There once was a time when I revelled inrhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,
Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and poems produced by the dozens.
Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood's runningcold, all my laurels lie yellow and faded.
"We have come to the boss;" [1] like a weary oldhoss, poor Pegasus limps, and is jaded.
And yet Mr. Editor, like a stern creditor, dunsme for this or that article,
Though he very well knows that of Verse and ofprose I am stripped to the very last particle.
What shall I write of? What subject indite of?All myvis vivais failing;
Emeritus sum; Mons Parnassus is dumb, and myprayers to the Nine unavailing.—
Thus in vain have I often attempted to softenthe hard heart of Mr. Arenae;
Like a sop, I must throw him some sort of apoem, in spite of unwilling Camenae.
* * * * * *
No longer I roam in my Johnian home, no morein the "wilderness" wander;
And absence we know, for the Poet says so,makes the heart of the lover grow fonder.
I pine for the Cam, like a runaway lamb thatmisses his woolly-backed mother;
I can find no relief for my passionate grief, normy groanings disconsolate smother.
Say, how are you all in our old College Hall?Are the dinners more costly, or plainer?
How are Lecturers, Tutors, Tobacco and Pewters,and how is my friend, the Complainer?
Are the pupils of Merton, and students of Girton,increasing in numbers, or fewer?
Are they pretty, or plain? Humble-minded orvain? Are they paler, or pinker, or bluer?
How's the party of stormers, our so-calledReformers? Are Moral and Natural Sciences
Improving men's Minds? Who the money nowfinds, for Museums, and all their appliances?
Is Philosophy thriving, or sound sense reviving?Is high-table talk metaphysic?
Will dark blue or light have the best of thefight, at Putney and Mortlake and Chiswick?
I often importune the favour of Fortune, that nomisadventure may cross us,
And Rhodes once again on the watery plain,may prove an aquatic Colossus.
[N.B. since I wrote I must add a short note,by means of new fangled devices,
Our "Three" was unseated, and we weredefeated, and robbed of our laurels by Isis.]—
O oft do I dream of the muddy old stream, theFather of wisdom and knowledge,
Where ages ago I delighted to row for the honourand praise of my College.
I feel every muscle engaged in the tussle, I hearthe wild shouting and screaming;
And as we return I can see from the stern LadyMargaret's red banner streaming;
Till I wake with a start, such as nightmares impart,and find myself rapidly gliding,
And striving in vain at my ease to remain on aseat that is constantly sliding.
Institutions are changed, men and mannersderanged, new systems of rowing and reading,
And writing and thinking, and eating and drinking,each other are quickly succeeding.
Who knows to what end these new notions willtend? No doubt all the world is progressing,
For Kenealy and Odgers, those wide-awake dodgers,the wrongs of mankind are redressing.
No doubt we shall soon take a trip to the moon,if we need recreation or frolic;
Or fly to the stars in the New Pullman Cars,when we find the dull earth melancholic.
We shall know the delights of enjoying ourrightswithout anydutiesto vex us;
We shall know the unknown; the Philosopher'sstone shall be ours, and no problems perplex us;
For all shall be patent, no mysteries latent;man's mind by intuitive notion,
The circle shall square,xandyshall declare,and discover perpetual motion.
Meanwhile till the Earth has accomplished itsbirth, mid visions of imminent glory,
I prefer to remain, as aforetime, a plain andbloated and bigoted Tory.
* * * * * *Dear Mr. Editor, lately my creditor, now fullypaid and my debtor,
I wonder what you will be minded to do, whenyou get this rhapsodical letter.
If you listen to me (I shall charge you no feefor advice) do not keep or return it;
To its merits be kind, to its faults rather blind;in a word, Mr. Editor, burn it!
(1875).
[1] 'iam fervenimus usque ad umbilicos.' Martial iv. 91.
[NOTE.—The following lines were written by request,to be read at a Meeting of the "Girls' Friendly Society."]
What should a maiden be? Pure as the rill,Ere it has left its first home in the hill;Thinking no evil, suspecting no guile,Cherishing nought that can harm or defile.
What should a maiden be? Honest and true,Giving to God and to neighbour their due;Modest and merciful, simple and neat,Clad in the white robe of innocence sweet.
What should a maiden be? She should be loathLightly to give or receive loving troth;But when her faith is once plighted, till breathLeave her, her love should be stronger than death.
What should a maiden be? Merry, whene'erMerriment comes with a natural air;But let not mirth be an every-day guest,Quietness sits on a maiden the best.
Like a fair lily, sequestered and meek,She should be sought for, not others should seek;But, when the wild winds of trouble arise,She should be calm and courageous and wise,
What should her words be? Her words should be few,Honest and genuine, tender and true;Words that overflow from a pure heart within,Guiltless of folly, untainted by sin.
What should her dress be? Not gaudy and vain,But unaffectedly pretty and plain;She should remember these few simple words—"Fine feathers flourish on foolish young birds."
Where should a maiden be? Home is the placeWhich a fair maid is most fitted to grace;There should she turn, like a bird to the nest,There should a maiden be, blessing and blest.
There should she dwell as the handmaid of God,And if He bid her 'pass under the rod,'Let her each murmur repining suppress,Knowing He chasteneth that He may bless.
But if earth's blessings each day He renew,Let her give glory where glory is due;Deem every blessing a gift from above,Given, and designed for a purpose of love,
What will her future be? If she becomeMatron and mother, may God bless her home!God to the matron all blessings will give,If as God's maiden the young maiden live.
What will her future be? If she should die,Lightly the earth on her ashes will lie;Softly her body will sleep 'neath the sod,While her pure spirit is safe with her God.
