There was not one among them all

Could say from whence he came ; Nor beardless boy, nor ancient man, Could tell that stranger's name.

All silent as the sheeted dead,

In spite of sneer and frown, Fast by a gray-haired senior's side He sat him boldly down.

There was a look of horror flashed
From out the tutor's eyes;
When all around him rose to pray,
The stranger did not rise!

A murmur broke along the crowd,
The prayer was at an end;
With ringing heels and measured tread,
A hundred forms descend.

Through sounding aisle, o'er grating stair,
The long procession poured,
Till all were gathered on the seats
Around the Commons board.

That fearful stranger! down he sat,
Unasked, yet undismayed;

And on his lip a rising smile

Of scorn or pleasure played.

He took his hat and hung it up,
With slow but earnest air;

He stripped his coat from off his back,
And placed it on a chair.

Then from his nearest neighbor's side
A knife and plate he drew;
And, reaching out his hand again,
He took his teacup too.

How fled the sugar from the bowl!
How sunk the azure cream!

They vanished like the shapes that float
Upon a summer's dream,

A long, long draught, an outstretched hand, -
And crackers, toast, and tea,
They faded from the stranger's touch,
Like dew upon the sea.

Then clouds were dark on many a brow,
Fear sat upon their souls,

And, in a bitter agony,

They clasped their buttered rolls.

A whisper trembled through the crowd,
Who could the stranger be?

And some were silent, for they thought
A cannibal was he.

What if the creature should arise,

For he was stout and tall,
And swallow down a sophomore,
Coat, crow's-foot, cap, and all!

All sullenly the stranger rose;
They sat in mute despair;

He took his hat from off the peg,
His coat from off the chair.

Four freshmen fainted on the seat,
Six swooned upon the floor;
Yet on the fearful being passed,
And shut the chapel door.

There is full many a starving man,
That walks in bottle green,
But never more that hungry one
In Commons-hall was seen.

Yet often at the sunset hour,
When tolls the evening bell,

The freshman lingers on the steps,
That frightful tale to tell.

THE SPECTRE PIG.

A BALLAD.

T was the stalwart butcher man,
That knit his swarthy brow,
And said the gentle Pig must die,
And sealed it with a vow.

And oh! it was the gentle Pig

Lay stretched upon the ground,

And ah! it was the cruel knife
His little heart that found.

They took him then, those wicked men, They trailed him all along;

They put a stick between his lips,

And through his heels a thong;

And round and round an oaken beam
A hempen cord they flung,
And, like a mighty pendulum,
All solemnly he swung !

Now say thy prayers, thou sinful man,
And think what thou hast done,
And read thy catechism well,
Thou bloody-minded one;

For if his sprite should walk by night,
It better were for thee,

That thou wert mouldering in the ground,
Or bleaching in the sea.

It was the savage butcher then,
That made a mock of sin,
And swore a very wicked oath,
He did not care a pin.

It was the butcher's youngest son,·
His voice was broke with sighs,
And with his pocket-handkerchief
He wiped his little eyes;

All young and ignorant was he,
But innocent and mild,

And, in his soft simplicity,

Out spoke the tender child :

"Q father, father, list to me;
The Pig is deadly sick,

And men have hung him by his heels,
And fed him with a stick."

It was the bloody butcher then,

That laughed as he would die, Yet did he soothe the sorrowing child, And bid him not to cry;

"O Nathan, Nathan, what's a Pig,
That thou shouldst weep and wail?
Come, bear thee like a butcher's child,
And thou shalt have his tail!"

It was the butcher's daughter then,
So slender and so fair,

That sobbed as if her heart would break,
And tore her yellow hair;

And thus she spoke in thrilling tone, -
Fast fell the tear-drops big;
"Ah! woe is me! Alas! Alas!

The Pig! The Pig! The Pig!"

Then did her wicked father's lips
Make merry with her woe,
And call her many a naughty name,
Because she whimpered so.

Ye need not weep, ye gentle ones,
In vain your tears are shed,
Ye cannot wash his crimson hand,
Ye cannot soothe the dead.

The bright sun folded on his breast
His robes of rosy flame,

And softly over all the west

The shades of evening came.