“The battle o’er, the sable youth descend,
  And to the awful chief, their footsteps bend. 
  With a small book, the laurel wreath he gives
  Join’d with a pow’r to use it all their lives. 
  Obsequious, they return what they receive,
  With decent rev’rence, they his presence leave. 
  Dismiss’d, they strait repeat their back ward way
  And with white napkins grace the sumptuous day.[06]

  “Now plates unnumber’d on the tables shine,
  And dishes fill’d invite the guests to dine. 
  The grace perform’d, each as it suits him best,
  Divides the sav’ry honours of the feast,
  The glasses with bright sparkling wines abound
  And flowing bowls repeat the jolly round. 
  Thanks said, the multitude unite their voice,
  In sweetly mingled and melodious noise. 
  The warbling musick floats along the air,
  And softly winds the mazes of the ear;
  Ravish’d the crowd promiscuously retires,
  And each pursues the pleasure he admires.

“Behold my muse far distant on the plains, Amidst a wrestling ring two jolly swains; Eager for fame, they tug and haul for blood, One nam’d Jack Luby, t’ other Robin Clod, Panting they strain, and labouring hard they sweat, Mix legs, kick shins, tear cloaths, and ply their feet.  Now nimbly trip, now stiffly stand their ground, And now they twirl, around, around, around; Till overcome by greater art or strength, Jack Luby lays along his lubber length.  A fall! a fall! the loud spectators cry, A fall! a fall! the echoing hills reply.

 “O’er yonder field in wild confusion runs,
  A clam’rous troop of Affric’s sable sons,
  Behind the victors shout, with barbarous roar,
  The vanquish’d fly with hideous yells before,
  The gloomy squadron thro’ the valley speeds
  Whilst clatt’ring cudgels rattle o’er their heads.

 “Again to church the learned tribe repair,
  Where syllogisms battle in the air,
  And then the elder youth their second laurels wear. 
  Hail!  Happy laurels! who our hopes inspire,
  And set our ardent wishes all on fire. 
  By you the pulpit and the bar will shine
  In future annals; while the ravish’d nine
  Will in your bosom breathe caelestial flames,
  And stamp Eternity upon your names. 
  Accept my infant muse, whose feeble wings
  Can scarce sustain her flight, while you she sings. 
  With candour view my rude unfinish’d praise
  And see my Ivy twist around your bayes. 
  So Phidias by immortal Jove inspir’d,
  His statue carv’d, by all mankind admir’d. 
  Nor thus content, by his approving nod,
  He cut himself upon the shining god. 
  That shaded by the umbrage of his name,
  Eternal honours might attend his fame.”

In his almanacs, Nathaniel Ames was wont to insert, opposite the days of Commencement week, remarks which he deemed appropriate to that period.  His notes for the year 1764 were these:—­