Charles Edward Putney
An Appreciation
Published by the
Charles E. Putney Memorial Association
What delightful hosts are they—
Life and Love!
Lingeringly I turn away,
This late hour, yet glad enough
They have not withheld from me
Their high hospitality.
So, with face lit with delight
And all gratitude, I stay
Yet to press their hands and say,
"Thanks,—So fine a time! Good night."
—James Whitcomb Riley
FOREWORD
This memorial to a great Vermont educator is the happy thought of one of his pupils, Miss Caroline S. Woodruff. The idea immediately found favor wherever it was known that such a tribute was contemplated. An organization was perfected known as "The Charles E. Putney Memorial," to arrange for the publication of this book. Hon. Charles W. Gates of Franklin, Vermont, was selected as chairman, and the preliminary expenses of the enterprise were taken care of by a finance committee consisting of Hon. F. W. Plaisted of Augusta, Me., Mrs. Fletcher D. Proctor of Proctor, and J. F. Cloutman of Farmington, N. H. The committee in charge of securing the material for the book and its publication were Miss Caroline S. Woodruff of St. Johnsbury, Rolfe Cobleigh of Boston, and Arthur F. Stone of St. Johnsbury. The publication committee realize that there are many former pupils of Mr. Putney who would have been glad to have contributed to this memorial, but believe that the tributes in the following pages are representative of the sentiments of all who sat under his inspiring teaching, and are stronger and better men and women because of his marked influence upon their lives.
TO CHARLES E. PUTNEY
On His Seventy-fifth Birthday
February 26, 1915
Still, still a summer day comes to my call,—
A room wide-windowed, bright with girls and boys,
A wrinkled Homer craning from the wall,
A bee-like murmuring of ai's and oi's;
And you, a king, dark-bearded, on your throne,—
A king of gentle bearing and soft speech,
No scepter ringing and no trumpet blown,
But nature's own authority to teach.
A stranger-lad I steal into my place
And five and thirty years are quickly gone.
The same sweet balsam breathes upon my face,
The old Hellenic brook is purling on.
See with how bright a chain you hold us true:
We that would think of youth must think of you.
Wendell Phillips Stafford.
BIOGRAPHICAL
Charles Edward Putney, the son of David and Mary Putney, was born at Bow, New Hampshire, February 26, 1840. He was one of fourteen children, of whom ten lived to grow to manhood and womanhood. David Putney was a farmer, and Mr. Putney's early years were spent on the farm. He attended district school and went later to Colby Academy, teaching district schools from time to time, and preparing himself to enter Dartmouth College, which he was about to do when the Civil War broke out.
He enlisted in the Thirteenth New Hampshire Volunteers, and later became a sergeant. He was in the war over three years and took part in the battles of Fredericksburg, siege of Suffolk, Port Walthal, Swift Creek, Kingsland Creek, Drewrys Bluff, Cold Harbor, Petersburg, Fort McConhie, Fort Harrison, and Richmond. He was one of the first four men to enter Richmond after the surrender.
At the conclusion of the war he entered Dartmouth College, and was graduated with high rank in 1870. Directly after his graduation he was married to Abbie M. Clement of Norwich, Vermont, who died in 1901. He taught in Norwich until 1873, when he became assistant principal in St. Johnsbury Academy under Mr. Homer T. Fuller, whom he succeeded in the principalship. In 1896 he resigned on account of ill health. He went to Massachusetts and became superintendent of schools in the Templeton district, where he remained until the spring of 1901, when he took up his work in the Burlington High School. He died in Burlington at the home of his daughter, February 3, 1920, after an illness of two weeks.
DR. SMART AT COLLEGE ST. CHURCH AT THE FUNERAL OF MR. PUTNEY
It takes a man to adorn any calling; callings require or bring special fitness, but manhood crowns the fitness, gives it added scope, completeness, power and beauty—rejoicing the heart. Good doctors, good lawyers, good men of affairs, good teachers, are better if they are beyond reckoning. Wisdom is an intellectual thing, a property of the mind, but when it is perfect the heart pours through it as the rivers flowed through paradise. A poem in the Scriptures says that Wisdom created the world, not as a task, but as a pastime. Speaking of God, Wisdom says, "I was daily his delight, sporting before him, sporting in his habitable earth." When one sees a man investing his work with personal charm, one knows the difference between a photograph and a painting—a photograph with its hard, incisive fidelities, and a painting with its living colors, its appeal to feeling, its lovely beauty, something luxuriously human in it. A teacher has a special reason for floating his service, if it may be, upon a stream of personal worth and personal charm, because he deals with children and youth who respond to what he is, as well as to what he teaches. Daniel says, "The teachers shall shine as the stars." Our friend here had much of the oak, much of the granite in his make-up; something also of the morning scattered upon the hills, something of the son of consolation. He mellowed with the years. He planted climbing roses beside his strength, and in the heart of it a tender and delicate consideration; some of you loved him more and more to the end.
