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THE POST OF HONOR.
When yon old towers proclaims the impatient Nine,1
And Temple belles to homeward nooks incline,—
When airs are still, the organ pipes laid low,
And music's stream requested not to flow,—
When from his lips, whose mandates all obey,
The call rings out, admitting no delay,—
The bard, half conscious, rises to the floor,
And eyes the distance 'tween the desk and door;
He hoped some hand might kindly interpose
To veil the audience at the oration's close,
And Temple belles to homeward nooks incline,—
When airs are still, the organ pipes laid low,
And music's stream requested not to flow,—
When from his lips, whose mandates all obey,
The call rings out, admitting no delay,—
The bard, half conscious, rises to the floor,
And eyes the distance 'tween the desk and door;
He hoped some hand might kindly interpose
To veil the audience at the oration's close,
