'T WAS midway in my Senior year, one night

I ground up Dante for Italian 3,

When sleep, the gentle remedy of grinds,

Fell on my lids and closed them to the light.

Then was a vision to my mind unrolled,

Such that the mere remembrance makes me chill,

As luckless Freshman domiciled in Thayer.

I thought I stood within a level yard,

Hemmed in by buildings, quite diverse in style,

Of which the worst was granite, unadorned,

Like ice-house on the margin of Fresh Pond.

Straight to me came an animal of prey,

Like to a cat, so noiseless was his tread,

While in his hand he held a paper large.

I fain had run, so savage seemed that beast,

But he approached more swift than I could flee,

And I had half resigned all hope of life

When at my side there stood a friendly form,

Who bade me have no fear. Amazed, I said,

"Pray, gentle soul, if thou art truly kind

Relieve me from this hateful beast of prey,

Who seeks my blood, I know not why." Then he,

"My name is Bohn, and this the guardian of

Examinations, sometimes proctor called."

I more courageous with my friend at hand,

Exclaimed, "O Bohn ! my author and my guide,

Thou who hast led me through the stormy books

Of Homer, Terence, Cicero, and Co.,

Receive my thanks for thine assistance lent,

In many a weary cram ! Still be my guide !"

"I will," quoth he, and with my hand in his,

We walked towards that granite edifice,

The proctor slinking to his lair away.

"Thee will I show the woes of Limbo's halls.

That thou mayst marvel how the would-be wise,

The so-called teachers, purge their sins away."

Thus spake my master as we clambered up

A flight of slippery, ice-encrusted steps.

Over the portal of the door was writ,

In lamp-black letters mixed with kerosene,

"By me you enter the abode of those

Who once were despots in the world above,

And now repay in torments manifold

Their tyranny to others. Cast aside

All hope, ye fools that enter Limbo's halls."

How can I paint the terror in my heart

As in we passed through that infernal door,

And were accosted by a spirit frail

As that of woman ! "Wherefore came you here ?"

She asked, and turned the pages of a tome.

"I see, you have ten cuts," Electra cried,

"And must to Minos, who doth dwell within."

With that a wind arose and blew away,

Like wisp of straw, this Fury past my view.

Thence did we wend, I clinging to my guide,

And asking questions, for on either hand

There thronged a swarm of noisy, screaming ghosts,

Who laughed or wept, in many a foreign tongue.

Some spoke in Hebrew, some in Latin spoke,

And one in German murmured out the notes

Of "Pinafore," at which I stopped my ears.

"Master," quoth I, "pray may I speak with him ?

He looks like one I knew in Freshman year."

"No," said great Bohn, "if you escaped him then,

Trust not yourself within his clutch again.

But, if conditioned, it may give you joy

To know that he now falls into the trap

He set for others. He is doomed to sing

This wretched music till the end of time."

At that another spirit hurried by,

And "???" he screamed aloud,

Full twenty times. "That is to say," quoth Bohn,

Who could translate as well as e'er before.

And then he pointed to a piteous sight:

Sunk to their arm-pits in a slough of mud,

I saw a bevy of white-headed men,

Who strove in vain to free their tortured frames

From that encircling mire. "Back, sage," I cried,

"Let us return or we shall perish too! "

"Fear not," quoth he. "You had this torment oft

On earth; 't is now their turn to expiate.

Besides, there is a plank that leads across

This puddle, which we are allowed to follow."

Then as we went, those creatures full of spite

Strove to assail us with great clods of earth;

But Bohn exclaimed, "Nay, don't throw mud !"

And they, reproved, were quiet. After that

I spied an aged man who in his hand

Carried a bunch of ripe Catawba grapes,

Wherewith to feed his hens. Ungrateful they

Ran off, and he was doomed to follow them

Through all the ages of eternity.

Then neared we Minos, who aloud did roar;

I would describe him, but I do not dare,

So terrible the memory of his form

Still rises up before me. Next I saw

One in a treadmill tramping wearily,

But not allowed to stop. And on his brow

A minus mark was stamped by burning brand.

"He was the maker of a foul machine,

A sophist, who pretended that he knew

The way to mark a student less than nothing;

He will be grinding when the day of doom is here."

Straight as a tangent from that spot we went,

And I perceived the air grow icy cold,

And as I breathed, my breath grew frosty white.

I shivered, and had barely strength to ask

The meaning of this change. The sage replied,

"Well mayst thou chatter, for at last we near

The ruling head of all this drear abode, -

A sprite so cold in earth above, that I

Have found the glacier warmer than his mien."

"But must we pass him ?" I rejoined, afraid

"Yea, but fear not, for I 'll protect thee now,

And passing him we enter Paradise."

I set my teeth, and screwed my courage up,

But could not drive the numbness from my heart.

At sight of that Great Icicle I swooned,

And all I ever knew when I awoke

Was that I stood beside the gate of Heaven,

And in my hand I saw a signed degree.

REY.