A kind of harber it seems to be, Facing the flow of a boundless sea. Rows of gray old Tutors stand Ranged like rocks above the sand; Rolling beneath them, soft and green, Breaks the tide of bright sixteen,— One wave, two waves, three waves, four, Sliding up the sparkling floor; Then it ebbs to flow no more, Wandering off from shore to shore With its freight of golden ore! —Pleasant place for boys to play;— Better keep your girls away; Hearts get rolled as pebbles do Which countless fingering waves pursue, And every classic beach is strown With heart-shaped pebbles of blood-red stone. But this is neither here nor there;— I’m talking about an old arm-chair. You’ve heard, no doubt, of PARSON TURELL? Over at Medford he used to dwell; Married one of the Mathers’ folk; Got with his wife a chair of oak,— Funny old chair, with seat like wedge, Sharp behind and broad front edge,— One of the oddest of human things, Turned all over with knobs and rings,— But heavy, and wide, and deep, and grand,— Fit for the worthies of the land,— Chief-Justice Sewall a cause to try in, Or Cotton Mather to sit—and lie—in. —Parson Turell bequeathed the same To a certain student,—SMITH by name; These were the terms, as we are told: “Saide Smith saide Chaire to have and holde; When he doth graduate, then to passe To ye oldest Youth in ye Senior Classe. On Payment of”—(naming a certain sum)— “By him to whom ye Chaire shall come; He to ye oldest Senior next, And soe forever,”—(thus runs the text,)— “But one Crown lesse then he gave to claime, That being his Debte for use of same.”