terms, is the higher point of view, and the truer the science which interprets life in terms of things or the intuition which translates things in terms of life? Which is the medium of genuine comprehension-the analytic reason which dissects wholes into parts and then arranges the fragments in imitation of the whole again, or that sympathetic insight which grasps at once felt wholes and does not seek to analyze ? The same antithesis persists and is elaborated in Bergson's later writings. We have the same insistence that science and logic are merely the useful instruments of our practical activity, never the means whereby true knowledge of reality can be gained. And we have the same intent to replace this fragmentary analytic view with the intuitive grasp which belongs to the inner life itself. Not a world of things creating eventually life; but Life itself is to appear, finally, as the master and creator. POEMS ISAAC FLAGG OPENING HYMN IN "THE SONS OF JACOB" (Sung by the shepherd brethren) O thou who bringest light, Guide us, O Lord, we pray God of our fathers, send Their little ones defend. Hear thou their trembling cry When the gray wolf stands nigh; Each day their needs supply. Where the cropt herbage grew, Make it to spring anew, Freshen'd with kindly dew. Bless us, O Lord, with peace, AVE PISCATOR Lines read at a reception given by the Faculty Club to Dr. Henry Van Dyke, 1905 There are three stages or degrees Unnumber'd accidents must meet Eke that which in the stars is writ, Whilst he, on far perfection bent, Mud, water, air, essays to climb, The novice, those exist for him Thus, lowliest of the briny brood, In fresh, the bullhead or horn'd pout, These teach, to hold with sandy grip To brave the heads and horns of things How to doze timely, yet be full To learn what purposes of state The second stage, by one degree Here through the middle waters gleam A scaly company, yet each It is the realm of doubt and fear, But in his soul who faltereth not His boyish fancy is imbued Round him a frivolous, inane, The third sphere is the top: and few, Will for the last probation wait, Which sifts the small fry from the great. There is a finny vagabond, Whom nature suffereth to exist Expressly that he may assist The callow neophyte to rise Through spoon-lore to the Book of Flies. Between the upper and mid way The pickerel darts upon his prey. Him you, when spoonless, can feel sure Of taking with batrachian lure. Draw froggy's trousers off in haste, The nether remnant then, hook'd fast, Out where the lily-pads make way A swell, a vortex, and a splash! Leave him to mumble it a mite Now hoist him, higher than a kite! [The couplets here omitted touch upon the achievements of those to whom the sacred utensils have been shown by the Hierophant, who have answered the questions propounded by him, and have been finally advanced from the Lesser to the Greater mysteries of the top.] And yet no titles to his name, No tassel'd cap and hooded gown A something in his eye, his walk, Something not on the prosaic plan His grammar is the cloud-fleck'd dawn, His specialty the universe. He can songs make. He doth converse Familiarly with jay and wren, Or dallies with the water-hen. Oft with the chipmunk he breaks bread. Odors of terebinth and balm, Wrap him in dreams.—Anon, awake— What shadow sweeps from ledge to ledge Aeolian voices, piping shrill, Wail from the pines that crown the hill. ""Tis time," I hear Piscator say, |