"But yesterday I looked away O'er happy lands, where sunshine lay In golden blots, Inlaid with spots Of shade and wild forget-me-nots." The voice was low, but clear, and ever musical. The Professor started at the strange utterance, looked extremely confused, and, as the boisterous crowd cried "Hear, hear!" he motioned the subject to continue, with some gasping comment interjected, which, if audible, would have run thus: "My God! It's an inspirational poem!" "My head was fair With flaxen hair--" resumed the subject. "Yoop-ee!" yelled an irreverent auditor. "Silence! silence!" commanded the excited Professor in a hoarse whisper; then, turning enthusiastically to the subject--"Go on, young man! Go on!--'_Thy head-was fair-with flaxen hair_--'" "My head was fair With flaxen hair, And fragrant breezes, faint and rare, And warm with drouth From out the south, Blew all my curls across my mouth." The speaker's voice, exquisitely modulated, yet resonant as the twang of a harp, now seemed of itself to draw and hold each listener; while a certain extravagance of gesticulation--a fantastic movement of both form and feature--seemed very near akin to fascination. And so flowed on the curious utterance: "And, cool and sweet, My naked feet Found dewy pathways through the wheat; And out again Where, down the lane, The dust was dimpled with the rain." In the pause following there was a breathlessness almost painful. The poem went on: "But yesterday I heard the lay Of summer birds, when I, as they With breast and wing, All quivering With life and love, could only sing. "My head was leant, Where, with it, blent A maiden's, o'er her instrument; While all the night, From vale to height, Was filled with echoes of delight. "And all our dreams Were lit with gleams Of that lost land of reedy streams, Along whose brim Forever swim Pan's lilies, laughing up at him." And still the inspired singer held rapt sway. "It is wonderful!" I whispered, under breath. "Of course it is!" answered my friend. "But listen; there is more:" "But yesterday!... O blooms of May, And summer roses--Where-away? O stars above; And lips of love, And all the honeyed sweets thereof! "O lad and lass. And orchard-pass, And briared lane, and daisied grass! O gleam and gloom, And woodland bloom, And breezy breaths of all perfume!-- "No more for me Or mine shall be Thy raptures--save in memory,-- No more--no more-- Till through the Door Of Glory gleam the days of yore." This was the evident conclusion of the remarkable utterance, and the Professor was impetuously fluttering his hands about the subject's upward-staring eyes, stroking his temples, and snapping his fingers in his face.