My miserable countrymen, whose wont is once a-yearTo lounge in watering-places, disagreeable and dear;Who on pigmy Cambrian mountains, and in Scotch or Irish bogsImbibe incessant whisky, and inhale incessant fogs:Ye know not with what transports the mad Alpine Clubman gushes,When with rope and axe and knapsack to the realms of snow he rushes.O can I e'er the hour forget—a voice within cries "Never!"—From British beef and sherrydearwhich my young heart did sever?My limbs were cased in flannel light, my frame in Norfolk jacket,As jauntily I stepped upon the impatient Calais packet."Dark lowered the tempest overhead," the waters wildly rolled,Wildly the moon sailed thro' the clouds, "and it grew wondrous cold;"The good ship cleft the darkness, like an iron wedge, I trow,As the steward whispered kindly, "you had better go below"—Enough! I've viewed with dauntless eye the cattle's bloody tide;Thy horse, proud Duke of Manchester, I've seen straight at me ride;I've braved chance ram-rods from my friends, blank cartridges from foes;The jeers of fair spectators, when I fell upon my nose;I've laughed at toils and troubles, as a British Volunteer;But the thought of that nigh's misery still makes me pale with fear.Sweet the repose which cometh as the due reward of toil;Sweet to the sea-worn traveller the French or British soil;But a railway-carriage full of men, who smoke and drink and spit,Who disgust you by their manners, and oppress you with their wit;A carriage garlic-scented, full of uproar and of heat,To a sleepy, jaded Briton is decidedly not sweet.Then welcome, welcome Paris, peerless city of delights!Welcome, Boulevards, fields Elysian, brilliant days and magic nights!"Vive la gloire, et vive Napoléon! vive l'Empire (c'est la paix);"Vive la France, the land of beauty! vive la Rue St. Honoré!"Wildly shouting thus in triumph, I arrived at my Hotel—The exterior was palatial, and the dinner pretty well:O'er the rest, ye muses draw a veil! 'Twas the Exhibition year—And everything was nasty, and proportionately dear,Why should ye sing how much I paid for one poor pint of claret—The horrors of my bedroom in a flea-frequented garret—Its non-Sabaean odours—Liliputian devicesFor washing in a tea-cup—all at "Exhibition prices?"To the mountains, to the mountains, to their snowy peaks I fly!For their pure, primeval freshness, for their solitude I sigh!Past old Dijon and its Buffet, past fair Macon and its wine,Thro' the lime-stone cliffs, of Jura, past Mont Cenis' wondrous line;Till at 10 A.M., "Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face,"And I take outside the diligence for Chamonix my place.Still my fond imagination views, in memory's mirror clear,Purple rock, and snowy mountain, pine-wood black, and glassy mere;Foaming torrents hoarsely raving; tinkling cowbells in the glade;Meadows green, and maidens mowing in the pleasant twilight shade:The crimson crown of sun-set on Mont Blanc's majestic head,And each lesser peak beneath him pale and ghastly as the dead:Eagle-nest-like mountain chalets, where the tourist for some sousCan imbibe milk by the bucket, and on Nature's grandeur muse:Mont Anvert, the "Pas" called "mauvais," which I thoughtwas "pas mauvais,"Where, in spite of all my boasting, I encountered some delay;For, much to my amazement, at the steepest part I metA matron who weighed twenty stones, and I think must be there yet:The stupendous Col du Géant, with its chaos of seracs;The procession into Cormayeur, with lantern, rope, and axe:The sweet girl with golden ringlets—her dear name was Mary Ann—Whom I helped to climb the Jardin, and who cut me at Lausanne:On these, the charms of Chamonix, sweeter far than words can tell,At the witching hour of twilight doth my memory love to dwell.Ye, who ne'er have known the rapture, the unutterable blissOf Savoy's sequestered valleys, and the mountains of La Suisse;The mosquitos of Martigny; the confusion of Sierre;The dirt of Visp or Minister, and the odours everywhere:Ye, who ne'er from Monte Rosa have surveyed Italia's plain,Till you wonder if you ever will get safely down again;Ye, who ne'er have stood on tip-toe on a 'knife-like snow-arête,'Nor have started avalanches by the pressure of your weight;Ye, who ne'er havepackedyour weary limbs in sleeping bags at night,Some few inches from a berg-schrund, 'neaththe pale moon's freezing light:Who have ne'er stood on the snow-fields, when the sun in glory rose,Nor returned again at sun-set with parched lips and skinless nose;Ye, who love not masked crevasses, falling stones, and blistered feet,Sudden changes from Siberia's cold to equatorial heat;Ye, who love not the extortions of Padrone, Driver, Guide;Ye, who love not o'er the Gemmi on a kicking mule to ride;You miserable creatures, who will never know true bliss,You're not the men for Chamonix; avoid, avoid La Suisse!
"Up the high Alps, perspiring madman, steam,To please the school-boys, and become a theme."Cf. Juv. Sat. x, v. 106.
We who know not the charms of a glass below Zero,Come list to the lay of an Alpine Club hero;For no mortal below, contradict it who can,Lives a life half so blest as the Alpine Club man.
When men of low tastes snore serenely in bed,He is up and abroad with a nose blue and red;While the lark, who would peacefully sleep in her nest,Wakes and blesses the stranger who murders her rest.
Now blowing their fingers, with frost-bitten toes,The joyous procession exultingly goes;Above them the glaciers spectral are shining,But onward they march undismay'd, unrepining.
Now the glacier blue they approach with blue noses,When a yawning crevasse further progress opposes;Already their troubles begin—here's the rub!So they halt, andnem. con.call aloud for their grub.
From the fountain of pleasure will bitterness spring,Yet why should the Muse aught but happiness sing?No! let me the terrible anguish concealOf the hero whose guide had forgotten the veal! [1]
Now "all full inside" on the ice they embark:The moon has gone down, and the morning is dark,Dreary drizzles the rain, O, deny it who can,There's no one so blest as the Alpine Club man!
But why should I dwell on their labours at length?Why sing of their eyelids' astonishing strength?How they ride up "arêtes" with slow, steady advance,One leg over Italy, one over France.
Now the summit is gained, the reward of their toil:So they sit down contentedly water to boil:Eat and drink, stamp their feet, and keep warm if they can—O who is so blest as the Alpine Club man?
