  [Graduating Poem, June 17, 1869.] Life is a cloud—e'en take it as you may; Illumine it with Pleasure's transient ray; Brighten its edge with Virtue; let each fold E'en by the touch of God be flecked with gold, While angel-wings may kindly hover near, And angel-voices murmur words of cheer, Still, life's a cloud, forever hanging nigh, Forever o'er our winding pathways spread, Ready to blacken on some saddened eye, And hurl its bolts on some defenseless head! Yes, there are lives that seem to know no ill; Paths that seem straight, with naught of thorn or hill. The bright and glorious sun, each welcome day, Flashes upon the flowers that deck their way, And the soft zephyr sings a lullaby, 'Mid rustling trees, to please the ear and eye; And all the darling child of fortune needs, And all his dull, half-slumbering caution heeds, While fairy eyes their watch above him keep, Is breath to live and weariness to sleep. But life's a cloud! and soon the smiling sky May wear the unwelcome semblance of a frown, And the fierce tempest, madly rushing by, May raise its dripping wings, and strike him down! When helpless infancy, for love or rest, Lies nestling to a mother's yearning breast, While she, enamored of its ways and wiles As mothers only are, looks down and smiles, And spies a thousand unsuspected charms In the sweet babe she presses in her arms, While he, the love-light kindled in his eyes, Sends to her own, electrical replies, A ray of sunshine comes for each caress, From out the clear blue sky of happiness. But life's a cloud! and soon the smiling face The frowns and tears of childish grief may know, And the love-language of the heart give place To the wild clamor of a baby's woe. The days of youth are joyful, in their way; Bare feet tread lightly, and their steps are gay. Parental kindness grades the early path, And shields it from the storm-king's dreaded wrath. But there are thorns that prick the infant flesh, And bid the youthful eyes to flow afresh, Thorns that maturer nerves would never feel, With wounds that bleed not less, that soon they heal. When we look back upon our childhood days, Look down the long and sweetly verdant ways Wherein we gayly passed the shining hours, We see the beauty of its blooming flowers, We breathe its fresh and fragrant air once more, And, counting all its many pleasures o'er, And giving them their natural place of chief, Forget our disappointments and our grief. Sorrows that now were light, then weighed us down, And claimed our tears for every surly frown. For life's a cloud, e'en take it as we will, The changing wind ne'er banishes or lifts; The pangs of grief but make it darker still, And happiness is nothing but its rifts. There is a joy in sturdy manhood still; Bravery is joy; and he who says, I WILL, And turns, with swelling heart, and dares the fates, While firm resolve upon his purpose waits, Is happier for the deed; and he whose share Is honest toil, pits that against dull care. And yet, in spite of labor, faith, or prayer, Dark clouds and fearful o'er our paths are driven; They take the shape of monsters in the air, And almost shut our eager gaze from heaven! Disease is there, with slimy, loathsome touch, With hollow, blood-shot eyes and eager clutch, Longing to strike us down with pangs of pain, And bind us there, with weakness' galling chain. Ruin is there, with cunning ambush laid, Waiting some panic in the ranks of trade, Some profitless endeavor, or some trust By recreant knave abused, to snatch the crust From out the mouths of them we love the best, And bring gaunt hunger, an unwelcome guest. Disgrace is there, of honest look bereft, Truth in his right hand, falsehood in his left, Pride in his mouth, the devil in his eye, His garment truth, his cold black heart a lie, Forging the bolts to blast some honored name; Longing to see some victim wronged or wrong; To see him step into the pool of shame, Or soiled by loved ones that to him belong. A dark cloud hovers over every zone— The cloud of ignorance. The great unknown, Defying comprehension, still hangs low Above our feeble minds. When we who now Have stumbled 'neath the ever-varying load That marks the weary student's royal road, Have hurried over verbs in headlong haste, And various thorny paths of language traced; Have run our muddled heads, with rueful sigh, 'Gainst figures truthful, that yet seemed to lie; Have peeped into the Sciences, and learned How much we do not know; have bravely turned Our guns of eloquence on forest trees, And preached grave doctrines to the wayward breeze; When we have done all this, the foggy cloud, With scarce a rift, is still above us bowed; And we are children, on some garden's verge, Groping for flowers the opposing wall beneath, Who, flushed and breathless, may at last emerge, With a few scanty blossoms for a wreath. But never was a cloud so thick and black, But it might some time break, and on its track The glorious sun come streaming. Never, too, So but its threads might bleach to lighter hue, Was sorrow's mantle of so deep a dye. And he who, peering at the troubled sky, Looks past the clouds, or looks the cloud-rifts through, Or, finding none, remembers their great worth, And strikes them for himself, is that man who Shows the completest wisdom of this earth. When one stands forth in Reason's glorious light, Stands in his own proud consciousness of right, Laments his faults, his virtues does not boast, Studies all creatures—and himself the most— Knowing the way wherewith his faults to meet, Or, vanquished by them, owning his defeat, He pays the penalty as should true men, And pitches battle with the foe again; When, giving all their proper due and heed, He yet has power, when such shall be the need, To go his way, unshackled, true, and free, And bid the world go hanged, if needs must be, He strikes a rift
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