from the unpublished remains of Edgar Allan Poe br br In the oldest of our alleys, br By good bejants tenanted, br Once a man whose name was Wallace— br William Wallace—reared his head. br Rowdy Bejant in the college br He was styled: br Never had these halls of knowledge br Welcomed waster half so wild! br br Tassel blue and long and silken br From his cap did float and flow br (This was cast into the Swilcan br Two months ago); br And every gentle air that sported br With his red gown, br Displayed a suit of clothes, reported br The most alarming in the town. br br Wanderers in that ancient alley br Through his luminous window saw br Spirits come continually br From a case well packed with straw, br Just behind the chair where, sitting br With air serene, br And in a blazer loosely fitting, br The owner of the bunk was seen. br br And all with cards and counters straying br Was the place littered o'er, br With which sat playing, playing, playing, br And wrangling evermore, br A group of fellows, whose chief function br Was to proclaim, br In voices of surpassing unction, br Their luck and losses in the game. br br But stately things, in robes of learning, br Discussed one day the bejant's fate: br Ah, let us mourn him unreturning, br For they resolved to rusticate! br And now the glory he inherits, br Thus dished and doomed, br Is largely founded on the merits br Of the Old Tom consumed. br br And wanderers, now, within that alley br Through the half-open shutters see, br Old crones, that talk continually br In a discordant minor key: br While, with a kind of nervous shiver, br Past the front door, br His former set go by for ever, br But knock—or ring—no more.