Say, Terebinthia, from thy tree of pine,
    Nymph of New England!  Muse beyond the Nine! 
    Great Berkeley’s goddess! giver oftentimes
    Of strength to him, and now and then of rhymes,—­
    Whose tears were balsam to the Bishop’s brain,
    To cheer, but not infuriate his vein,—­
    Tell me, sad virgin, who came after terms
    In these dry fields to stir the slumbering germs?

    Their names were few,—­but Agassiz was one,
    And Peirce, the lord of numbers, and alone: 
    Arithmeticians many more will be,
    But when another to outrival thee? 
    Then those Professors,—­Philadelphian pair,
    Winlock, the wise, and watchful as a hare,
    Bright Benjamin that bears the golden name,
    (Apthorp the quick,) Augustus of the same,
    And that strict student, evermore exact,
    One of the Wymans,—­both such men of fact,—­
    If observation with extensive view
    More such observers can observe, they’re few.

    Ye sacred shades where Silliman made gray
    Those hairs that greet him eighty-five to-day! 
    Good names be these! good names to stand with his,—­
    Fit to record with Yale’s old histories,
    When sage Timotheus woke the Western lyre
    That Hillhouse touched, and Percival with fire!

    Declare now, Clio! ’mid this gifted band,
    Who held the reins?—­what scientific hand? 
    Did He preside? did Franklin’s honored heir
    With wonted influence possess the chair? 
    No:  bowed with cares, a servant of the State,
    In loftier fields he held his watch sedate: 
    Bache could not come,—­for us a mighty void! 
    Yet well for him,—­for he was best employed
    High on his tented mountain’s breezy slope,
    Might but those maidens meet him—­Health and Hope!

    Yet wouldst thou know who stood superior there,
    Where all seemed equal, this I may declare:—­
    Of all the wise that wandered from the East
    Or West or South to sit in solemn feast,
    Two men did mostly fascinate the Muse,
    Differing in genius, but with equal views: 
    One measuring heaven, in starry lore supreme;
    The other lighting, like the morning beam,
    Old Ocean’s bed, or his fresh Alpine snows,
    Reading the laws whereby the glacier grows,
    Or life, through some half-intimated plan,
    Rose from a star-fish to the race of man: 
    Choose thine own monarch! either well might reign! 
    I knew but one before,—­and now but twain.

      Now shut the gates,—­the fields have drunk enough
    The time demands a Muse of sterner stuff;
    No more one bard, exempt from vulgar throng,
    May sing through Roman towns the Ascraean song,
    Or court in Learning’s elmy bowers relief
    From individual shame or general grief: 
    Silence is music to a soul outworn