Now their lips and their hands are of wonderful hue,And skinless their noses, that 'erst were so blue:And they find to their cost that high regions agreeWith that patient explorer and climber—the flea.
Then they slide down again in a manner not cozy,(Descensus baud facilis est Montis Rosae)Now spread on all fours, on their backs now descending,Till broad-cloth and bellows call loudly for mending.
Now harnessed together like so many—horses,By bridges of snow they cross awful crevasses;So frail are these bridges that they who go o'er 'emIndulge in a perilous "Pons Asinorum."
Lastly weary and Jaded, with hunger opprest,In a hut they chew goat's flesh, and court gentle rest;But entomological hosts have conspiredTo drive sleep from their eyelids, with clambering tired.
O thou, who with banner of strangest deviceHast never yet stood on a summit of ice,Where "lifeless but beautiful" nature doth showAn unvaried expanse of rock, rain, ice, and snow.
Perchance thou may'st ask what avails all their toil?What avails it on mountain-tops water to boil?What avails it to leave their snug beds in the dark?Do they go for a view? do they go for a lark?
Know, presumptuous wretch, 'tis not science they prize,The lark, and the view ('tis all mist) they despise;Like the wise king of France with his ten thousand men,They go up their mountain—to come down again.
[1] Cf. Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers, 1st Series, p. 296.
Year after year, as Summer suns come round,Upon the Calais packet am I found:Thence to Geneva hurried by express,I halt for breakfast, bathe, and change my dress.My well-worn knapsack to my back I strap;My Alpine rope I neatly round me wrap;Then, axe in hand, the diligence disdaining,I walk to Chamonix, by way of training.Arrived at Coutlet's Inn by eventide,I interview my porter and my guide:My guide, that Mentor who has dragg'd full oftThese aching, shaking, quaking limbs aloft;Braved falling stones, cut steps on ice-slopes steep,ThatIthe glory ofhisdeeds might reap.My porter, who with uncomplaining backO'er passes, peaks, and glaciers bears my pack:Tho' now the good man looks a trifle sadder,When I suggest the ill-omened name of "ladder."O'er many a pipe our heads we put together;Our first enquiry is of course "the weather."With buoyant hearts the star-lit heaven we view;Then our next point is "What are we to 'do'?"My pipe I pocket, and with head up-tossedMy listening followers I thus accost:—"Mont Blanc, we know, is stupid, stale, and slow,A tiresome tramp o'er lumps of lifeless snow.The Col du Géant is a trifle worse;The Jardin's fit for babies with their nurse:The Aiguille Verte is more the sort of thing,But time has robbed it of its former sting;Alone the Dent du Géant and the Dru [1]Remain 'undone,' and therefore fit to 'do.'Remember how I love, my comrades tried,To linger on some rocky mountain's side,"Where I can hear the crash of falling stones,Threatening destruction to the tourist's bones!No cadence falls so sweetly on my earAs stones discharged from precipices sheer:No sight is half so soothing to my nervesAs boulders bounding in eccentric curves.If falling stones sufficient be not found,Lead me where avalanches most abound.Ye shake your heads; ye talk of home and wife,Of babes dependent on the Father's life.What! still reluctant? let me then make clearThe duties of the guide and mountaineer;Mine is to order, yours is to obey—For you are hirelings, and 'tis I who pay.I've heard, indeed, that some old-fashioned Herren,Who've walked with Almer, Melchior, and Perren,Maintain that mountaineering is a pleasure,A recreation for our hours of leisure:'To be or not to be' perhaps may matterTothem, for they may have some brains to scatter;Butwe, I trust, shall take a higher view,And make our mountain motto 'die or do.'"Nay, hear me out! your scruples well I know:Trust me, not unrewarded shall ye go.If ye succeed, much money will I give,And mine unfaltering friendship, while ye live.Nor only thus will I your deeds requite;High testimonials in your books I'll write.Thee, trusty guide, will I much eulogizeAs strong and cautious, diligent and wise,Active, unhesitating, cheerful, sure—Nay,almostequal to an Amateur!And thou, my meekest of meek beasts of burden,Thou too shalt have thine undisputed guerdon:I'll do for thee the very best I can,And sound thy praise as 'a good third-rate man.'But if ye fail, if cannonading stones,Or toppling ice-crag, pulverize your bones;O happy stroke, that makes immortal heroesOf men who, otherwise, would be but zeroes!What tho' no Alpine horn make music drearO'er the lone snow which furnishes your bier;Nor Alpine maiden strew your grave with posiesOf gentian, edelweiss, and Alpine roses?"The Alpine Muse her iciest tears shall shed,And 'build a stone-man' o'er your honour'd head,Chamois and bouquetins the spot shall haunt,With eagles, choughs, and lammergeyers gaunt;The mountain marmots, marching o'er the snow,Their yearly pilgrimage shall ne'er forego;Tyndall himself, in grand, prophetic tones,Shall calculate the movement of your bones;And your renown shall live serene, eternal,Embalmed in pages of the Alpine Journal!"
* * * * *
By reasoning such as this, year after year,I overcome my men's unreasoning fear:Twice has my guide by falling stones been struck,Yet still I trust his science and my luck.A falling stone once cut my rope in twain;We stopped to mend it, and marched on again.Once a big boulder, with a sudden whack,Severed my knapsack from my porter's back.Twice on a sliding avalanche I've slid,While my companions in its depths were hid.Daring all dangers, no disaster fearing,I carry out my plan of mountaineering.Thus have I conquered glacier, peak, and pass,Aiguilles du Midi, Cols des Grandes Jorasses.Thus shall I onward march from peak to peak,Till there are no new conquests left to seek.O the wild joy, the unutterable blissTo hear the coming avalanche's hiss!Or place oneself in acrobatic pose,While mountain missiles graze one's sun-burnt nose!And if some future season I be doom'dTo be by boulders crushed, or snow entombed,Still let me upward urge my mad career,And risk my limbs and life for honour dear!Sublimely acquiescent in my lot,I'll die a martyr for—I know not what!
(1876)
[1] Written in 1876.
