Comrades, leave me here a little, on this cool November morn;

To reflect on Harvard's glory, that which was but new is shorn.

Tis the place, and all around it, as of old, the yard cops call.

Lampy's bells about the Gold Coast ringing over Randolph Hall.

Many a night I saw Westmorly, having left the Somerset.

Found myself locked out of Randolph, full of sleep and sore beset.

Then about the Coast I wandered, stopping all the dancing men.

Telling them of by-gone Harvard when the Bullfinch fought the Wren.

Then I dipped into the future, saw the Freshmen in the Yard

Saw the vision of the House Plan, culture hoist with its petard.

In the fall a deeper Crimson comes upon the Dunster dome

In the fall the younger Bullfinch builds himself another home.

In the fall a newer Russell struts its naked iron spans.

In the fall the President's fancy lightly turns to chapel plans

And I said, "Oh Mr. President, speak, and tell the truth to me

Tell me, President, Harvard, is she all she ought to be?

As the President is, Harvard is, thou art all that we can boast

Was it wise, a Grecian temple, builded on a gilded coast?"

It may be our friends were weary anxious to complete the plan

Mating George the first with Florence in the architects' elan.

Enough that thou and I were lying to excuse Memorial's face

Should we cringe before this also Harvard's last and worst disgrace.

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool. (1)

Am I mad that I should tarry next to such grotesquerie

I will blast it in my columns safe behind my luxury.

Where is comfort? in cross-section? 'Tis a president's idle word

How can man be individual and yet mingle with the herd?

And the room rents, Oh Comptroller, come and have a look at these

Every door is barr'd with gold and opens but to golden keys.

But the jingling of the guinea helps to cloak apostasy

Turns the aged seat of learning into thron'd plutocracy.

Finds the House Plan's pristine purpose, all its hopes, its aims interred

And in parting leaves behind it a gentle, disillusioned bird.

Knowledge comes but wisdom leaves us to assume a minor place

And a student, over tea cups, learns the art of social grace.

But better this by far than life with youths whose cheeks are yet unshaven

Better fifty years of Harvard than a month in some new haven.

Should I just relive in sadness? I would turn an earlier page

You are still my joy in sadness, O then great Lowellian age.

(1) This stanza is the peculiar handiwork of Tennyson alone. It was thought wise by the authors to allow him space in these columns and by this publicity to repay him in some small way for the debt incurred. Also the idea is a particularly happy one, and it does not lie within the powers of the present authors to improve upon the phraseology. The authors further wish to point out to their readers that the above work will be greatly enhanced if compared with the original poems, which can be purchased at your local dealer or directly from the factory if postage is enclosed.