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The Mysterious Visitor

By Oliver Wendell Holmes

Topics: classic

There was a sound of hurrying feet,     A tramp on echoing stairs,     There was a rush along the aisles, -     It was the hour of prayers.     And on, like Ocean's midnight wave,     The current rolled along,     When, suddenly, a stranger form     Was seen amidst the throng.     He was a dark and swarthy man,     That uninvited guest;     A faded coat of bottle-green     Was buttoned round his breast.     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.

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"There was a sound of hurrying feet,..."

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Oliver Wendell Holmes

About Oliver Wendell Holmes

Oliver Wendell Holmes Sr. (1809–1894) was an American poet, physician, and essayist. His poems "Old Ironsides" and "The Chambered Nautilus" are American classics. He was part of the Fireside Poets group.

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