I made an ascent of the EigerLast year, which has ne'er been surpassed;'Twas dangerous, long, and laborious,But almost incredibly fast.We started at twelve from the Faulberg;Ascended the Monch by the way;And were well at the base of our mountain,As the peak caught the dawn of the day.
In front of me Almer and PerrenCut steps, each as big as a bucket;While behind me there followed, as Herren,George, Stephen, and Freshfield, and Tuckett.We got to the top without trouble;There halted, of course, for the view;When clouds, sailing fast from the southward,Veiled over the vault of dark blue.
The lightning shone playfully round us;The thunder ferociously growled;The hail beat upon us in bullets;And the wind everlastingly howled.We turned to descend to the Scheideck,Eyes blinded, ears deafened, we ran,In our panic and hurry, forgettingTo add a new stone to theman.
Palinurus himself—that is Almer—No longer could make out the track;'Twas folly, no doubt, to go onward;'Twas madness, of course, to go back.The snow slope grew steeper and steeper;The lightning more vividly flared;The thunder rolled deeper and deeper;And the wind more offensively blared.
But at last a strong gust for a momentDispersed the thick cloud from our sight,And revealed an astonishing prospect,Which filled not our hearts with delight:On our right was a precipice awful;On the left chasms yawning and deep;Glazed rocks and snow-slopes were before us,At an angle alarmingly steep.
We all turned and looked back at Almer.Who then was the last on the rope;His face for a moment was clouded,Then beamed with the dawn of a hope;He came to the front, and thence forwardIn wonderful fashion he led,Over rocks, over snow-slopes glissading,While he stood, bolt upright on his head!
We followed, in similar fashion;Hurrah, what a moment is this!What a moment of exquisite transport!A realization of bliss!To glissade is a pleasant sensation,Of which all have written, or read;But to taste it,in perfect perfection,You should learn to glissadeon your head.
Hurrah! with a wild scream of triumph,Over snow, over boulders we fly,Our heads firmly pressed to the surface,Our heels pointing up to the sky!We bound o'er the bergschrund uninjured,We shoot o'er a precipice sheer;Hurrah, for the modern glissader!Hurrah, for the wild mountaineer!
* * * * *
But, alas! what is this? what a shaking!What a jar! what a bump! what a thump!Out of bed, in intense consternation,I bound with a hop, skip, and jump.For I hear the sweet voice of a "person"Of whom I with justice am proud,"My dear, when you dream about mountains,I wish you'd not jodel so loud!"
A's my new policy called Annexation;B is the Bother it causes the nation.C is Lord Chelmsford, engaged with Zulus;D the Disasters which give me 'the blues.'E is the Effort I make to look merry;F is my Failure—deplorable very!G is Sir Garnett, alas, not ubiquitous!H stands for H——t, an M.P. iniquitous.I stands for India, a source of vexation:J are the Jews, a most excellent nation.K is the Khedive, whose plan is to borrowLL. s. d.—I'll annex him to-morrow!M's the Majority, which I much prize;N are the Non-contents whom I despise.O's the Opposition, so often defeated;P is P——ll, that Home-ruler conceited.Q are the Questions put by noble Lords;R my Responses, more cutting than swords.S is the Sultan, my friend true and warm;T are the Turks, whom I hope to reform.U's my Utopia—Cyprus, I mean:V is Victoria, my Empress and Queen.W's the World, which ere long I shall own;X is the sign of my power unknown.Y is the Yacht I shall keep in the Red Sea:Z the Zulus, whom I wish in the Dead Sea.
(1879).
A's Aristides, or Gladstone the Good;B is Lord B., whom I'd crush if I could.C are Conservatives, full of mad pranks;D are the Dunces who fill up their ranks.E stands for Ewelme, of some notoriety;F for the Fuss made in Oxford society.G stands for Gladstone, a hewer of wood;H is my Hatchet of merciless mood.I is the Irish Church which I cut down:J are the Jobs which I kill with a frown,K are the Knocks which I give and I take:L are the Liberals whom I forsake.M are the Ministry whom I revile;N are the Noodles my speeches beguile.O is the Office I mean to refuse:P is the Premier—I long for his shoes.Q are the Qualms of my conscience refined;R is the Rhetoric nothing can bind,S is Herr Schliemann who loves much to walk aboutT ancient Troy, whichIlove much to talk about.U is the Union of Church and State;V are my former Views, now out of date.W is William, the People's 'True Bill,'X is the Exit from power of that 'Will.'Y is Young England, who soon will uniteZ in fresh Zeal for the 'People's Delight.'
(1879)
(Inscription in the Grounds of Burg Birseck, near Basel.)
Sweet Solitude where dost thou linger?When and where shall I look in thy face?Feel the soft magic touch of thy finger,The glow of thy silent embrace?Stern Civilization has banishedThy charms to a region unknown;The spell of thy beauty has vanished—Sweet Solitude, where hast thou flown?
I have sought thee on pampas and prairie,By blue lake and bluer crevasse,On shores that are arid and airy,Lone peak, and precipitous pass.I have sought thee, sweet Solitude, everRegardless of peril and pain;But in spite of my utmost endeavourI have sought thee, fair charmer, in vain.
To the Alps, to the Alps in September,Unconducted by Cook, did I rush;Full well even now I rememberHow my heart with emotion did gush.Here at least in these lonely recessesWith thee I shall cast in my lot;Shall feel thy endearing caresses,Forgetting all else and forgot.
But I met a young couple "proposing"On the top of the sunny Languard;I surprised an old gentleman dozing,"Times" in hand, on the heights of Fort Bard.In the fir woods of sweet PontresinaPicnic papers polluted the walks;On the top of the frosty BerninaI found a young mountain of—corks.
I trod, by the falls of the Handeck,On the end of a penny cigar;As I roamed in the woods above LandeckA hair-pin my pleasure did mar:To the Riffel in vain I retreated,Mr. Gaze and the Gazers were there;On the top of the Matterhorn seatedI picked up a lady's back hair!
