Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, TOM REED'S SCHOOL DAYS, by EDWARD NOYES POMEROY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TOM REED'S SCHOOL DAYS, by                    
First Line: Tis often said and sung in prose and rhyme
Last Line: Renown's endowment to the ages trust.
Subject(s): Reed, Thomas Brackett (1839-1902); Statues


Read at the Unveiling of the Reed Statue at Portland, Maine, August 31, 1910.

'Tis often said and sung in prose and rhyme
That, recognizing an eternal plan,
Of all the fabrics from the loom of time,
The costliest and comeliest is man.

'Tis not the semblance we to-day unveil,
Nor yet the scene tradition will recall,
'Tis not the massive bronze that will prevail,
It is—it is the great original.

His presence dominated hall and street;
His voice at need rang stormy music then;
His epigrams we oft and oft repeat;
We meet and greet no more this man of men.

But faithful memory conducts us back—
To far-off scenes of trouble, touched with joy,
Along the lengthened decades' tangled track—
Back to the schoolroom, where we find the boy.

Unspoiled by praise, unvexed by fortune's frown;
Unlike his kind, for like him who could be?
Unknown as yet, here in his native town;
A lad desirous of fame is he.

But droll the drawl when, having made his bow,
The new declaimer has the stage and floor;
And deep the seer's dream revealing now
The houses hushed, the tables on a roar;

The nation's fierce arena of debate;
The staying of her gladiators' game;
The recognition legislators wait;
A people's plaudits and the world's acclaim.

'Tis in the schoolroom that the strife begins,—
Self against self, with conquest or defeat;
'Tis here the baser or the nobler wins
When, issue joined, these adversaries meet.

But dauntless, though his first endeavors fail,
And habit, regnant long, resists control;
Regarding not if ridicule assail,
Ambition's thrill he nurtures in his soul.

No blatant boast of arrogance is here,
Nor prophecy of battles to be won;
The day is seized and, scorning failure's fear,
The struggle, strenuous and long, is on,

Wherein, though once impatient of restraint,
He flinched from discipline's refining fire,
He yet shall win, surrendering complaint,
The self-control that subjugates desire.

Regarding loss, in honor's service, gain;
To one high purpose stubbornly he clings;
Resists allurements that have heroes slain;
Nor heeds her song, whatever siren sings.

So, as the scroll of midnight is unrolled,
Some tireless searcher, with illumined eye,
Resolving mysteries the stars enfold,
Lets fate, and chaos, and the hours go by.

The harp of life awakens at his touch;
The gleam of genius steals into his face;
He bides his time to gather in his clutch
The long-denied ambitions of his race.

Ah, ill for one, the favorite of fate,
Of gifts exalted or a noble name,
Whom sloth and pleasure charm, and enervate,
And bring forgetfulness in place of fame.

But well for him, in cruel fortune brave,
Who molds condition, like the potter's clay;
Whose wit and wisdom overmatch the grave,
And hold the foe oblivion at bay.

Majestic Shade, where thou abidest now
Beyond defeat, decrepitude, and dust,
Accept thy schoolmate's laurel for thy brow;
Renown's endowment to the ages trust.





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