A gentle freshman he, a guileless lad,

Whose piano constitutes his sole delight;

And weirdly doth he play from morn till night

Sweet, plaintive tunes, that oft'times make one sad.

As o'er the keys his nervous fingers stray,

Soft, dulcet notes roll forth, and echo low

Through all the corridors, above, below,

And e'en through cracks and keyholes find their way.

And as in ages past the Siren's song

Made travellers forget friends left behind,

So, at this lad's first note, the busy grind

Forsakes his books and listens all too long.

Think not, O youth, that we would have thee cease,

Thy gentle strains sink deep in every heart:

And truly we should grieve from thee to part,

Although we then, perhaps, should have

some peace.

"NORTH ENTRY."