The hearts they bred in Cambridge held

The virtues of those days of eld:
Narrow it may be, stern and grim,
Yet bas'd on principle, not whim;
Lofty as hope and deep as faith,
And stronger than the might of Death,
And firm enough on which to build
Town, state, or nation, as God will'd.
Religion, learning, civic life,

To drive, not drift to be, not seem
At God's command to enter strife
These were their aims, few but supreme.

We, sapp'd by dubious modern ease, Pity the Founders on their knees; Unmindful of the endless gain,

We overstress the fleeting pain,

Their sighs for friends and pleasures left, Their fight with famine, cold and thirst,

Mere fugitives, despis'd, bereft,

Amid a wilderness accurst.

Bereft? Upon that forest hem

Jehovah gave his sign to them!

Along the lonely Charles they heard
The Prophets speak Redemption's word!

Here David's loud hosannas rang, Here Calvin preached and Milton sang! For them the actual barren scene

Was but a phantom Palestine

A stage where they were doom'd to play
Sin's drama, in the Jewish way.

The hosts of Heaven and hordes of Hell
Watch'd ev'ry act of ev'ry soul,
As if that single choice might knell
Bliss or perdition for the whole.

God's gladiators, they would scorn
Our pity, pitying us instead.

Would deem us languid creatures, born
Too late to know how heart and head
In holy vehemence can wed;

Too dull or passionless to feel
Faith's perfect, incandescent zeal;
Too blind to see the Lord on high
Look down and judge humanity,
As thro' a window in the sky.

II. THE INHERITANCE.

Such were the Founders when they planted here
The home that we inherit, title clear.

Not empire, loot nor commerce urged their quest,
But the one reason, elemental, best,
That man shall have untrammel'd ways to God,
Which if he have not, man remains a clod.

This be their praise, thro' all the years to come
What was a wilderness they made a home,
A home, the surest masterpiece of man!
Statesmen may scheme and conquerors may plan,
Their craft will fail, their legion'd power fade,
Unless upon that rock their trust be laid.

That is the cornerstone whereon mankind,

Building tow'rds Heaven, have left the beast behind; Harm that, the beast returns. The Founders show'd How rudest hemlock huts could be the abode

Of holy love that shunneth palaces

The shrine of life-long sweetest privacies -
The altar to whose flame Self hourly brings

Its joyful sacrifice the sacred springs

Of virtues and affections that control

Our hearts thro' life, and keep them pure and whole.

Now thrice three generations testify

The Founders builded well: we pass and die,
But Cambridge keeps her glory as at first:
Here men are neighbors; here are nurst
Clean hearts, clear heads and wills inviolate.
Spurr'd by this migrant age men gad and roam,
Here let them learn the meaning of a home,
Bohemians, nomads never rear'd a state.

On this, our heart-free Feast of Gratitude,
Unto the Past be all our thanks renewed:
First, to the Founders; next, to ev'ry son
Who by his shining work or nature won
A nobler living for the common share:
Poets who prov'd that the diviner air
Of Poesy is here; the patriots true

Who with their conscience kept strict rendezvous;
Citizens, scholars, preachers - all who gave

Their souls for service.

- best, the women brave.

And we rejoice that many issues vast

Have touch'd our life, that here have pass'd
Events that shook the world; and dear we hold,
In pride and satisfactions manifold,

The College, eldest daughter of the Town,
Harvard, who sheds on Cambridge her renown.
Nations are wreck'd, and empires melt away;
Creeds rise and vanish; customs last their day;
Change seems the end of all; Time's current sweeps
Resistless, roaring, tow'rds the unknown deeps:
But like an island in the rapids set

The College stands; in vain the waters fret
Around her precinct consecrate to Truth;
She has the strength of ages and the youth
Of wisdom; free from sordid interest,
Her mission is to know and teach the best-
Not what men wish to hear, but what is true —
To guard the old, to greet and search the new.

