Ode for the Hundredth Anniversary of Lawrenceville School

The British bard who looked on Eton's walls,Endeared by distance in the pearly grayAnd soft aerial blue that ever fallsOn English landscape with the dying day,Beheld in thought his boyhood far away,Its random raptures and its festivalsOf noisy mirth,The brief illusion of its idle joys,And mourned that none of these can stayWith men, whom life inexorably callsTo face the grim realities of earth.His pensive fancy pictured there at playFrom year to year the careless bands of boys,Unconscious victims kept in golden state,While haply they awaitThe dark approach of disenchanting Fate,To hale them to the sacrificeOf Pain and Penury and Grief and Care,Slow-withering Age, or Failure's swift despair.Half-pity and half-envy dimmed the eyesOf that old poet, gazing on the sceneWhere long ago his youth had flowed serene,And all the burden of his ode was this:"Where ignorance is bliss,'Tis folly to be wise."

But not for us, O plaintive elegist,Thine epicedial tone of sad farewellTo joy in wisdom and to thought in youth!Our western Muse would keep her trystWith sunrise, not with sunset, and foretellIn boyhood's bliss the dawn of manhood's truth.

O spirit of the everlasting boy,Alert, elate,And confident that life is good,Thou knockest boldly at the gate,In hopeful hardihood,Eager to enter and enjoyThy new estate.

Through the old house thou runnest everywhere,Bringing a breath of folly and fresh air.Ready to make a treasure of each toy,Or break them all in discontented mood;Fearless of Fate,Yet strangely fearful of a comrade's laugh;Reckless and timid, hard and sensitive;In talk a rebel, full of mocking chaff,At heart devout conservative;In love with love, yet hating to be kissed;Inveterate optimist,And judge severe,In reason cloudy but in feeling clear;Keen critic, ardent hero-worshipper,Impatient of restraint in little ways,Yet ever ready to conferOn chosen leaders boundless power and praise;Adventurous spirit burning to exploreUntrodden paths where hidden danger lies,And homesick heart looking with wistful eyesThrough every twilight to a mother's door;Thou daring, darling, inconsistent boy,How dull the world would beWithout thy presence, dear barbarian,And happy lord of high futurity!Be what thou art, our trouble and our joy,Our hardest problem and our brightest hope!And while thine elders lead thee up the slopeOf knowledge, let them learn from teaching theeThat vital joy is part of nature's plan,And he who keeps the spirit of the boyShall gladly grow to be a happy man.

What constitutes a school?Not ancient halls and ivy-mantled towers,Where dull traditions ruleWith heavy hand youth's lightly springing powers;Not spacious pleasure courts,And lofty temples of athletic fame,Where devotees of sportsMistake a pastime for life's highest aim;Not fashion, nor renownOf wealthy patronage and rich estate;No, none of these can crownA school with light and make it truly great.But masters, strong and wise,Who teach because they love the teacher's task,And find their richest prizeIn eyes that open and in minds that ask;And boys, with heart aglowTo try their youthful vigour on their work,Eager to learn and grow,And quick to hate a coward or a shirk:These constitute a school,--A vital forge of weapons keen and bright,Where living sword and toolAre tempered for true toil or noble fight!But let not wisdom scornThe hours of pleasure in the playing fields:There also strength is born,And every manly game a virtue yields.Fairness and self-control,Good-humour, pluck, and patience in the race,Will make a lad heart-wholeTo win with honour, lose without disgrace.Ah, well for him who gainsIn such a school apprenticeship to life:With him the joy of youth remainsIn later lessons and in larger strife!

On Jersey's rolling plain, where Washington,In midnight marching at the headOf ragged regiments, his army ledTo Princeton's victory of the rising sun;Here in this liberal land, by battle wonFor Freedom and the ruleOf equal rights for every child of man,Arose a democratic school,To train a virile race of sons to bearWith thoughtful joy the name American,And serve the God who heard their father's prayer.No cloister, dreaming in a world remoteFrom that real world wherein alone we live;No mimic court, where titled names denoteA dignity that only worth can give;But here a friendly house of learning stood,With open door beside the broad highway,And welcomed lads to study and to playIn generous rivalry of brotherhood.A hundred years have passed, and Lawrenceville,In beauty and in strength renewed,Stands with her open portal still,And neither time nor fortune bringsTo her deep spirit any change of mood,Or faltering from the faith she held of old.Still to the democratic creed she clings:That manhood needs nor rank nor goldTo make it noble in our eyes;That every boy is born with royal right,From blissful ignorance to riseTo joy more lasting and more bright,In mastery of body and of mind,King of himself and servant of mankind.

Old Lawrenceville,Thy happy bellShall ring to-day,O'er vale and hill,O'er mead and dell,While far away,With silent thrill,The echoes rollThrough many a soul,That knew thee well,In boyhood's day,And loves thee still.

Ah, who can tellHow far away,Some sentinelOf God's good will,In forest cool,Or desert gray,By lonely pool,Or barren hill,Shall faintly hear,With inward ear,The chiming bell,Of his old school,Through darkness pealing;And lowly kneeling,Shall feel the spellOf grateful tearsHis eyelids fill;And softly prayTo Him who hears:God bless old Lawrenceville!