The Hesperian.
UNIVERSITY of NEBRASKA.
Vol. XXII.
LINCOLN, NEBRASKA, FEBRUARY 15, 1894.
No. 23
THE HESPERIAN
Issued semi-monthly by tho Hesperian Association of the Univer
sity of Nebraska.
BOARD OF EDITORS.
W. CATHER Managing Editor
ASSOCIATES.
G. F. FISHER Editorial
F. BULLOCK Literary
AMY C. BRUNER Literary
A. C. PANCOST Athletic
W. E. KIRK Alumni
NED: C. ABBOTT Exchange
V. H. FORSYTH Local
A. B. LYONS Local
W. R. HARDY, Business Manager.
CHARTER DAY.
iPmJMSaMMHftL ff T TT J I. ... .. 1. lm a-u Uin lMiit TMf0
. nil. nunier siiuuk. uuiu ma uiu j-""-
: the spark
-yCvStfvw
m
That flashed into the dark
SSggj3g&0f the knotted grass-roots, and grew
strong and sprang
Into crackling flame, and it heard the
wind that sang
Its dry keen wail o'er the prairies, and strength
ened and grew
Till it flared to a league-long wrath, and the scared
birds flew
Smoke-blinded before it,- and the blundering buf
falo fled,
And the coyote quaked in his covert, and the In
dian said,
"Tonight the God of the Fire has raised his
head."
From the fire of ancient worlds a .little spark,
chance-shaken,
Fell on our alien plains and spread alone,
And strengthened till it shone
World-wide, and nations said, Wher; did it
waken ?
We saw its birth, but today we see afar
A flame that darkens the low sunset star,
And drives the huddled night
Cowering before the lances of its light.
For a voice cried in the ear
Of the West, Awake, for the future calls thee
Hear,
Child of the plain, today your limbs are strong,
Your eyes are radiant. Wake, for you sleep too
long,
Wake, for the east hills quicken into day
And the grey wind of morning calls to song.
Wake, for today within your heart there glows
The prompting of the new-born soul,
Strenuous and tireless, quickening as it knows
Far off the destined goal.
The golden sunflowers myriad-blossoming blaze
From hill to golden hill,
And melt at last into the golden haze
Of the great distance; all' the land is still
With solitud&and only the quick bird
Chirps in the grass. No other sound is heard
To praise God's golden gift.
The white clouds sail, and sift
The mottled moonlight over the wide land,
The slow streams flow, the narrow forests stand
Huddled and timorous for loneliness.
Has God not given gifts enough to bless
Our singers from their silence? Has our car
Grown all too dull to hear
The still sweet voice of nature's tenderness ?
Has she no whisper to awake
The soul that dreams, the song that sleeps,
Until its thrilling chords shall shake
To the grey hearts of older lands,
To where the ocean's iron deeps
Complain upon their endless sands.
To know, to love, to sing, these three
Are God's most precious gifts to men
To know what has been, and to see
1
' )