In his early youth he had the happy fortune to serve his country during the Civil War. The ardors of that crisis glowed in his heart to the end; the scorching heat gone, the flashing lightning gone, but never the remaining glory of those years when he ennobled his young manhood by risking his life for his country. He might have said what Galahad said of the Holy Grail,
"... Never yet
Hath ...
This Holy thing fail'd from my side nor come
Covered, but moving with me night and day."
He was a faithful member of Stannard Post, and long its commander. He kept the Friday night of the Post meeting for the Post. Every Sunday afternoon he passed my house, going to visit a comrade whom illness kept at home. And he was a religious man—a Christian man. Faith was mixed with his life. God strengthened him with strength in his soul. He was a deacon of this church, and while his strength permitted, a teacher in the Sunday school. He lived by his faith, and he thought about it. It was one of the great interests of his mind. There is plenty in every man's experience to limit him, to confine him, to make him small and petty. This man had at least two enthusiasms which lifted and broadened his spirit, his patriotism and his religion. The last word he spoke was the name of his native town in New Hampshire, Bow. A great light came into his eyes with the name, as if he saw the place in a vision. He loved his old home and visited it when he could. He went back at last in imagination and desire to the roothold of his life, and that was well and fair, for he represented the fineness of that New England inheritance. One perhaps should not boast, but at least one may say that it is a goodly inheritance of solidity, fidelity, seriousness, fitness to live in a community and take part in its affairs.
It is said of Elisha that he took up the mantle of Elijah. The mantle was a symbol of the spirit; it had become almost a personal thing. Elijah had wrapped his face in it when he stood in the cave's mouth and heard the small, still voice of the Lord. He cast it upon Elisha when he called him from his plow to be a prophet. He smote the waters with it, when he went to the place where he was to go up in the whirlwind, and they were divided hither and thither so that they went over on dry ground. When he went up in the storm, his mantle fell on Elisha. That mantle lay close to the secrets of the prophet's heart; he wrapped his face in it when God spoke to him. It was the symbol of his influence; he called Elisha with it. It was the symbol of his power; he divided the waters with it. A mantle lies upon the shoulders. It may fit another as well as its owner. If it could be said that the mantle of this man has fallen upon the teachers of Burlington, he would need, he could desire, no other memorial.
LETTER TO MR. PUTNEY'S GRANDDAUGHTER, MARY LANE
South Weymouth, Mass.,
February 6, 1920.
Dear Mary:
May I tell you a little story? It has largely to do with one whom you loved and who loved you very much. You called him "Grandpa."
The story begins sixty-four years ago this coming spring, when two brothers, a big brother of sixteen years and a little brother of eight years, started out together one morning for school. They were going to attend a private school, for a few weeks, in a strange district about two miles from their home. The little brother would have been afraid to go that long distance alone; but he had all confidence in his big brother, whom he loved very dearly.
They had not been in that school very long when the teacher discovered that the big brother was the best scholar he had. Very soon the teacher asked him to help him in his work. Do you think the big brother refused?
One day the teacher was ill and could not attend school. He sent word by one of his pupils that he wanted his best scholar to take charge of the school for the day. Well, that was a trying experience for a boy of sixteen; but that boy commanded the respect of all the pupils of that school; so he undertook the task and with wonderful success. He had no difficulty with any of the pupils although some of them were older than himself. Perhaps the little brother wasn't proud to have such a big brother! It was about this time that the little fellow began to notice how earnestly his older brother was trying to do right in every way; it made a great impression upon him.
The few weeks of private school ended and the big brother soon opened the summer term of school in his home district. In spite of his youth he was appointed teacher and all the people of the district seemed very glad. Among his pupils were little brother, two other brothers, and a sister.
