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Ode on a certain Illustrious Personage.

Dim burn the lamps within the hallowed halls,
Where not a single footstep loudly falls.
The deep dome echoes at the lashing rain,
But never mortal voice prolongs the strain.
So still it is, the very heart seems dead,
Save when the Awful Vision lifts his head;
Or turns his eye with ghostly stealth to peer
Upon his cringing charges huddled near.

Each with his book before him,
And the sword of Damocles o'er him,
Crouches with downcast face,
Stiff, in the cheerless place
Where duty nobly bore him.
Each with his hands behind him
Sits in the chair assigned him,
Sadly bemoaning his plight,
Praying for Blucher, or night,
To loose the fetters that bind him.

Still rests the spectre on his throne,
Fixed as a rock, mute as a stone;
Low frowns his cap above his eyes,
As the black cloud on Atlas lies.

Woe to the hapless youth
Into soft slumber falling,
Who wakes at his touch to the dreadful truth,
And the summons appalling!

Woe to the idle knave,
Awake yet fondly dreaming,
Who succumbs at a blast that would scatter the brave
And send them screaming!

* * *

But this is the hour of peace—
No sound rends silence asunder.
The gentlest breathings cease;
Ceases the elements' thunder.

All, all is still—
Not a sound or a sigh;
Still as the hush of a sleeping hill
In the height of the sky.

* * *

Sudden and swift as an army fleet
Echoes the tramp of ponderous feet!
Louder and louder and yet more near,
Till the door swings back and the feet appear.

First the feet and then the form,
And the face of a student red and warm.
The heavy doors behind clash to and swing,
And the deep halls with double anthems ring.
See him regard the unfamiliar scene!
He's but a youth of tender years, and green.
But now he spies the Vision at his side,
And guilelessly draws near with rapid stride.

* * *

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"What ho, sir! And are you librarian?
I want to get a book then, if I can.
I quite forget the name, but never mind.
Just state the clue. It won't be hard to find."
He stops with sheepish smile and smirks about,
Hoping the gloomy shade will help him out.
It does. Like some fierce beast in dying throes,
It lands full tilt upon his tender toes!
"Learn thou the rules! Thou hast no right to think
That books come tumbling down from Heaven's brink!
Hast got a card? What! No? Then off you skate.
Darest thou enter here in such a state?"
Then rings aloud the victim's shuddering shout,
As the dread spectre duly helps him out.

* * *

Dim burn the lamps. The silence slumbers on;
The weary hours themselves to rest have gone.
That very stillness peals the note of fear—
"All hope abandon, ye who enter here!"

—D.J.D.