Hope's yet this side the grave'--
My pluck and courage there
Then made my languid heart bear brave--
Each throb for Harvard Square."

A sound soon hushed my heart's rejoice--
"The watchman on his search?"
"No!" rang the printer's gentle voice,
"'Deak' Wilson in from church.
O'er there, good 'Deak'," the printer said,
"The wanderer in that chair,
Hath come to seek the lore deep laid
Up here in Harvard Square."

"It matters not how you implore,
He can no longer stay;
But on the night's 'Plutonian shore,'
Await the coming day.
I'm sorry, sir," he calmly said,
"Though hard, I guess 'tis fair,
Thou hast no place to lay thy head--
Not yet in Harvard Square!"

"Good night!" he said, and we the same--
I sighed, "Where shall I go?"
He soon returned and with him came
An officer and--Oh!
"Now sir, you take this forlorn tramp
With all his shabby ware,
And guide him safely off the 'Camp'
Of dear old Harvard Square."

As soon as locked within the jail,
Deep in a ghastly cell,
Methought I heard the bitter wail
Of all the fiends of hell!
"O God, to Thee I humbly pray
No treacherous prison snare
Shall close my soul within for aye
From dear old Harvard Square."

Just then I saw an holy Sprite
Shed all her radiant beams,
And round her shone the source of light
Of all the poets' dreams!
I plied my pen in sober use,
And spent each moment spare
In sweet communion with the Muse
I met in Harvard Square!

I cried: "Fair Goddess, hear my tale
Of sorrow, grief and pain."
That made her face an ashen pale,
But soon it glowed again!
"They placed me here; and this my crime,
Writ on their pages fair:--
'He left his sunny native clime,
And came to Harvard Square!'"

"Weep not, my son, thy way is hard,
Thy weary journey long--
But thus I choose my favorite bard
To sing my sweetest song.
I'll strike the key-note of my art
And guide with tend'rest care,
And breathe a song into thy heart
To honor Harvard Square.

"I called old Homer long ago,
And made him beg his bread
Through seven cities, ye all know,
His body fought for, dead.
Spurn not oppression's blighting sting,
Nor scorn thy lowly fare;
By them I'll teach thy soul to sing
The songs of Harvard Square.

"I placed great Dante in exile,
And Byron had his turns;
Then Keats and Shelley smote the while,
And my immortal Burns!
But thee I'll build a sacred shrine,
A store of all my ware;
B