The Project Gutenberg eBook ofSagittulae, Random VersesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Sagittulae, Random VersesAuthor: Edward Woodley BowlingRelease date: March 17, 2006 [eBook #18009]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAGITTULAE, RANDOM VERSES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Sagittulae, Random VersesAuthor: Edward Woodley BowlingRelease date: March 17, 2006 [eBook #18009]Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Al Haines
Title: Sagittulae, Random Verses
Author: Edward Woodley Bowling
Author: Edward Woodley Bowling
Release date: March 17, 2006 [eBook #18009]
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SAGITTULAE, RANDOM VERSES ***
Produced by Al Haines
Si dulce est desipere in loco,ignosce nostro, blande lector, ioco.
CAMBRIDGE: W. METCALFE & SON, TRINITY STREET.
1885.
A very few of the following pieces appeared in "Punch," during the Consulship of Plancus. The rest have been written by me during the past twenty-five years, under the signature of "Arculus," for "The Eagle," the Magazine of St. John's College, Cambridge. I hope their reappearance will be welcome to a few of my old College friends.
The general reader will probably think that some apology is due to him from me for publishing verses of so crude and trivial a character.
I can only say that the smallest of bows should sometimes be unstrung, and that if my little arrows are flimsy and light they will, I trust, wound no one.
THE BATTLE OF THE PONS TRIUM TROJANORUMJULIACLIO FATIDICAATHLETES AND AESTHESISA VISIONA MAY TERM MEMORYTHE MAY TERMA TRAGEDY OF THE 19TH CENTURY"NUNC TE BACCHE CANAM"A ROMANCE IN REAL (ACADEMIC) LIFETHE SENIOR FELLOWA VALENTINEA CURATE'S COMPLAINTTEMPORA MUTANTURSIMPLEX MUNDITIISTURGIDUS ALPINUSTHE ALPINE CLUB MANTHE MODERN CLIMBERTHE CLIMBER'S DREAMTHE BEACONSFIELD ALPHABETTHE GLADSTONE ALPHABETSOLITUDE IN SEPTEMBERMEDITATIONS OF A CLASSICAL MAN ON A MATHEMATICALPAPER DURING A LATE FELLOWSHIP EXAMINATIONTHE LADY MARGARET 5TH BOAT (May, 1863)IN CAMUMFATHER CAMUSIN MEMORIAM G. A. P.GRANTA VICTRIXTHE GREAT BOAT RACELINES BY A CAMBRIDGE ANCIENT MARINERTHE SORROWS OF FATHER CAMTHE COMING BOAT RACEA BALLADAN APRIL SQUALLBEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—I.BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—II.BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—III.BEDFORDSHIRE BALLAD.—IV.
[Transcriber's note: The poems "In Camus" and "Father Camus" appear to be the same poem, the former in Latin; the latter in English. In the original book, they are printed on facing pairs of pages, the left-hand page Latin, the right-hand page English. In this e-text, each poem is together, and are in the same order as shown in the Table of Contents.]
A lay sung in the Temple of Minerva Girtanensis.
[NOTE.—On Thursday, February 24th, 1881, three Graces were submitted to the Senate of the University of Cambridge, confirming the Report of The Syndicate appointed June 3rd, 1880, to consider four memorials relating to the Higher Education of Women. The first two Graces were passed by majorities of 398 and 258 against 32 and 26 respectively; the third was unopposed. The allusions in the following lay will probably be understood only by those who reside in Cambridge; but it may be stated that Professor Kennedy, Professor Fawcett, and Sir C. Dilke gave their votes and influence in favour of The Graces, while Dr. Guillemard, Mr. Wace, Mr. Potts, Professor Lumby, Dr. Perowne, Mr. Horne and Mr. Hamblin Smith voted against The Graces.]
Aemilia Girtonensis,By the Nine Muses sworeThat the great house of GirtonShould suffer wrong no more.By the Muses Nine she swore it,And named a voting day,And bade her learned ladies write,And summon to the impending fightTheir masters grave and gay.
East and West and South and NorthThe learned ladies wrote,And town and gown and countryHave read the martial note.Shame on the Cambridge SenatorWho dares to lag behind,When light-blue ladies call himTo join the march of mind.