The teacher was so successful in his work that the parents in the district wanted him to teach another and another term. He did so; but all the time he was studying to prepare himself for larger work. He took advantage of every opportunity to attend school for a term or two at a time in some academy, until he became fitted for college. Meanwhile he was deeply interested in his younger brothers and sister and doing all he could to help them along in their studies.
About the time he was sixteen years old he heard a voice that seemed to say to him, "Go, work in my vineyard!" That voice meant everything to him; he was eager, therefore, to obey it. To work in the vineyard meant doing good, helping others, being unselfish, giving strength and cheer when needed. We all know how well he did his work in the Master's vineyard and through how many years he sowed the good seed.
A few weeks ago, the little brother, to whom I have referred, was looking forward to the coming of big brother's eightieth birthday and wishing that he could give expression to something worthy of the brother and his wonderful life-work. While he knew that he was not equal to an ideal accomplishment of such a pleasant task, he made one of his attempts and wrote the few lines enclosed, finishing them a very few days before the sad news of Grandpa's fatal illness reached him. He has made no change in them, realizing that you will understand that he was fondly hoping that his eightieth birthday would find big brother in his usual health and strength. So, with a heart heavy with grief, yet full of loving and grateful memories of my dear big brother, I am telling you this little story and sending you the accompanying tribute to one of the best men that ever lived.
And now, with much love to yourself and all the members of your home, the little brother of sixty-four years ago wishes to sign himself
Your affectionate
Uncle Freeman.
And the Sheaves Are Still Coming In
"Go, work in my vineyard!" The Master spoke
To the list'ning heart of Youth;
"The world is my vineyard; go forth and sow
The Life-giving seed of Truth!"
And forth to the sowing, with ardent zeal
And a love for mankind akin
To the Master's own, he joyfully went,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
He quickened ambition's sluggish soil,
And freely scattered the seeds;
The blades spring up, and life takes on
A passion for worthy deeds.
New visions catch the opening eye,
Fresh purposes begin;
The sower sowed with a lavish trust,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
He turned deep furrows in shadowed soil,
Where the weeds of dark despair
Were the only growth; the seeds of Hope
He patiently planted there.
A harvesting of wheat appears
Where lately tares had been;
The sower in love had graciously sown,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
The years speed on; in manhood's glow
He is sowing with vigilant care;
There are fields that call for the Seed of Life,—
He is finding them everywhere.
He is steadfastly doing the Master's work,
Unheeding the clamor and din
Of a restless world; he quietly sows,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
At threescore years: does he stay his hand
In token of lessening powers?
He takes no note of vanishing time
Save to honor its golden hours.
He only kens 'tis the Master's wish
That his strength be given to win
The harvests of Truth; he scatters the seed,—
And the sheaves are still coming in.
Threescore and ten: he has surely laid
The burden of sowing down?
He is far afield and with glow of soul
Is wearing the years' bright crown.
In his zeal for service he does not ask
When the days of rest begin;
Enough to know there is seed to sow;
And the sheaves are still coming in.
And what of the sower at fourscore years?
Has the vineyard a place for him still?
In joy of service and glow of zeal
He is sowing with marvelous skill.
He has sown in faith through many years,
And rich have the harvests been;
His forward look is a look of trust,
For the sheaves are still coming in.
Ah! Brother, thy summons to riches' quest
Was the call of the Voice Divine;
Thou hast shaped thy will to the Master's word,
And Infinite wealth is thine.
'Twas thy constant aim, from the fields of Time,
Eternal treasures to win;
That aim was blessed; to thy lasting joy
The sheaves are still coming in.
And when thou art called from the toil of earth
To the larger service Above,
And shalt hear the Master's questioning voice,
In accents of Infinite Love,
"What is the measure of golden grain
Thou didst wrest from the fields of sin?"
The Angel of Record will testify,
"The sheaves are still coming in."
"Call him not old, although the flight of years
Has measured off the allotted term of life!
Call him not old, since neither doubts nor fears
Have quenched his hope throughout the long, long strife!
They are not old though days of youth have fled,
Who quaff the brimming cup of peace and joy!
They are not old who from life's hidden springs
Find draughts which still refresh but never cloy."
LETTERS RECEIVED ON MR. PUTNEY'S SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY
I am glad you are to have a birthday tomorrow. I feel sure that it will be a happy birthday. Your children and grandchildren will see to it that the day is properly celebrated.
