_Century._ _Louis Untermeyer._ PHI BETA KAPPA POEM _Harvard, 1914_ Sir, friends, and scholars, we are here to serve A high occasion. Our New England wears All her unrivalled beauty as of old; And June, with scent of bayberry and rose And song of orioles--as she only comes By Massachusetts Bay--is here once more, Companioning our fête of fellowship. The open trails, South, West, and North, lead back From populous cities or from lonely plains, Ranch, pulpit, office, factory, desk, or mill, To this fair tribunal of ambitious youth, The shadowy town beside the placid Charles, Where Harvard waits us through the passing years, Conserving and administering still Her savor for the gladdening of the race. Yearly, of all the sons she has sent forth, And men her admiration would adopt, She summons whom she will back to her side As if to ask, “How fares my cause of truth In the great world beyond these studious walls?” Here, from their store of life experience, They must make answer as grace is given them, And their plain creed, in verity, declare. Among the many, there is sometimes called One who, like Arnold’s scholar gipsy poor, Is but a seeker on the dusky way, “Still waiting for the spark from heaven to fall.” He must bethink him first of other days, And that old scholar of the seraphic smile, As we recall him in this very place With all the sweetest culture of his age, His gentle courtesy and friendliness, A chivalry of soul now strangely rare, And that ironic wit which made him, too, The unflinching critic and most dreaded foe Of all things mean, unlovely, and untrue. What Mr. Norton said, with that slow smile, Has put the fear of God in many a heart, Even while his hand encouraged eager youth. From such enheartening who would not dare to speak-- Seeing no truth can be too small to serve, And no word worthless that is born of love? Within the noisy workshop of the world, Where still the strife is upward out of gloom, Men doubt the value of high teaching--cry, “What use is learning? Man must have his will! The élan of life alone is paramount! Away with old traditions! We are free!” So Folly mocks at truth in Freedom’s name. Pale Anarchy leads on, with furious shriek, Her envious horde of reckless malcontents And mad destroyers of the Commonwealth, While Privilege with indifference grows corrupt, Till the Republic stands in jeopardy From following false idols and ideals, Though sane men cry for honesty once more, Order and duty and self-sacrifice.