But by the yellow CamusWas tumult and affright:Straightway to Pater VariusThe Trojans take their flight—'O Varius, Father Varius,'To whom the Trojans pray,'The ladies are upon us!'We look to thee this day!'
There be thirty chosen Fellows,The wisest of the land,Who hard by Pater VariusTo bar all progress stand:Evening and morn the ThirtyOn the Three Graces sit,Traced from the left by fingers deftIn the great Press of Pitt.
And with one voice the ThirtyHave uttered their decree—'Go forth, go forth, great Varius,'Oppose the Graces Three!'The enemy already'Are quartered in the town,'And if they once the Tripos gain,'What hope to save the gown?'
'To Hiz, [1] the town of Offa,'Their classes first they led,'Then onward to Girtonia'And Nunamantium sped:'And now a mighty army'Of young and beardless girls'Beneath our very citadel'A banner proud unfurls.'
Then out spake Father Varius,No craven heart was his:'To Pollmen and to Wranglers'Death comes but once, I wis.'And how can man live better,'Or die with more renown,'Than fighting against Progress'For the rights of cap and gown?'
'I, with two more to help me,'Will face yon Graces Three;'Will guard the Holy Tripod,'And the M.A. Degree.'We know that by obstruction'Three may a thousand foil.'Now who will stand on either hand'To guard our Trojan soil?'
Then Parvue Mariensis,Of Bearded Jove the Priest,Spake out 'of Trojan warriors'I am, perhaps, the least,'Yet will I stand at thy right hand.'Cried Pottius—'I likewise'At thy left side will stem the tide'Of myriad flashing eyes.
Meanwhile the Ladies' Army,Right glorious to behold,Came clad in silks and satins bright,With seal-skins and with furs bedight,And gems and rings of gold.Four hundred warriors shouted'Placet' with fiendish glee,As that fair host with fairy feet,And smiles unutterably sweet,Came tripping each towards her seat,Where stood the dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent,And frowned upon their foes,As a great shout of laughterFrom the four hundred rose:And forth three chiefs came spurringBefore their ladies gay,They faced the Three, they scowled and scoffed,Their gowns they donned, their caps they doffed,Then sped them to the fray.
Generalis Post-Magister,Lord of the Letter-bags;And Dilkius Radicalis,Who ne'er in combat lags;And Graecus Professorius,Beloved of fair Sabrine,From the grey Elms—beneath whose shadeA hospitable banquet laid,Had heroes e'en of cowards made.—Brought 'placets' thirty-nine.
Stout Varius hurled 'non placet'At Post-Magister's head:At the mere glance of PottiusFierce Radicalis fled:And Parvus Mariensis—So they who heard him tell—Uttered but one false quantity,And Professorius fell!
* * * *
But fiercer still and fiercerFresh foemen sought the fray.And fainter still and fainterStout Varius stood at bay.'O that this too, too solidFlesh would dissolve,' he sighed;Yet still he stood undaunted,And still the foe defied.
Then Pollia Nunamensis,A student sweetly fair,Famed for her smiles and dimplesBlue eyes and golden hair,Of Cupid's arrows seized a pair,One in each eye she took:Cupid's best bow with all her mightShe pulled—each arrow winged its flight,And straightway reason, sense, and sightStout Varius forsook.
'He falls'—the Placets thundered,And filled the yawning gap;In vain his trusty comradesAvenge their chief's mishap—His last great fight is done.'They charge! Brave Pottius prostrate lies,No Rider helps him to arise:They charge! Fierce Mariensis dies.The Bridge, the Bridge is won!
In vain did BencornutusFlash lightnings from his beard;In vain Fabrorum MaximusHis massive form upreared;And Lumbius Revisorius—Diviner potent he!—And Peronatus robed in state,And fine old Fossilis sedate,All vainly stemmed the tide of fate—Triumphed the Graces Three!
