Part 2 (1/2)

See how the purple hue of youth and health Glows in each cheek; how the sharp wind brings pearls From every eye, brightening those dimmed with study, And waste of midnight oil, o'er cla.s.sic page Long poring. Boreas in merry mood Plays with each unkempt lock, and vainly strives To make a football of the Freshman's beaver, Or the sage Soph.o.m.ore's indented felt.

Behold the foremost, with deliberate stride And slow, approach the chapel, tree-embowered, Entering composedly its gaping portal; Then, as the iron tongue goes on to rouse The mocking echoes with its call, arrive Others, with hastier step and heaving chest.

Anon, some bound along divergent paths Which scar the gra.s.sy plain, and, with no pause For breath, press up the rocky stair. Straightway, A desperate few, with headlong, frantic speed, Swifter than arrow-flight or Medford whirlwind, Sparks flying from iron-shod heels at every footfall, Over stone causeway and tessellated pavement,-- They come--they come--they leap--they scamper in, Ere, grating on its hinges, slams the door Inexorable. . . . . .

Pauses the sluggard, at Wood and Hall's just crossing, The chime melodious dying on his ear.

Embroidered sandals scarce maintain their hold Upon his feet, shuffling, with heel exposed, And 'neath his upper garment just appears A many-colored robe; about his throat No comfortable scarf, but crumpled _gills_ Shrink from the scanning eye of pa.s.senger The omnibus o'erhauling. List! 't was the last, Last stroke! it dies away, like murmuring wave.

Bootless he came,--and bootless wends he back, Gnawing his gloveless thumb, and pacing slow.

Bright eyes might gaze on him, compa.s.sionate, But that yon rosy maiden, early afoot, Is o'er her shoulder watching, with wild fear, A horned host that rushes by amain, Bellowing ba.s.soon-like music. Angry shouts Of drovers, horrid menace, and dire curse, Shrill scream of imitative boy, and crack Of cruel whip, the tread of clumsy feet Are hurrying on:--but now, with instinct sure, Madly those doomed ones bolt from the dread road That leads to Brighton and to death. They charge Up Brattle Street. Screaming the maiden flies, Nor heeds the loss of fluttering veil, upborne On sportive breeze, and sailing far away.

And now a flock of sheep, bleating, bewildered, With tiny footprints fret the dusty square, And huddling strive to elude relentless fate.

And hark! with snuffling grunt, and now and then A squeak, a squad of long-nosed gentry run The gutters to explore, with comic jerk Of the investigating snout, and wink At pa.s.ser-by, and saucy, lounging gait, And independent, lash-defying course.

And now the baker, with his steaming load, Hums like the humble-bee from door to door, And thoughts of breakfast rise; and harmonies Domestic, song of kettle, and hissing urn, Glad voices, and the sound of hurrying feet, Clatter of chairs, and din of knife and fork, Bring to a close the Melodies of Morn.

THE SOUNDS OF EVENING IN CAMBRIDGE.

The Melodies of Morning late I sang.

Recall we now those Melodies of Even Which charmed our ear, the summer-day o'erpast; Full of the theme, O Phoebus, hear me sing.

What time thy golden car draws near its goal,-- Mount Auburn's pillared summit,--chorus loud Of mud-born songsters fills the dewy air.

Hark! in yon shallow pool, what melody Is poured from swelling throats, liquid and bubbling, As if the plaintive notes thrilled struggling through The stagnant waters and the waving reeds.

Monotonous the melancholy strain, Save when the bull-frog, from some slimy depth Profound, sends up his deep ”Poo-toob!” ”Poo-toob!”

Like a staccato note of double ba.s.s Marking the cadence. The unwearied crickets Fill up the harmony; and the whippoorwill His mournful solo sings among the willows.

The tree-toad's pleasant trilling croak proclaims A coming rain; a welcome evil, sure, When streets are one long ash-heap, and the flowers Fainting or crisp in sun-baked borders stand.

Mount Auburn's gate is closed. The latest 'bus Down Brattle Street goes rumbling. Laborers Hie home, by twos and threes; homeliest phizzes, Voices high-pitched, and tongues with telltale burr-r-r-r, The short-stemmed pipe, diffusing odors vile, Garments of comic and misfitting make, And steps which tend to Curran's door, (a man Ign.o.ble, yet quite worthy of the name Of Fill-pot Curran,) all proclaim the race Adopted by Columbia, grumblingly, When their step-mother country casts them off.

Here with a creaking barrow, piled with tools Keen as the wit that wields them, hurries by A man of different stamp. His well-trained limbs Move with a certain grace and readiness, Skilful intelligence every muscle swaying.

Rapid his tread, yet firm; his scheming brain Teems with broad plans, and hopes of future wealth, And time and life move all too slow for him.

Will he industrious gains and home renounce To grow more quickly rich in lands unblest?

Hear'st thou that gleeful shout? Who opes the gate, The neatly painted gate, and runs before With noisy joy? Now from the trellised door Toddles another bright-haired boy. And now Captive they lead the father; strong their grasp; He cannot break away.

Dreamily quiet The dewy twilight of a summer eve.

Tired mortals lounge at cas.e.m.e.nt or at door, While deepening shadows gather round. No lamp Save in yon shop, whose sable minister His evening customers attends. Anon, With squeaking bucket on his arm, emerges The errand-boy, slow marching to the tune Of ”Uncle Ned” or ”Norma,” whistled shrill.

Hark! heard you not against the window-pane The dash of h.o.r.n.y skull in mad career, And a loud buzz of terror? He'll be in, This horrid beetle; yes,--and in my hair!

Close all the blinds; 't is dismal, but 't is safe.

Listen! Methought I heard delicious music, Faint and afar. Pray, is the Boat-Club out?

Do the Pierian minstrels meet to-night?

Or chime the bells of Boston, or the Port?

Nearer now, nearer--Ah! bloodthirsty villain, Is 't you? Too late I closed the blind! Alas!

List! there's another trump!--There, _two_ of 'em!-- Two? A quintette at least. Mosquito chorus!

A--ah! my cheek! And oh! again, my eyelid!

I gave myself a stunning cuff on the ear And all in vain. Flap we our handkerchief; Flap, flap! (A smash.) Quick, quick, bring in a lamp!

I've switched a flower-vase from the shelf. Ah me!

Splash on my head, and then upon my feet, The water poured;--I'm drowned! my slipper's full!

My d.i.c.key--ah! 't is cruel! Flowers are nonsense!