From the Belle Vue in Thun I was huntedBy "'Arry" who wished to play pool;On the Col du Bonhomme I confrontedThe whole of a young ladies' school.At Giacomo's Inn in ChiesaI was asked to take shares in a mine;With an agent for "Mappin's new Razor"I sat down at Baveno to dine.
On the waves of Lake Leman were floatingOld lemons (imagine my feelings!),The fish in Lucerne were all gloatingOn cast-away salads and peelings;And egg-shells and old bones of chickenOn the shore of St. Moritz did lie:My spirit within me did sicken—Sweet Solitude, where shall I fly?
Disconsolate, gloomy, and undoneI take in the "Dilly" my place;By Zurich and Basel to LondonI rush, as if running a race.My quest and my troubles are over;As I drive through the desolate streetTo my Club in Pall Mall, I discoverSweet Solitude's summer retreat.
Woe, woe is me! for whither can I fly?Where hide me from Mathesis' fearful eye?Where'er I turn the Goddess haunts my path,Like grim Megoera in revengeful wrath:In accents wild, that would awake the dead,Bids me perplexing problems to unthread;Bids me the laws ofxandyto unfold,And with "dry eyes" dread mysteries behold.Not thus, when blood maternal he had shed,The Furies' fangs Orestes wildly fled;Not thus Ixion fears the falling stone,Tisiphone's red lash, or dark Cocytus' moan.Spare me, Mathesis, though thy foe I be,Though at thy altar ne'er I bend the knee,Though o'er thy "Asses' Bridge" I never pass,And ne'er in this respect will prove an ass;Still let mild mercy thy fierce anger quell! ohLet, let me live to be a Johnian fellow!
* * * * * *
She hears me not! with heart as hard as lead,She hurls a Rhombus at my luckless head.Lo, where her myrmidons, a wrangling crew,With howls and yells rise darkling to the view.There Algebra, a maiden old and pale,Drinks "doublex," enough to drown a whale.There Euclid, 'mid a troop of "Riders" passes,Riding a Rhomboid o'er the Bridge of Asses;And shouts to Newton, who seems rather deaf,I've crossed the Bridge in safety Q.E.F.There black Mechanics, innocent of soap,Lift the long lever, pull the pulley's rope,Coil the coy cylinder, explain the fearWhich makes the nurse lean slightly to her rear;Else, equilibrium lost, to earth she'll fall,Down will come child, nurse, crinoline and all!But why describe the rest? a motley crew,Of every figure, magnitude, and hue:Now circles they describe; now form in square;Now cut ellipses in the ambient air:Then in my ear with one accord they bellow,"Fly wretch! thou ne'er shalt be a Johnian Fellow!"
Must I then bid a long farewell to "John's,"Its stately courts, its wisdom-wooing Dons,Its antique towers, its labyrinthine maze,Its nights of study, and its pleasant days?O learned Synod, whose decree I wait,Whose just decision makes, or mars my fate;If in your gardens I have loved to roam,And found within your courts a second home;If I have loved the elm trees' quivering shade,Since on your banks my freshman limbs I laid;If rustling reeds make music unto meMore soft, more sweet than mortal melody;If I have loved to "urge the flying ball"Against your Racquet Court's re-echoing wall;If, for the honour of the Johnian red,I've gladly spurned the matutinal bed,And though at rowing, woe is me! no dab,I've rowed my best, and seldom caught a crab;If classic Camus flow to me more dearThan yellow Tiber, or Ilissus clear;If fairer seem to me that fragrant streamThan Cupid's kiss, or Poet's pictured dream;If I have loved to linger o'er the pageOf Roman Bard, and Academian sage;If all your grave pursuits, your pastimes gay,Have been my care by night, my joy by day;Still let me roam, unworthy tho' I be,By Cam's slow stream, beneath the old elm tree;Still let me lie in Alma Mater's arms,Far from the wild world's troubles and alarms:Hear me, nor in stern wrath my prayer repel! ohLet, let me live to be a Johnian Fellow!
(1865).
May, 1863.
1. BOYCOTT, W. 5. PALEY, G. A.2. FERGUSON, R. S. 6. GORST, P. F.3. BOWLING, E. W. 7. SECKER, J. H.4. SMITH, JASON. 8. FISHER, J.Steerer—BUSHELL, W. D.
Eight B.A.'s stout from town came out M.A. degrees to take,And made a vow from stroke to bow a bump or two to make.Weary were they and jaded with the din of London town,And they felt a tender longing for their long-lost capand gown.So they sought the old Loganus: well pleased, I trow, was he,The manly forms he knew so well once more again to see:And they cried—"O old Loganus, can'st thoufind us e'er a boat,In which our heavy carcases may o'er the waters float?"Then laughed aloud Loganus—a bitter jest lov'd he—And he cried "Such heavy mariners I ne'er before did see;I have a fast commodious barge, drawn by a wellfed steed,'Twill scarcely bear your weight, I fear: for neverhave I see'dEight men so stout wish to go out a rowing in a 'height;'Why, gentlemen, a man of war would sink beneath your weight."Thus spake the old Loganus, and he laughed bothlong and loud,And when the eight men heard his words, theystood abashed and cowed;For they knew not that he loved them, and that,sharply tho' he spoke,The old man loved them kindly, tho' he also loved his joke:For Loganus is a Trojan, and tho' hoary be his head,He loveth Margareta, and the ancient Johnian red.So he brought them out an eight-oar'd tub, andoars both light and strong,And bade them be courageous, and row their ship along.Then in jumped Casa Minor, the Captain of our crew,And the gallant son-of Fergus in a "blazer" bright and new;AndThomas o Kulindon[*] full proudly grasped his oar,AndIason o Chalkourgos[*], who weighs enough for "four;"For if Jason and Medea had sailed with him for cargo,To the bottom of the Euxine would have sunk thegood ship Argo.Then Pallidulus Bargaeus, the mightiest of our crew,Than whom no better oarsman ever wore the Cambridge blue.And at number six sat Peter, whom Putney's waters know;Number seven was young Josephus, the ever-sleepless Joe;Number eight was John Piscator, at his oar a wondrous dab,Who, tho' all his life a fisher, yet has never caught a crab;Last of all the martial Modius, having laid his good sword by,Seized the rudder-strings, and uttered an invigorating cry:"Are you ready all? Row, Two, a stroke! Eyesfront, and sit at ease!Quick March! I meant to say, Row on! andmind the time all, please."Then sped the gallant vessel, like an arrow from a bow,And the men stood wondering on the banks tosee the "Old'uns" row;And Father Camus raised his head, and smiled upon the crew,For their swing, and time, and feather, and theirforms, full well he knew.They rowed past Barnwell's silvery pool, pastCharon's gloomy bark,And nearly came to grief beneath the railway rafters dark:But down the willow-fringed Long Reach so fearfulwas their pace,That joyous was each Johnian, and pale each foeman's face.They rowed round Ditton corner, and past the pleasant Plough,Nor listened to the wild appeal for beer that came from bow;They rowed round Grassy Corner, and its fairy forms divine,But from the boat there wandered not an eyeof all the nine;They rowed round First-Post Corner, the LittleBridge they passed,And calmly took their station two places from the last.Off went the gun! with one accord the sluggish Cam they smote,And were bumped in fifty seconds by the Second Jesus Boat.