But when in future agesWomen have won their rights,And sweet girl-undergraduatesRead through the lamp-lit nights;When some, now unborn, PolliaHer head with science crams;When the girls make Greek Iambics,And the boys black-currant jams;
When the goodman's shuttle merrilyGoes flashing through the loom,And the good wife reads her PlatoIn her own sequestered room;With weeping and with laughterStill shall the tale be told,How pretty Pollia won the BridgeIn the brave days of old.
(1881).
[1] The ancient name of Hitchin.
An Ode.
[NOTE.—The following imitation of Cowper'sBoadiceawas written in 1858; most of its predictions have since been fulfilled.]
When the Cambridge flower-show ended,And the flowers and guests were gone,And the evening shades descended,Roamed a man forlorn alone.
Sage beside the River slowSat the Don renowned for loreAnd in accents soft and lowTo the elms his love did pour.
"Julia, if my learned eyesGaze upon thy matchless face:'Tis because I feel there liesMagic in thy lovely grace.
"I will marry! write that threatIn the ink I daily waste:Marry—pay each College debt—College Ale no more will taste.
"Granta, far and wide renowned,Frowns upon the married state;Soon her pride shall kiss the groundHark! Reform is at the gate.
"Other Fellows shall arise,Proud to own a husband's name:Proud to own their infants' cries—Harmony the path to fame.
"Then the progeny that springsFrom our ancient College walls,Armed with trumpets, noisy things,Shall astound us by their squalls.
"Sounds no wrangler yet has heard,Our posterity shall fright:E'en 'the Eagle,' [1] valiant bird,Shall betake itself to flight."
Such the thoughts that through him whirl'dPensively reclining there:Smiling, as his fingers curledHis divinely-glowing hair.
He, with all a lover's pride,Felt his manly bosom glow,Sought the Bull, besought the Bride,All she said was "No, Sir, No!"
Julia, pitiless as cold,Lo the vengeance due from Heaven!College Living he doth hold;Single bliss to thee is given.
[1] "The Eagle" is the well-known Magazine of St. John's College, Cambridge.
[NOTE.—The following lines were written to celebrate the 'bump' by which the Lady Margaret 1st Boat became "Head of the River" in 1871. On the next evening Professor Selwyn delighted the eyes and the hearts of all Johnians by sculling down the river to salute the Head of the River. The title ofpsychroloutes[*] needs no explanation to those who know the Selwyns, who are no less renowned as swimmers than as oarsmen.]
"Tell me, Muse, what colour floateth roundthe River's ancient head:Is it white and black, or white and blue, is itscarlet, blue, or red?"Thus I prayed, and Clio answered, "Why, I thoughtthe whole world knewThat the red of Margareta had deposed the flagof blue!Babes unborn shall sing in rapture how, desiringClose [1] affinity,Goldie, rowing nearly fifty, overlapped, and bumpedFirst Trinity.I myself was at the Willows, and beheld the victory won;Saw the victor's final effort, and the deed of daring done.I myself took off my bonnet, and forgetful of my years,Patting Goldie on the shoulder, gave him threetimes thrice three cheers.Ne'er, oh! ne'er, shall be forgotten the excitementof that night;Aged Dons, deem'd stony-hearted, wept withrapture at the sight:E'en the Master of a College, as he saw them overlap,Shouted 'Well rowed, Lady Margaret,' and tookoff his College cap;And a Doctor of Divinity, in his Academic garb,Sang a solemn song of triumph, as he lashed hisgallant barb;Strong men swooned, and small boys whistled,sympathetic hounds did yellLovely maidens smiled their sweetest on the menwho'd rowed so well:Goldie, Hibbert, Lang, and Bonsey, Sawyer,Burnside, Harris, Brooke;And the pride of knighthood, Bayard, who theright course ne'er forsook,But the sight which most rejoiced me was thewell-known form aquaticOf a scholar famed for boating and for witticisms Attic.Proud, I ween, was Lady Margaret her Professorthere to view,As with words of wit and wisdom he regaled theconquering crew.Proud, I ween, were Cam and Granta, as theysaw once more afloatTheir Etonianpsychroloutes[*], in his "Funny"little boat.Much, I ween, their watery spirits did withintheir heart's rejoice,As they listened to the music of that deep andmellow voice.Ah! 