuous comers,And hold the bloom of gracious youthThrough many a hundred tranquil summers!