It is a great pleasure to look back on the days spent in St. Johnsbury when your influence meant so much to us. You can never know how strongly your personality and your life influenced the boys and girls in the Academy, especially those of us who were away from home. Many of the things which you said to us, the time or occasion of saying them and the place too are very vividly recalled after thirty years. You in St. Johnsbury, four or five professors at Dartmouth and perhaps a half dozen other men, make up a small group of men who have given me most in the way of stimulation and encouragement. To express adequately my gratitude is impossible, but out of a full heart I do thank you and am glad of this opportunity to extend my best wishes to you for continued health and happiness.
Yours very sincerely,
David N. Blakely, '85.
You have been living in my life all these long years since the old St. Johnsbury Academy days.
That wonderful kindness with which you looked upon all our shortcomings has been the great example of kindness I have looked to all these days.
That wonderful equality of judgment with which you decided all our cases, has always remained unquestioned in my heart.
And that which most of all has influenced my life has been that wonderful quietness with which you have possessed your soul.
I am more grateful to you every day I live and more thankful for the years spent under your influence.
We are all to be congratulated because of this birthday. May you have many, many more and may you know better every year how much we all love you.
Yours most sincerely,
Mary Drew, '87.
Believing that the only real satisfaction to a teacher after all is the knowledge that somewhere down the years there sounds an echo of his effort, I am venturing to add my word of appreciation to you on your birthday.
There in your office and classroom I received, as have hundreds of others, the inspiration—the vision, if you will, of what life means—and there are no memories more hallowed than those of the associations at St. Johnsbury Academy. Year after year for thirty years I've watched the groups of young men and women leave the institution but never without a keener appreciation of what the years had meant to us.
Not for the first time do I say that whatever little success I may have had with young people is due in large measure to the help received at your hand, and with all my heart I thank you for your firm and gentle guidance, your paternal influence over us all, and most of all for your exemplary Christian character that never failed.
The best wish I can offer you today on your seventy-fifth birthday is that you may realize more and more what a mighty power for good you have been and are in the lives of an army of men and women today who once fell under your influence.
Very sincerely,
Caroline S. Woodruff, '84.
I wonder how many of us you can remember and whether any of our failings are still in your mind?
You only had me for a short time, but such as it was it completed my school work.
In fact it was my only schooling away from home. I am therefore able to recall vividly many impressions made on my mind during the time I was under your charge. I formed the impression that you were absolutely fair and honest with your scholars and that you expected no higher standard of conduct from them than you were practising every day. I can see you as you were then and wonder why, with such an example, we did not do better.
I do not say this because it is your seventy-fifth birthday but because it is true and I wish you to know that I realized it.
Seventy-five years of upright living comes to but very few and is a crown of glory more valuable than great wealth or political advancement and I most sincerely congratulate you on having achieved this end. May your remaining days be filled with content and happiness and may the expressions of appreciation and love that you are sure to receive at this time, bring to you a partial reward for all you have done in the past for your fellows.
Sincerely and lovingly yours,
G. H. Prouty.
Patey and I were speaking and writing some time ago about the seventy-fifth birthday. As the boys would say, "That is some birthday," and it is fitting that more than ordinary notice should be taken of it. I expressed a belief that expressions of loyalty and grateful remembrance were more to you than material things would be. I hope the expression will be as spontaneous at this time as it has been from year to year all through your service. I have never known in any other case such a continued and universal loyalty as the students of St. Johnsbury Academy have given to you. By reflex action it has been inspiring to me and cultivated in me the same desire to serve my pupils which you have shown.
With best wishes,
Franklin A. Dakin.
Words are after all poor substitutes for the genuine feelings of the heart but I know you will be able to brush aside the words and get at the sentiment back of them.
In three more days from this date you will be rounding out seventy-five years of a very useful life.
I am sure you will let an old pupil and one who has received so much inspiration and good cheer from your life tell you so at this time.
Your boys and girls are in many lands but they are still your boys and girls. Never have I seen a man retain the affection and esteem of those who have come under his influence to a greater extent than you have.
May the good Lord continue to bless you and yours is the sincere wish of your former pupil and friend,
Hedley Philip Patey, '86.