O, rare our lot, and wonder-rich the dower
The Fates beyond desert upon us shower!
With gratitude, the coin of noble hearts,
Here would we honor those who made our parts

So pleasant-nameless benefactors gone,

Who truly liv'd, not to themselves alone.

III. OUR COVENANT.

The Past brings its gifts, and we take, for we may not refuse;

Or bitter or sweet, they have fallen unearn'd to our lot;

The bitter to be as a cordial draught, if we choose,

The sweet to be sweeter for sharing with them that have not.
But woe unto them that would make but a brag of the Past,
Accepting its gifts like a hoard they have license to spend;
Untrue to their promise, the hopes of the race they would blast;
A mock to the wise they shall live, and in shame they shall end.
But he that awakes to a hallowing sense of the due

We owe to our brothers and helpers that wrought and are dead
The builders of states that were free, the sages that knew,
The prophets that boldly bore witness, the martyrs that bled,
And they who bring joy without blemish, magicians of Art,
Revealers of Beauty and Love, that impassion the soul-
He thrills with the rush of a torrent of thanks in his heart,
But blushes that he, the unworthy, inherits the whole.
So much, overmuch! to receive from the givers unknown,
Now sunk out of Time beyond reach of his gratitude's call!
They taught him the Knowledge supreme, and he turns to his own,
To pay in his service to them what he owes unto all.

Ah, little avails it to garland the Past of our Town,
If pride be not chasten'd by thought of the duties unpaid:
The trust that the Fathers in piety handed us down
Have we loyally guarded, unharm'd, or diminish'd, betray'd?
Religion they gave-do we cherish the things that endure?
Do we estimate learning more precious than comfort or gold?
Has self left the citizen single in purpose and pure?
And over our prosperous homes breathes the spirit of old?
Not merely to guard unimpair'd is enough, but to add
Since treasure of character surely must dwindle, or grow
To add of our own, of our best, to uplift and make glad
The hearts of our Kin in that future we never shall know.
And this we resolve: we will mingle our more to the less-
The Past thro' our wills as a far-shedding glory shall shine-
Dear Town, that hast blest us as only a mother can bless,
We pledge thee anew our devotion! Our best shall be thine!

THE CHAIRMAN: In speaking of those who have given. fame to Cambridge for the literary side, there is the dear Oliver Wendell Holmes, who, whenever I saw him, always seemed to speak of Cambridge, and of Cambridge, and again of Cambridge; for there he was born and brought up, and though, for convenience, he resided in Boston, he always

called Cambridge the chief of his homes, and I think that Cambridge has a right to call him her Holmes. If we think of all these men, there is one characteristic that marks them all, and that is their patriotism, their love of country, their public spirit. You heard what President ELIOT said of Lowell. Of that cluster of men, two that he named are still with us. Both of them are also public-spirited and have done a great deal, given much of their time, for great public occasions. One of the two, when a clergyman in Worcester, heard of Anthony Burns being imprisoned in the Court House. He came down to Boston and joined in the attempt at rescue. When the Civil War broke out, he took charge of a regiment of colored soldiers, and went to the front, and we know what that means when he was to meet the Southern regiments on the battlefield. He is going to deliver to us to-night the chief address, the historical address of the evening. He needs from me no introduction: Colonel THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON.

ADDRESS OF THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON

I MUST, like my predecessors (if I could do it so well), go back in my memorials, go back into the past, at the risk of likening myself to a well-known Philadelphia diner-out, of whom it was said, I remember, that at the beginning of a dinner he could tell you, if necessary, his recollections of George Washington, and at the end of dinner he could tell you quite as much about Christopher Columbus.

I am not going quite so far back as my old friend Dr. McKenzie has gone, but I shall have to strike across his path at one point, and that I can do in reference to one of his own predecessors, and perhaps the most eminent among them, with some personal testimony that I have in regard to the tradition of that predecessor at a period long ago. It is a matter of absolute and trustworthy character, for it comes from my own mother, and it is a matter of unexceptionable freshness and charm from the fact that it is