Fast tolling. . . . . . 
  “’T is but the earliest, the warning peal!”
  He sleeps again.  Happy if bustling chum,
  Footsteps along the entry, or perchance,
  In the home bower, maternal knock and halloo,
  Shall break the treacherous slumber.  For behold
  The youth collegiate sniff the morning zephyrs,
  Breezes of brisk December, frosty and keen,
  With nose incarnadine, peering above
  Each graceful shepherd’s plaid the chin enfolding. 
  See how the purple hue of youth and health
  Glows in each cheek; how the sharp wind brings pearls
  From every eye, brightening those dimmed with study,
  And waste of midnight oil, o’er classic page
  Long poring.  Boreas in merry mood
  Plays with each unkempt lock, and vainly strives
  To make a football of the Freshman’s beaver,
  Or the sage Sophomore’s indented felt. 
    Behold the foremost, with deliberate stride
  And slow, approach the chapel, tree-embowered,
  Entering composedly its gaping portal;
  Then, as the iron tongue goes on to rouse
  The mocking echoes with its call, arrive
  Others, with hastier step and heaving chest. 
  Anon, some bound along divergent paths
  Which scar the grassy plain, and, with no pause
  For breath, press up the rocky stair.  Straightway,
  A desperate few, with headlong, frantic speed,
  Swifter than arrow-flight or Medford whirlwind,
  Sparks flying from iron-shod heels at every footfall,
  Over stone causeway and tessellated pavement,—­
  They come—­they come—­they leap—­they scamper in,
  Ere, grating on its hinges, slams the door
  Inexorable. . . . . . 
  Pauses the sluggard, at Wood and Hall’s just crossing,
  The chime melodious dying on his ear. 
  Embroidered sandals scarce maintain their hold
  Upon his feet, shuffling, with heel exposed,
  And ’neath his upper garment just appears
  A many-colored robe; about his throat
  No comfortable scarf, but crumpled gills
  Shrink from the scanning eye of passenger
  The omnibus o’erhauling.  List! ’t was the last,
  Last stroke! it dies away, like murmuring wave. 
  Bootless he came,—­and bootless wends he back,
  Gnawing his gloveless thumb, and pacing slow. 
  Bright eyes might gaze on him, compassionate,
  But that yon rosy maiden, early afoot,
  Is o’er her shoulder watching, with wild fear,
  A horned host that rushes by amain,
  Bellowing bassoon-like music.  Angry shouts
  Of drovers, horrid menace, and dire curse,
  Shrill scream of imitative boy, and crack
  Of cruel whip, the tread of clumsy feet
  Are hurrying on:—­but now, with instinct sure,
  Madly those doomed ones bolt from the dread road
  That leads to Brighton and to death.  They charge
  Up Brattle Street.  Screaming the maiden flies,
  Nor heeds the loss of fluttering veil, upborne
  On sportive breeze, and sailing far away.