Christopher Pearse Cranch

“ Makes music in ourselves.
We greet him here, still young in wit and song,
His hair unbleached, his eye undimmed, his frame
Robust; a scholar ripe, a teacher strong,
A bard the ages claim.
We pledge the generous heart, the exuberant soul,
No grave professor's mask can change or hide. ”

“ Their quivers desolate.
At fifty, scholars cease to dream, whose youth
Teemed with live thoughts, and generous hopes of man;
All influx fresh of beauty and of truth
Shut out as by a ban:
Cramped by a creed that bolts its windows down
Against the century's light and vital air,—
Their dogmas shaped by some provincial town,
Their very gains a snare;
Life's best aroma gone, when years should claim
The boon of calmest thought and wildest scope:
The ring without the gem; a faded name ”