(1863).
[* Transcriber's note: The names "Thomas o Kulindon" and "Iason oChalkourgos" were transliterated from the Greek as follows:
Thomas: Theta, omega, mu, alpha, sigma.o: omicron.Kulindon: Kappa, upsilon, lambda, iota, nu, delta, omega, nu.
Iason (Jason?): Iota, alpha, sigma, omega, nu.o: omicron.Chalkourgos: Chi, alpha, lambda, kappa, omicron, upsilon,rho, gamma, omicron, sigma.]
Ridicula nuper cymba, sicut meus est mos,Flumineas propter salices et murmura Cami,Multa movens mecum, fumo inspirante, iacebam.Illic forte mihi senis occurrebat imagoSqualida, torva tuens, longos incompta capillos;Ipse manu cymbam prensans se littore in udoDeposuit; Camique humeros agnoscere latosImmanesque artus atque ora hirsuta videbar:Mox lacrymas inter tales dedit ore querelas—"Nate," inquit, "tu semper enim pius accola Cami,Nate, patris miserere tui, miserere tuorum!Quinque reportatis tumet Isidis unda triumphis:Quinque anni videre meos sine laude secundoCymbam urgere loco cunctantem, et cedere victos.Heu! quis erit finis? Quis me manet exitus olim?Terga boum tergis vi non cedentia nostriExercent iuvenes; nuda atque immania crura,Digna giganteas inter certare palaestras,Quisque ferunt, latosque humeros et brachia longa,Collaque Atlanteo non inferiora labore:"Sed vis arte carens frustrà per stagna laborat:Fit brevis inque dies brevior (proh dedecus ingens!)Ictus, et incerto tremulam movet impete cymbam,Usque volaturae similem, tamen usque morantem.Ah! Stanleius ubi est? ubi fortis et acer IönasEt Virtus ingens, maiorque vel Hercule Iudas?Ah! ubi, laeva mei novit quem fluminis ora,Ile 'Ictus,' vitreis longe spectandus ocellis,Dulce decus Cami, quem plebs ignoblis 'Aulam,'Vulpicanem Superi grato cognomine dicunt?Te quoque, magne Pales, et te mea flumina deflentO formose puer, quibus alto in gurgite mersisMille dedit, rapuit mille oscula candida Naias?Quid decus amissum repeto, aut iam laude peremptaNomina Putnaeis annalibus eruta testor?"Granta ruit, periitque decus, periitque vetustaGloria remorum primaeque per aequora navis.Sed vos, O juvenes, sanguis quibus integer aevi,Spes ventura domus, Grantaeque novissima proles,Antiquum revocate decus, revocate triumphos!Continuo Palinurus ubi 'iam pergite' dixitErectum librate caput; nec pandere cruraParcite, nec solidis firmi considere transtris!Ast ubi contactas iam palmula senserit undas,Compressa incipiat iam tum mihi crura phaselusAccipere, et faciles iter accelerare per undas."Incipiente ictu qui vim non prompserit omnemDique hominesque odere; hic, pondus inutile cymbae,Tardat iter; comites necat; hunc tu, nauta, caveto!Nec minus, incepto quoties ratis emicat ictu,Cura sit ad finem justos perferre labores.Vidi equidem multos—sileantur nomina—fluctusPraecipites penetrasse, sed heu! brevis effluit ictus,Immemor etremi mediique laboris in unda;Nam tales nisus tolerare humana nequit vis;Et quamvis primos jam jam victura carinaEvolet in cursus, primisque triumphet in undis,Mox ubi finis adest atque ultima meta laborum,Labitur exanimis, vi non virtute subacta.
"Tu quoque qui cymbae tendis Palinurus habenasUltro hortare viros; fortes solare benignisVocibus; ignavos accende, suosque laboresFac peragant, segnique veta torpere veterno.Sed quid ego haec? priscae si iam pietatis imagoUlla manet, si quid vobis mea gloria curae est,Camigenae, misero tandem succurrite patri,Ereptosque diu vincendo reddite honores!Tunc ego arundinea redimitus tempora vittaAntiquo fruar imperior iustisque triumphis:Tum demum Cloacina meos foedissima fluctusDesierit temerare, et puro flumine labensCamus ad Oceanum volvetur amabilis amnis."
Dixit, et in piceas Fluvius sese abdidit undas;Sed me ridiculam solventem a littore cymbamNectaris ambrosii circumvolvuntur odores,Decedente Deo; naresque impellit acutasConfusi canis amnis et illaetabilis aura.