As I look back on my years in St. Johnsbury Academy I know that I appreciated to some extent what you were doing for the young people in your charge, and especially the many kindnesses that you showed to me in assisting me to prepare for college. It was not until the close of my second year at the Academy that I made any definite plans to go farther, but I appreciate very much more today than I did then the character of the work you were doing. It was my good fortune to be brought into touch with able teachers and educators during my entire education, but I can truthfully say that not one of them took time out of a busy life to arouse and assist a growing ambition for a broader education as you did, and I shall always look back to the three years spent under you at St. Johnsbury Academy as the time when my ambitions clarified themselves and I began to look out toward a broader field.
Very sincerely,
Matt B. Jones, '86.
As one of the many students who in St. Johnsbury Academy had the pleasure and advantage of your instruction, I am glad to acknowledge the obligation I personally feel to you for the kindly and patient direction given me at such an important period in a young man's life. It seems to me that the knowledge that one has wisely directed the education and lives of so many young men and women as you have, must constitute one of the crowning and most satisfying joys possible, and I am sure that all the youth who have felt the influence of your teaching sincerely wish that you may live long to enjoy the happiness which you deserve for service so conscientiously and cheerfully performed.
Very sincerely yours,
Edwin A. Bayley, '81.
I am sending this letter hoping it may be opened by you on February 26, which I am told is your birthday. I want you to be sure of the love of an old pupil who never forgets you, and never will cease to be grateful for your gifts to him during the three years that we were together in St. Johnsbury. The Lord richly bless you with all good things.
Yours loyally and affectionately,
Ozora S. Davis, '85.
I wish to take this opportunity to write to you to extend congratulations on your seventy-fifth birthday, and further to express my appreciation for the service you rendered me back in St. Johnsbury Academy. You will recall that when I entered the Academy I told you I wanted to become a teacher and to that end I have always striven.
I must not weary you with too much of my own history, only enough to let you know that after eighteen years of service I can still look back with appreciation to the man who above all others in the Academy made a lasting impression on my life. May the years that are before you be full of sunshine and happiness.
Yours sincerely,
Arthur F. O'Malley, '93.
Some one tells me that you are to have a birthday tomorrow and I desire to join with the host of your former students in sending you good wishes on that day. There are many of us who still feel in our lives what a factor St. Johnsbury was, and of all those in the old school you were the one who meant the most to each one of us. When I think of my experiences at the Academy—and St. Johnsbury meant more to me than college or anything else—I always think of you and the great help that you were to us boys in the time when we needed help. The pleasures of my classes in Greek and all the other things in which you were of such valuable assistance, will always be remembered. I only wish I might do for some boy as much as you did for me. I send you my sincerest greetings and best wishes for a happy birthday.
Yours for '85,
Jay B. Benton, '85.
It hardly seems possible that you are reaching your seventy-fifth birthday, but such, I am informed, is the case. I have really known you quite a while; because you will remember that you were the Normal School examiner, and I was in one of the classes graduating from the Randolph Normal School in 1882.
I presume that as you think over the factors which have led to such a hale and hearty old age, you will agree with Mark Twain who attributed his seventy years to, among other things, never having smoked but one cigar at a time, never having smoked during sleep, and not always at his meals.
I hope that on this auspicious day you will take out the gold-headed cane presented you by the class of '86 and, at least, wave it in the air a few times; for, as I think I told you on the day of its presentation, we hoped you might never need it for walking purposes.
I can never forget your many acts of kindness rendered me personally during my course at St. Johnsbury. Were I to attempt to recount them as they occur to me I am sure I should make this letter, which is intended to be simply one of warm congratulations, far too long.
Among the many things upon which I think you are to be congratulated, I would mention first the spirit which inspires you to still love your work at seventy-five, and again the nervous and physical energy which permits you to stay, as Roosevelt might say, "in the ring." No less are you to be congratulated on the consciousness, which I know must be yours, of the love and devotion of hundreds, yes, thousands by this time, of your pupils throughout the world.
I am sure I have imperfectly expressed the love, gratitude, and admiration which I always cherish toward you, but you can be sure there is much of it here, as there is in the hearts of all who have come in contact with you.
With cordial best wishes I am, sincerely,
George E. May, '86.
Tribute written by Mr. Roland E. Stevens for the Hartford Gazette, a paper printed by Mr. Stevens' small boy.
