The shades of night were falling fast,
As through the Marmont village passed
A Youth who bore mild snow and ice.
Her midst s satchel with this strange device, Culver .
His brow was sad onlookers say,
Who saw him on that fatef ul day.
His brow was sad, but why not pray?
His hapless on his way, to Culver .
Not reckoned he of the future dim
Or of the soaks in store for him.
A vague foreboding filled each limb,
Presentiment a phantom grim of Culver .
A nameless terror fills his so ul,
His eyes in glassied frenzy roll.
At last his quivering limbs grow cold
In horror of a fate untold.
With satchel gripped he downard fell,
But where can any mortal tell?
Alas, that placard showed to will;
He went with one desponding yell, to Culver .