'tis well, to sing of boating, when beforemy swimming eyesBaleful visions of the future, woes unutterable rise.All our palmy days are over; for the fairer, feebler sexHas determined every College in succession to annex;And before another decade has elapsed, our eyes shall seeCollege Tutors wearing thimbles o'er convivial cups of tea.For 'golden-haired girl-graduates,' with 'Dowagersfor Dons,'Shall tyrannize in Trinity, and domineer in 'John's.'Then, instead of May Term races in the science grandof rowing,There'll be constant competition in the subtle artof sewing.Soon the modern undergraduate, with a feather in her hat,Shall parade the streets of Cambridge, followedby her faithful cat.From Parker's Piece and Former's shall be banishedbat and wicket,For crotchet work and knitting shall supplant thegame of cricket,Save whene'er a match at croquet once a Term isplayed at GirtonBy the Members of "the College" and the Moralistsof Merton.Then no tandems shall be driven, and no moreathletic sports,Save fancy balls and dances, shall appear in"Field" reports:And instead of 'pots' and 'pewters' to promotethe art of walking,We shall have a silver medal for proficiency in talking.Wranglers fair shall daily wrangle, who noMathematics ken;Lady preachers fill the pulpit, lady criticswield the pen.O ye gallant, gallant heroes who the River'shead have won,Little know ye what an era of confusion hath begun.I myself shall flee from Cambridge, sick at heartand sorely vexed,Ere I see my University disestablished and unsexed.'"Thus she spake, and I endeavoured to console theweeping Muse:"Dry your tears, beloved Clio, drive away thisfit of blues.Cease your soul with gloomy fancies and forebodingsto perplex;You are doing gross injustice to the merits of your sex.Know you not that things are changing, that theEarth regains her youth,Since Philosophers have brought to light the oneprimeval truth?Long have all things been misgoverned by thefoolish race of men,Who've monopolized sword, sceptre, mitre, ermine,spade, and pen,All the failures, all the follies, that the wearyworld bewails,Have arisen, trust me, simply from the government of males.But a brighter age is dawning; in the circling of the yearsLordly woman sees before her new 'ambitions,' new careers;For the world's regeneration instantaneously began,When Philosophers discovered the inferior claims of man.With new honours Alma Mater shall eternally be crowned,When the Ladies march in triumph, and her learnedseat surround;Then a nobler race of students, and of athletesshall arise,Students fair who thirst for knowledge, athletestrue who 'pots' despise.It is well for thee, sweet Clio, at their harmlesstastes to sneer,At their love of cats and croquet, their antipathyto beer;But as soon as every College has surrendered to the fair,Life up here will be perfection, we shall breatheambrosial air;For the problem of past ages will be solved, andwe shall findThe superior powers of woman, both in body and in mind.She shall teach us how to study, how to ride,and run, and row;How to box and play at cricket; how the heavyweight to throw;How to shoot the trembling pigeon; how the wily ratto slay;How at football and at racquets; how at whist andchess to play;How to drive the rapid tandem; how to jump, and howto walk;(For young women, trust me, Clio, can do somethingmore than talk)How to climb the Alps in summer; how in winter timeto skate;How to hold the deadly rifle; how a yacht to navigate;How to make the winning hazard with an effort sureand strong;How to play the maddening comet, how to sing a comic song;How to 'utilize' Professors; how to purify the Cam;How to brew a sherry cobbler, and to make red-currant jam.All the arts which now we practise in a desultory wayShall be taught us to perfection, when we own theLadies' sway."Thus I spake, and strove by speaking to assuagesweet Clio's fears;But she shook her head in sorrow, and departed drownedin tears.
(1874).
[1] Mr. J. B. Close, a well-known oarsman, stroke of the First Trinity 1st Boat.
[*] [Transcriber's note: The word "psychroloutes" appears in the original book in Greek. It has been transliterated from the Greek letters psi, upsilon, chi, rho, omicron, lambda, omicron, upsilon, tau, eta, and sigma.]
An Idyll of the Cam.
It was an Undergraduate, his years were scarce nineteen;Discretion's years and wisdom's teeth he plainly ne'er had seen;For his step was light and jaunty, and around him wide and farHe puffed the fragrant odours of a casual cigar.