Smoking lately in my "Funny," as I'm wont, beneath the bank,Listening to Cam's rippling murmurs thro' theweeds and willows dank,As I chewed the Cud of fancy, from the water there appearedAn old man, fierce-eyed, and filthy, with a longand tangled beard;To the oozy shore he paddled, clinging to my Funny's nose,Till, in all his mud majestic, Cam's gigantic form arose.Brawny, broad of shoulders was he, hairy werehis face and head,And amid loud lamentations tears incessantly he shed."Son," he cried, "the sorrows pity of thy melancholy sire!Pity Camus! pity Cambridge! pity our disasters dire!Five long years hath Isis triumphed, five longyears have seen my EightRowing second, vainly struggling 'gainst an unrelenting fate.What will be the end, I know not! what willbe the doom of Camus?Shall I die disowned, dishonoured? Shall I live,and yet be famous?Backs as strong as oxen have we, legs Herculean and bare,Legs that in the ring with Titan wrestler mightto wrestle dare.Arms we have long, straight, and sinewy,Shoulders broad, necks thick and strong,Necks that to the earth-supporting Atlas mightfull well belong."But our strength un-scientific strives in vainthro' stagnant water,Every day, I blush to own it, Cambridge strokesare rowing shorter.With a short spasmodic impulse see the boats a moment leap,Starting with a flying motion, soon they stopand sink to sleep.Where are Stanley, Jones, and Courage? whereis 'Judas' stout and tall,Where the Stroke named ''all' by Bargemen,known to Cambridge as 'Jack Hall'?'Twas a spectacle to see him in his gig-lamps row along,And the good ship speeding onward swift asPoet's gushing song.Where is Paley? Where is Fairbairn, fromwhose lips the Naiads dankSnatched and gave their sweetest kisses whenour Eight at Chiswick sank?What avails it to remember brilliant days now lost in night?What avails it Putney's annals, and past glories to recite?"Lost is Granta, lost our glory, lost our former pride of place,Gone are all my blushing honours, nought isleft me but disgrace.For regardless of all science, every oarsman now obeysWild, new fangled laws and notions, neverdream'd of in old days.But do you, my gentle Freshmen, who have youth in every vein,Labour by your manly valour our lost laurels to regain!When you hear the Cox'n's 'row on all,' thenkeep erect your head;Then be your arms and bodies with one motion for'ard sped:Sit firm upon your cushions all; and, when the oar is in,With one harmonious action let your work at once begin:Press your feet against the stretcher, and yourlegs with vigour ply,Till the ship, as swift as lightning, thro' theyielding water fly."He who 'misses the beginning' makes his comradesall to suffer,Spoils the swing, and is a nuisance; turn himout, for he's a duffer!Having made a good beginning you must carry on the work,And until the stroke is finished not an atom must you shirk.I have seen—no names I mention—certain oarsmen with a dashPlunge their oars into the water, and producea sudden splash!But the middle and the finish are all wasted in the air,And no human constitution can such toil incessant bear;For although the ship at starting may at onceits distance clear,And victory seem certain, when the winning post is near,The crew worn out and breathless have nothing in them left,And though pluck may ne'er desert them, oftheir vigour are bereft.
"And do you, my Palinuris, steering straight the gallant bark,By voice and exhortation keep your heroes to the mark.Cheer the plucky, chide the cowards who to dotheir work are loth,And forbid them to grow torpid by indulging selfish sloth.Fool! I know my words are idle! yet if any love remain;If my honour be your glory, my discredit be your pain;If a spark of old affection in your hearts be still alive!Rally round old Father Camus, and his glories past revive!Then adorned with reedy garland shall I take my former throne,And, victor of proud Isis, reign triumphant and alone.Then no more shall Cloacina with my streamsher offerings blend,And old Camus clear as crystal to the ocean shall descend!"
He spoke, and 'neath the surface, black as pitch,he hid his head,And, punting out my Funny, I my homeward journey sped.But a strange ambrosial odour, as the God sank'neath the flood,Seem'd to float and hover round me, creepingupward from the mud:And for ever from the water's troubled face thereseem'd to riseA melancholy fragrance of dead dogs unto the skies.
He has gone to his grave in the strength of youth,While life shone bright before him;And we, who remember his worth and truth,Stand vainly grieving o'er him.
He has gone to his grave; that manly heartNo more with life is glowing;And the tears to our eyes unbidden start,Our sad hearts' overflowing.
I gaze on his rooms as beneath I pace,And the past again comes o'er me,For I feel his grasp, and I see his face,And his voice has a welcome for me.
I gaze on the river, and see once moreHis form in the race competing;And I hear the time of his well-known oar,And the shouts his triumph greeting.
Flow on, cold river! Our bitter griefNo tears from thy waves can waken:Thy whisp'ring reed, and thy willow leafBy no sad sighs are shaken.
Thy banks are thronged by the young and gay,Who dream not of the morrow;No ear hast thou for a mournful lay,No sympathy with sorrow.
Flow on, dull river! Thy heedless wave,As it echoes shouts of gladness,Bears forms as stalwart, and hearts as brave,As his whom we mourn in sadness.
But an arm more strong, and a heart more bold,And with purer feelings glowing,Thy flowing waters shall ne'er behold,Till time has ceased from flowing.
(1866).
Let penny-a-liners columns pourOf turgid efflorescence,Describe in language that would floorOur Cayleys, Rouths, and Besants,How Oxford oars as levers move,While Cambridge mathematics,Though excellent in theory, proveUnstable in aquatics.
Our muse, a maiden ne'er renownedFor pride, or self-reliance,Knows little of the depths profoundOf "Telegraphic" science:But now her peace she cannot holdAnd like a true Camena,With look half-blushing and half-bold,Descends into the arena.
Sing who was he that steered to win,In spite of nine disasters,And proved that men who ne'er give inMust in the end be masters?No warrior stern by land or sea,With spurs, cocked hat, and sword on,Has weightier work than fell to thee,Our gallant little Gordon.
Who when old Cam was almost dead,His glory almost mouldy,Replaced the laurels on his head?Sweet Echo answers—"Goldie."Who was our Seven of mighty brawnAs valiant as a lion?Who could he be but strapping Strachan,Australia's vigorous scion?
