PART VII
The Dean Good,This Dean good lives in that room
Which faces down the laboratory.
How loudly her sweet voice she rears!
She loves to talk with students
That come from a far countree.
She works at morn, and noon, and eve-
She hath a cushioned chair:
Her table is a mess that wholly hides
The nice person behind the glass pair.
The group with Dean neared: I heard them talk,
`Why, this is strange, I say!
Where are those students so many,
In labcoats- waving their lives away?'
Approacheth the PhD thesis with wonder,
'Strange, by my experience!' the Dean said-
'And they answered not our cheer!
The desks look warped! and see
How thin they are and sere!
I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along;
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
That eats the she-wolf's young.'
`Oh Science! it hath a fiendish look-
(The Chairman made reply)
I am a-feared' - 'Move on, move on!'
Said the Dean cheerily.
The group came closer to the lab,
But I nor spake nor stirred;
The group came close near my lab,
And straight a sound was heard.
On the computer, the data is suddenly lost.
Inside the CPU it rumbled on,
Still louder and more short circuit:
It reached the hard disk, it split cord;
All the data on my PC was lost.
The ancient researcher is saved by the backup of the SysAd.Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
Which the circuit shorted vent,
Like an elephant that chased a tiger,
The sigh I gave the air rent:
But swift as dreams, myself I found
The backup the SysAd sent.
Upon the desk, where the PC lay,
The backup of thesis mine was set;
And all was still, save the sound of
The printer printing a new set.
I moved my hands- the chairman shrieked
And fell down in a fit;
The wise Dean raised her eyes,
And told me not just sit.
I took the papers: the SysAd,
Who now doth crazy go,
Laughed loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro.
'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see,
The Devil knows how to go.'
And now, all in my own laboratory,
I stood with thesis in my hand!
The Dean stepped forth from the side,
And scarcely could she stand.
The ancient Researcher earnestly entreateth the Dean to shrieve her; and the penance of life falls on her.
`O shrieve me, shrieve me, Prof mine!'
The Dean crossed her brow.
'Say quick,' quoth she, 'I bid thee say-
What manner of researcher art thou?'
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrought
With a woeful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale ;
And then it left me free.
And ever and anon through out his future life an agony constraineth her to travel from land to land ;
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns :
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.
I pass, like night, from lab to lab;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that the face I see,
I know that person must hear me:
To her or him, my tale I teach.
What loud uproar bursts from that door!
The banquet-guests are there ;
But in the middle hall the Prof
And the students proposing toasts are :
And hark the low sound of invitation,
Which biddeth me to the coffee-house!
O Banquet-guest! this soul hath
Alone on a wide wide sea :
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.
O sweeter than the conference-feast,
`Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the stage
In a convocation ceremony!-
To walk together to the stage,
And all together receive,
While each to his chief guest bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends
And youths and maidens applaud gay!
And to teach, by him own example, love and reverence to all papers that the Academia made and loveth.
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Banquet-Guest!
He worketh well, who loveth well
Both papers classic or otherwise.
He worketh best, who loveth best
All results- both great and small
For the dear Academia which loveth us,
It made and loveth all.
The Researcher, whose eye is bright,
Whose face the signs of age bore,
Is gone: and now the Banquet-Guest
Turned from the party hall door.
She went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser researcher,
She rose the morrow morn.