It was a sweet girl-graduate, her years were thirty two;Her brow was intellectual, her whole appearance blue;Her dress was mediaeval, and, as if by way of charm,Six volumes strapped together she was bearing 'neath her arm.
'My beautiful Aesthesis,' the young man rashly cried,'I am the young Athletes, of Trinity the pride;I have large estates in Ireland, which ere longwill pay me rent;I have rooms in Piccadilly, and a farm (unlet) in Kent.
'My achievements thou hast heard of, how I chalk the wily cue,Pull an oar, and wield the willow, and have won my double-blue;How I ride, and play lawn tennis; how I make a claret cup;Own the sweetest of bull terriers, and a grand St. Bernard pup.
'But believe me, since I've seen thee, all thesepleasures are a bore;Life has now one only object fit to love and to adore;Long in silence have I worshipped, long in secret have I sighed:Tell me, beautiful Aesthesis, wilt thou be my blooming bride?'
'Sir Student,' quoth the maiden, 'you are really quite intense,And I ever of this honour shall retain the highest sense;But forgive me, if I venture'—faintly blushing thus she spoke—'Is not true love inconsistent with tobacco's mundane smoke?'
'Perish all that comes between us,' cried Athletes, as he threwHis weed full fifty paces in the stream of Camus blue:The burning weed encountered the cold river with the hissWhich ensues when fire and water, wranglers old, are forced to kiss.
'Sir Student, much I thank thee,' said the Lady, 'thou hast shownThe fragrance of a lily, or of petals freshly blown;But before to thee I listen there are questions not a fewWhich demand from thee an answer satisfactory and true.'
'Fire away,' exclaimed Athletes, 'I will do the best I can;But remember, gentle Maiden, that I'm not a reading man;So your humble servant begs you, put your questions pretty plain,For my Tutors all assure me I'm not overstocked with brain.
'Sir Student' cried the Lady, and her glance was stern and high,Hast thou felt the soft vibration of a summer sunset sky?Art thou soulful? Art thou tuneful? Cans't thouweep o'er nature's woes?Art thou redolent of Ruskin? Dost thou love a yellow rose?
'Hast thou bathed in emanations from the canvass of Burne Jones?As thou gazest at a Whistler, doth it whistle wistful tones?Art thou sadly sympathetic with a symphony in blue?Tell me, tell me, gentle Student, art thou really quite tootoo?'
''Pon my word,' replied the Student, 'this is comingit too strong:I can sketch a bit at Lecture, and can sing a comic song;But my head with all these subjects 'tis impossible to cram;So, my beautiful Aesthesis, you must take me as I am.'
'Wilt thou come into my parlour,' sweetly blushingasked the Maid,'To my little bower in Girton, where a table shall be laid?Pen and paper I will bring thee, and whatever thou shalt ask,That is lawful, shall be granted for performance of thy task.'
Lightly leapt the young Athletes from his seat beside the Cam:'This is tempting me, by Jingo, to submit to an Exam!So it's time, my learned Lady, you and I should say good-bye'—And he stood with indignation and wild terror in his eye.
They parted, and Athletes had not left her very far,Ere again he puffed the odours of a casual cigar;But he oftentimes lamented, as to manhood's years he grew,'What a pity such a stunner was so spoilt by being blue!'
And Aesthesis, as she watched him with his swinging manly stride,The 'double-blue' Athletes, of Trinity the pride,Found it difficult entirely to eradicate love's dart,As she listened to thy Lecture, Slade Professor of Fine Art.
And Ruskin, and the warblings of Whistler and Burne Jones,And symphonies in colours, and sunset's silent tones,Move her not as once they moved her, for she weeps in sorrow sore,'O had I loved Athletes less, or he loved culture more!'
(1882).
As hard at work I trimmed the midnight lamp,Yfilling of mine head with classic lore,Mine hands firm clasped upon my temples damp,Methought I heard a tapping at the door;'Come in,' I cried, with most unearthly rore,Fearing a horrid Dun or Don to see,Or Tomkins, that unmitigated bore,Whom I love not, but who alas! loves me,And cometh oft unbid and drinketh of my tea.