Who rowed more fierce than lioness,Bereft of all her whelps?A thousand light-blue voices blessThe magic name of Phelps.Who was our Five? Herculean Lowe,(Not he of the Exchequer),So strong, that he with ease could rowA race in a three-decker.
Cam sighed—"WhenshallI win a race"?Fair Granta whispered—"When, Sir,You see at Four, his proper place,My Faerie-queen-like Spencer."'Tis distance robes the mountain paleIn azure tints of bright hue,'More than a distance' lends to Dale,His well earned double light-blue.
Proud Oxford burnt in days of oldRidley the Cambridge Martyr,But this year in our Ridley boldProud Oxford caught a Tartar.And Randolph rowed as well beseemedHis school renowned in story,And like old Nelson only dreamedOf Westminster and glory.
These men of weight rowed strong and straight,And led from start to finish;Their slow and steady thirty-eightNo spurts could e'er diminish:Till Darbyshire, not given to lose,Sees Cambridge rowing past him;And Goldie steps into his shoes;Long may their leather last him!
Glory be theirs who've won full wellThe love of Alma Mater,The smiles of every light-blue Belle,The shouts of every Pater!Unlimited was each man's storeOf courage, strength, and fettle,From Goldie downwards every oarWas ore of precious metal.
Then fare-ye-well till this time year,Ye heroes stout and strapping,And then beware, forgive my fear,Lest Oxford find you napping;And, oh! when o'er your work ye bend,'Mid shouts of—"light-blue's winning,"If ye would triumph in the end,Remember the beginning!
P.S. The Muse true to her sex,Less to be blamed than pitied,A Post-script must of course annexTo state a point omitted.When Granta glorying in successWith Camus pours her orisons;One name she gratefully must bless,That name is mighty Morrison's.
1. HAWKSHAW 3rd Trinity. 5. KINGLAKE 3rd Trinity.2. PIGOTT Corpus. 6. BORTHWICK 1st Trinity.3. WATSON Pembroke. 7. STEAVENSON Trinity Hall.4. HAWKINS Lady Margaret. 8. SELWYN 3rd Trinity.Steerer, ARCHER, Corpus.
Come, list to me, who wish to hear the glories of our crew,I'll tell you all the names of those who wear theCambridge Blue.First HAWKSHAW comes, a stalwart bow, astough as oak, nay tougher;Look at him ye who wish to see the Antipodes to "duffer."Swift as the Hawk in airy flight, strong as the guardsman SHAW,We men of mortal muscles must contemplate him with awe.Though I dwell by Cam's slow river, and I hopeam not a bigot,I think that Isis cannot boast a better man than PIGOTT:Active, and strong, and steady, and never known to shirk,Of Corpus the quintessence, he is always fit for work.The men of Thames will be amazed when theysee our "Three" so strong,And doubt if such a mighty form to mortal mould belong."What sonis this?" they, one and all, will askin awe and wonder;The men of Cam will answer make, "A mighty son of thunder."Next HAWKINS comes at "number 4," the sole surviving petOf the patroness of rowing, the Lady Margaret;When they think of his broad shoulders, andstrong and sinewy arms,Nor parents dear, nor brothers stern, need foster fond alarms.O! a tear of love maternal in Etona's eye will quiverWhen she sees her favourate KINGLAKE alsomonarch of the river.Oh! that I could honour fitly in this unassuming songThat wondrous combination of steady, long, and strong.Then comes a true-blue mariner from the ever-glorious "First,"In the golden arms of Glory and the lap of Victory nurst;Though blue may be his colours, there are better oarsmen few,And Oxford when it sees him will perhaps look still more blue.Then comes the son of STEPHEN, as solid as a wall;We need not add, who know his name, that hehails from Trinity Hall.Oh! in the race, when comes at last the struggleclose and dire,May he have the wind and courage of his tutor and his sire;May he think of all the glories of the ribbon black and white,And add another jewel to the diadem so bright!Then comes a name which Camus and Etona know full wellA name that's always sure to win and ne'er will prove a sell.O what joy will fill a Bishop's heart oft a farfar distant shore,When he sees our Stroke; reviving the memories of yore!Then old Cam will he revisit in fancy's fairy dream,And rouse once more with sounding oar the slowand sluggish stream:But who is this with voice so shrill, so resolute and ready?Who cries so oft "too late!" "too soon!""quicker forward!" "Steady, steady!"Why 'tis our young toxophilite, our ARCHER bold and true,The lightest and the tightest who has eversteered light-blue.O when he pulls the yielding string may heshoot both strong and straight,And may the night be swift and sure of his mighty arrows eight!May he add another victory to increase our Cambridge score;May Father Thames again behold the light blue to the fore!But ah! the name of Victory falls feebly on my ear—Forgive me! 'tis not cowardice that bids me shed this tear,I weep to think that three long years havelooked on our defeat;For three long years we ne'er have known thetaste of triumph sweet;O Father Cam! O Father Thames! O ye nymphs of Chiswick eyot!O Triton! O Poseidon! Take some, pity on our fate!What's the use of resolution, or of training, or of science,If anxious friends and relatives to our efforts bid defiance?If they take our strongest heroes from the middle of the boat,Lest exposure to the weather should result in a sore throat?We've rowed our boat when wave on wave o'ership and crew was dashing,And little were we troubled by the steamers and the splashing.O little do the light-blues care when tempestsround them gather,We'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father!For though our vessel sank, our hearts werebuoyant as a feather,Since we knew that we had done our best inspite of wind and weather.Then all ye Gods and Goddesses who rule o'er lake and river,O wipe away the trembling tear which in mine eye doth quiver!O wipe away the dire defeats that now we often suffer;Let not the name of Cambridge blue bebreathed with that of "duffer!"O melt the hearts of governors; for who can hope to thrive,If, when we're just "together," they despoil usof our "Five?"And lastly, when 'mid shouts and cheers andscreams and deafening dins,The two boats start upon their course—
Dei mihi, Oxford wins!
(1864).