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“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.

“Well,” said Sweeney, as he stood suddenly awakened, and grinning in an idiotic way, “how did the old thing work?” And it was in the consequent hilarity and loud and long applause, perhaps, that the Professor was relieved from the explanation of this rather astounding phenomenon of the idealistic workings of a purely practical brain–or, as my impious friend scoffed the incongruity later, in a particularly withering allusion, as the “blank-blanked fallacy, don’t you know, of staying the hunger of a howling mob by feeding ’em on Spring poetry!”

The tumult of the audience did not cease even with the retirement of Sweeney, and cries of “Hedrick! Hedrick!” only subsided with the Professor’s high-keyed announcement that the subject was even then endeavoring to make himself heard, but could not until utter quiet was restored, adding the further appeal that the young man had already been a long time under the mesmeric spell, and ought not be so detained for an unnecessary period. “See,” he concluded, with an assuring wave of the hand toward the subject, “see; he is about to address you. Now, quiet!–utter quiet, if you please!”