  [The following poem, from Counselor W. C. Wilkinson’s volume, recently published by Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons, tells the story of the author’s first meeting with a friend of his, who is also a friend of every reader of The Chautauquan—the Rev. John H. Vincent, D.D. The friendship thus formed, not less than twenty years ago, endures yet between the two as vivid as ever. It is bearing fruit not then anticipated in the associated labors which they perform for the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.] Thorwaldsen’s Lion, gray and grim, Rock in his rocky lair, On who would rend his lily from him, Glowered out with dying glare. I mused awhile the sculptured stone, My pilgrim staff in hand; Then turned to hold my way alone, And lone, from land to land. But God had other hap in store: Even as I turned I met A manly eye ne’er seen before— I seem to see it yet! Vanish the changeful years between, Like morning-smitten rack; As, morning-like, that crescent scene Comes dawning swiftly back. Again, above, that mellow noon And soft Swiss heaven doth yearn; Frowns still on us in pilgrim shoon The Lion of Lucerne. Once more each other’s hands we take, The pass-words fly betwixt; Though slack the speed that speech may make, When heart with heart is mixed. I see the green Swiss lake asleep With Righi in her dream; We cross the lake, we climb the steep To watch the world agleam. The paths are many up the slope, And many of the mind, We catch the flying clue of hope, And wander where they wind. The paths are fresh, the pastures green, In walk or talk traversed; The Alpland meadow’s grassy sheen With many a streamlet nursed, And the fair meadows of the soul Forever fresh with streams From the long heights of youth that roll, The Righi-Culm of dreams. We speak of summits hard to gain, And, gained, still hard to keep; Of pleasure bought with glorious pain, Of tears ’twas heaven to weep; And of a blessed Heavenly Friend Who, struggling with us still, Would break the blows else like to bend The lonely human will; Or with some sudden vital touch, At pinch of sorest need, Would lift our little strength to much, And energize our deed. Our talk flows on, through strain or rest, As up the steep we go; Each untried track of thought seems best In hope’s prelusive glow. We loiter while the sun makes haste, But we shall yet sit down To watch the gleams of sunset chased From mountain crown to crown. Too long, too late—the splendor went Or e’er we reached the goal; But a splendor had dawned that will never be spent That day on either soul. decorative line
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