Should not the reaper be.

Let him who after a while, when I shall pass, may dwell In my sweet close, 'neath my dear roof instead,

Enjoy the harvest, pluck the fruit as well

For every other man is other me."

II.

And praise be theirs who plan

And fix the corner-stone

Of house or fane devote to God or man,

Not for themselves alone.

-Not for themselves alone,

The Pilgrim Fathers of the Western Wood,
Not only for themselves and for their own,
Came hither planting in heroic mood
The seeds of civil-graced society,

Repeating their New England by the sea

In the green wilderness.

From church and school, with church and school they came To kindle here their consecrated flame:

With the high passion for humanity,

The largest light, the amplest liberty,

(No man a slave, unless himself enthrall),

The key of knowledge in the door of Truth

For eager-seeking youth,

With priceless opportunity for all,

(The tree of knowledge no forbidden tree,)—
Free speech and conscience free.
-Honor and praise no less

Be theirs, who in the mighty forest, then
The haunt of savage men,

And tenanted by ravening beasts of prey

Only less fierce than they,

(The fever-chill, the hunger pang they bore,
Dangers of day and darkness at their door,)
Abode, and in the panther-startled shade
The deep foundations of an empire laid.
The corner-stone they put

(Where he the patriot sage, with foresight keen,
Its fittest site on some vague chart had seen)
Of the fair Place we know-

Their capital of New Connecticut.

In the green solitude,

A hundred years ago,

The founder stood.

III.

Hark, the first ax stroke in the clearing! Lo,

The log house with its civilizing gleam

By yonder Indian stream!

Such was the small beginning far away
We celebrate to-day.

IV.

There were two prophecies. He the founder, he
Whose statue stands in yonder Public Square,

(He only came and went:

The city itself is his best monument,)
That lonely evening gleam,
Reflected heavenly fair

In the still Indian stream,

He saw, and prophesied,
With home-returning eyes:

A peaceful forest-shadowed town should rise,

Here by this azure Inland Sea,

With clustered church spires, happy roofs half-seen Through leafy avenues of ambush green,

And school house belfry-such he erewhile knew,

And the fond picture homesick memory drew,

In far New England by the Atlantic tide.

It was not long before the prophecy

Had grown reality:

The harnessed elements, with that elusive sprite,

The errand-running Slave, with world-compelling might,
Obedient to a man, and hurrying to and fro,

Wherever he would send, wherever wish to go!

In every house at night

The enchanted lamp alight,

In each frequented way,

Its keen celestial ray

New wonders of a new world, they rise from day to day;
And all repeated, all reflected show

In the fair Place we know!

-A sigh for their sad fate,
For those red tribes, so late

Tenants-at-will of their vast hunting ground,

That had nor mete nor bound

In the deep wood around.

Him, lord the forest knew,

On Cuyahoga's stream where glides his bark canoe?

We have not banished quite their names from stream and wood, We cannot banish quite their ghosts that will intrude;

We cannot exorcise

Their still reproachful eyes.

Pity we must their fate

The inexorable doom

That gave our fathers room;

That they must fade,

Shadowlike, into shade,

So we might celebrate the city's founding here:

That they must disappear,

So we might celebrate

Their mighty wilderness our mighty State,

Among the brightest of her galaxy,

(With New Connecticut her chiefest pride),
Mother of famous soldiers, statesmen tried,

(New mother of Presidents, her well-beloved,
In camp and council proved).

-One time an alien fleet was hovering near,
(Let us be strong, and well protect our own!)
When on yon shore the school boy at his play
Stooped down with hand at ear

By the lake-side to hear

The guns at Put-in-Bay.

War summoned then and since again her sons. (City and State, with common sympathies, Unite in claiming these)

Her Past is bitter-sweet.

Heroic grief, heroic gladness meet,

With memories proud in monumental stone,

In civic square and street;

Of him that hero of an earlier day;

Of those her later, now her aureoled ones,
Her eager youth who went

To battle as to tennis tournament,

Not for themselves alone,

Not only for themselves and for their own

For all men, us and ours!

Returning but in sacred memories,

That ever green are kept and sweet with flowers;
Of him the kindly neighbor, cordial friend,

(Now far uplifted from familiar ways,

Blameless and high above the stain of praise,)
Down-stricken at the Helm of Highest Trust.
(She keeps his honored dust.)

And many another worthy even as they,
Banded to sweep the nightmare dark and dire,

If with cyclonic broom-with earthquake, flood, and fireFrom our great land away.

-Old griefs and glories blend.

VI.

Into the future-who shall look
Into that cloud-clasped Book?
What strong miraculous spark
Shall pierce that deep-walled dark?
Whoever forward looks shall see,
Mayhap, a vision, an enthusiast's dream,
Of this or of another century --

The flower of each together here as one
Blossoming in the sun.

Whoever looks shall see, reflected there
The features of her Past, oh, not less fair;
The features of her Present, even more bright:

A city that shall seem

To bear aloft and hold a steadfast light:
With ampler domes of Science, Learning, Art,
In academic groves apart;

Earth-blessing commerce at her every door,
With sails that come and go for evermore;
The earthly Titan's sweltering toil made light
By the invisible heaven-descended might.
Goodfellow or frolic sprite:

With myriad mechanisms faëry-nice,
Beneficent art and delicate artifice-

All human goods and graces priceless wrought

In every house for nought

But a mere wish or thought;

The enchanted statue's grace

In every market place

But Nature breathing ever, everywhere,

Her breath from flower and leaf, from park and pasture fair. Streets that are highways to green fields and woods,

With charmed solitudes,

Whither the workman pent
Flies from his toil, content:

With hanging gardens of delight

For all men's sense and sight,

Where they may see the dancing fountain's flower,

Faërily silvered, wavering in the moon,

And hear the wild bird sing his vesper hymn in June,

Through the still twilight hour.

In that bright city then,

Himself one of a myriad multitude,

Shall the Good Citizen,

Who loves his fellow-men,

Who makes self-interest work for common good,
Dwell, and make beautiful his dwelling-place,

Striving to keep his city pure and clean,
With avenues to heaven its walls between.
He holds his vote a sacred gift and trust,
And every neighbor's sacred as his own,

Not bossed, or bought, or sold,
For bribe of public place or private gold.
He knows his public duty, will not shirk
His burden of public work;

Public Affairs, his pleasure, study, pride,
Rightly to know and not ignore but guide,
Not leaving to ignorant, faithless hands to rule
City and court and school.

He gives his hand and heart