'Come in,' I rored; when suddenly there roseA magick form before my dazzled eyes:'Or do I wake,' I asked myself 'or doze'?Or hath an angel come in mortal guise'?So wondered I; but nothing mote surmise;Only I gazed upon that lovely face,In reverence yblent with mute surprise:Sure never yet was seen such wondrous grace,Since Adam first began to run his earthlie race.
Her hands were folded on her bosom meek;Her sweet blue eyes were lifted t'ward the skie;Her lips were parted, yet she did not speak;Only at times she sighed, or seemed to sigh:In all her 'haviour was there nought of shy;Yet well I wis no Son of Earth would dare,To look with love upon that lofty eye;For in her beauty there was somewhat rare,A something that repell'd an ordinary stare.
Then did she straight a snowycloth discloseOf samite, which she placed upon a chair:Then, smiling like a freshly-budding rose,She gazed upon me with a witching air,As mote a Cynic anchorite ensnare.Eftsoons, as though her thoughts she could not smother,She hasted thus her mission to declare:—'Please, these is your clean things I've brought instead of brother,'And if you'll pay the bill you'll much oblige my mother.'
(1860).
She wore a sweet pink bonnet,The sweetest ever known:And as I gazed upon it,My heart was not my own.For—I know not why or wherefore—A pink bonnet put on well,Tho' few other things I care for,Acts upon me like a spell.
'Twas at the May Term RacesThat first I met her eye:Amid a thousand GracesNo form with her's could vie.On Grassy's sward enamelledShe reigned fair Beauty's Queen;And every heart entrammell'dWith the charms of sweet eighteen.
Once more I saw that Bonnet—'Twas on the King's Parade—Once more I gazed upon it,And silent homage paid.She knew not I was gazing;She passed unheeding by;While I, in trance amazing,Stood staring at the sky.
The May Term now is over:That Bonnet has 'gone down';And I'm myself a rover,Far from my Cap and Gown.But I dread the Long Vacation,And its work by night and day,After all the dissipationEnergetic of the May.
Forxandywill vanish,When that Bonnet I recall;And a vision fair will banish,Newton, Euclid, and Snowball.And a gleam of tresses golden,And of eyes divinely blue,Will interfere with Holden,And my Verse and Prose imbue.
* * * *
These sweet girl graduate beauties,With their bonnets and their roses,Will mar ere long the dutiesWhich Granta wise imposes.Who, when such eyes are shining,Can quell his heart's sensations;Or turn without repiningTo Square Root and Equations?
And when conspicuous my nameBy absence shall appear;When I have lost all hopes of fame,Which once I held so dear;When 'plucked' I seek a vain reliefIn plaintive dirge or sonnet;Thou wilt have caused that bitter grief,Thou beautiful Pink Bonnet!
(1866).
Mille venit variis florum Dea nexa coronis:Scena ioci morem liberioris habet.
I wish that the May Term were over,That its wearisome pleasures were o'er,And I were reclining in cloverOn the downs by a wave-beaten shore:For fathers and mothers by dozens,And sisters, a host without end,Are bringing up numberless cousins,Who have each a particular friend.
I'm not yet confirmed in misogyny—They are all very well in their way—But my heart is as hard as mahogany,When I think of the ladies in May.I shudder at each railway-whistle,Like a very much victimized lamb;For I know that the carriages bristleWith ladies invading the Cam.
Last week, as in due preparationFor reading I sported my door,With surprise and no small indignation,I picked up this note on the floor—'Dear E. we are coming to see you,'So get us some lunch if you can;'We shall take you to Grassy, as Jehu—'Your affectionate friend, Mary Ann.'
Affectionate friend! I'm disgustedWith proofs of affection like these,I'm growing 'old, tawny and crusted,'Tho' my nature is easy to please.An Englishman's home is his castle,So I think that my friend Mary AnnShould respect, tho' she deem him her vassal,The rooms of a reading young man.
In the days of our fathers how pleasantThe May Term up here must have been!No chignons distracting were present,And scarcely a bonnet was seen.As the boats paddled round Grassy CornerNo ladies examined the crews,Or exclaimed with the voice of the scorner—'Look,howMr. Arculus screws!!