Editor of the Hartford Gazette:
Every day in every year, I suppose, has a special meaning and interest for some one or more of the great human family. The day of the present week that has a particular interest and meaning for me (and without doubt for many others whom I know) is Friday the twenty-six. Why? Because nearly thirty years ago when I was an awkward, spindling boy, thirsty and hungry for an education, without means and not in very good health, I wrote a letter to the principal of St. Johnsbury Academy, telling him of my ambition to enter the Academy as a student and asking him if he thought I could find work by means of which I could earn enough to pay my way at the Academy. When I was writing the letter I was half discouraged and rather feared and expected that I wouldn't receive an answer, because I knew the letter was not very well written or expressed, and I was almost sure that so great a man as I supposed the principal of St. Johnsbury Academy to be, wouldn't pay much attention to such a letter.
In a short time, however, I received a very encouraging reply expressing a friendly interest in me and advising me to come to St. Johnsbury in season to take an entrance examination and stating that a willing boy could most always find work.
The letter was not dictated nor was it typewritten. It was written in long hand and by the principal himself. The spelling, grammar, and punctuation were, I felt sure, absolutely perfect; but the handwriting, to my great joy, was no handsomer than mine. This and the kindly tone of the letter helped me to a quick and firm determination to pack all of my worldly possessions, including some cookies, loaves of bread, etc., into a rough wooden box and start for St. Johnsbury in season for the opening of the fall term.
Within an hour after my arrival I found myself in the home of the principal sitting quite near him, hearing him say in a quiet, sincere voice, that he was glad I came; that he had found work for me; that he wanted me to know that he was interested in all boys who came to the Academy with a desire to work and to learn. I went from him to the family where I was to live and work, inspired with confidence in him and respect for him.
Master editor, these things happened nearly twenty years before your birth, and in all these years the only change in my feelings toward this principal of St. Johnsbury Academy that I am conscious of, is an increased and unbounded faith in him as a Christian gentleman, love and respect for him as a true friend, gratitude and admiration for him as a teacher and wise counsellor who has ministered generously to the physical and spiritual needs of many besides myself.
You know, of course, that I refer to Prof. C. E. Putney who was principal of St. Johnsbury Academy in the days when it ranked with Andover and Exeter and for a number of years has been teaching Latin and Greek in the Burlington, Vermont, High School. February 26, will be his seventy-fifth birthday. This is why that day has a particular meaning and interest for me and many others.
Roland E. Stevens.
Hartford, Vermont,
February 22, 1915.
On Mr. Putney's seventy-fifth birthday the teachers of Edmunds High School presented him with a beautiful loving cup. This note accompanied the cup:
To our honored Friend and Co-worker,
Mr. Charles E. Putney.
The teachers of the High School, with the superintendent and his wife, wish to send you hearty congratulations on your birthday and the many years of usefulness that lie in its wake. They wish to emphasize their appreciation of what it means to the whole school to have in their midst a loyal old soldier, a kindly and genial friend, and a real gentleman of "the old school."
They hope this loving cup will be to you a substantial evidence of their appreciation in the past, as also of their good wishes for the future.
TRIBUTES UPON OTHER BIRTHDAYS
At Seventy
With a step elastic,
Vigorous of mind,
Strenuous of purpose,
Casting doubts behind,—
Vigilant for duty,
Strong to banish fears,—
What a wealth of tribute
To your seventy years.
Backward glance disclosing
Many a service field,
To whose faithful tilling
Bounteous harvests yield,—
Priceless treasures, wrested
From the soil of truth,
Treasures from rich sowing
In the lives of youth;
Treasures from the valley,
Where the shadows lay
Till your voice of comfort
Whispered them away;
Treasures from the hillside,
Whose ascent seemed drear
Till your note of courage
Fell upon the ear.
Where the Graces bloom,
Lavishly exuding
Breaths of rich perfume;
Treasures from the vineyard,
To whose soil were given
Streams of gracious influence
Born of Hope and Heaven;
Treasures from the hilltop,
Where the Eternal Love
Fell in showers of blessing
From the fount above;
Treasures gleaned from sorrow,
When to longing eyes
Came a glimpse of mansions
Reared in Paradise.
Ten and threescore cycles
Are complete today;
Loving benedictions
Speed you on your way.
Age has no forebodings,—
Clouds and shadows fly
From the glow and radiance
Of your western sky.
Peaceful, glad and trustful
Is your forward glance,—
Faith begetting vision
As the years advance.