But now there are ladies in College,There are ladies in Chapels and Halls;No doubt 'tis a pure love of knowledgeThat brings them within our old walls;For they talk about Goldie's 'beginning';Know the meaning of 'finish' and 'scratch,'And will bet even gloves on our winningThe Boat Race, Athletics, or Match.
There's nothing but music and dancing,Bands playing on each College green;And bright eyes are merrily glancingWhere nothing but books should be seen.They tell of a grave Dean a fable,That reproving an idle young manHe faltered, for on his own tableHe detected in horror—a fan!
Through Libraries, Kitchens, Museums,These Prussian-like Amazons rush,Over manuscripts, joints, mausoleums,With equal intensity gush.Then making their due 'requisition,'From 'the lions' awhile they refrain,And repose in the perfect fruitionOf ices, cold fowl, and champagne.
Mr. Editor, answer my question—When, O when, shall this tyranny cease?Shall the process of mental digestionNe'er find from the enemy peace?Above all if my name you should guess, Sir,Keep it quite to yourself, if you can;For I dread, more than words can express, Sir,My affectionate friend Mary Ann.
(1871).
"Et potis es nigrum vitio praefigere Delta."—PERSIUS.
It was a young Examiner, scarce thirty were his years,His name our University loves, honours, and reveres:He pondered o'er some papers, and a tear stood in his eye;He split his quill upon the desk, and raised a bitter cry—'O why has Fortune struck me down with this unearthly blow?"Why doom'd me to examine in my lov'd one's Little-go?"O Love and Duty, sisters twain, in diverse ways ye pull;"I dare not 'pass,' I scarce can 'pluck:' my cup of woeis full."O that I ever should have lived this dismal day to see"!He knit his brow, and nerved his hand, and wrote the fatal D.
* * * * * *
It was a lovely maiden down in Hertford's lovely shire;Before her on a reading-desk, lay many a well-filled quire:The lamp of genius lit her eyes; her years were twenty-two;Her brow was high, her cheek was pale,her bearing somewhat blue:She pondered o'er a folio, and laboured to divineThe mysteries of "x" and "y," and many a magic sign:Yet now and then she raised her eye, and ceasedawhile to ponder,And seem'd as though inclined to allow her thoughtselsewhere to wander,A step was heard, she closed her book; her heartbeat high and fast,As through the court and up the stairs a manly figure passed.One moment more, the opening door disclosed unto her viewHer own beloved Examiner, her friend and lover true."Tell me, my own Rixator, is it First or Second Class?"His firm frame shook, he scarce could speak,he only sigh'd "Alas!"She gazed upon him with an air serenely calm and proud—"Nay, tell me all, I fear it not"—he murmuredsadly "Ploughed."She clasped her hands, she closed her eyes as fellthe word of doom;Full five times round in silence did she pace her little room;Then calmly sat before her books, and sigh'd "Rixator dear,"Give me the list of subjects to be studied for next year."
"My own brave Mathematica, my pupil and my pride,"My persevering Student whom I destine for my bride;"Love struggled hard with Duty, while the lover marked you B;"In the end the stern Examiner prevailed and gave you D."Mine was the hand that dealt the blow! Alas, against my will"I plucked you in Arithmetic—and can'st thou love me still?"She gazed upon him and her eye was full of love and pride—"Nay these are but the trials, Love, by whichtrue love is tried.
"I never knew your value true, until you marked me D:"D stands for dear, and dear to me you evermore shall be."
* * * * * *
A year had passed, and she had passed, for morning,noon, and night,Her Euclid and her Barnard-Smith had been her sole delight.Soon "Baccalaurea Artium" was added to her name,And Hitchin's groves, and Granta's courts resoundedwith her fame;And when Rixator hurried down one day by the express,And asked if she would have him, I believe she answered "Yes."For now they live together, and a wiser, happier pair,More learned and more loving, can scarce be found elsewhere;And they teach their children Euclid, andtheir babies all can speakFrench and German in their cradles, and at fivecan write good Greek;And he is a Professor and she Professoress,And they never cease the Little-go in gratitude to bless;When love could not the Lover from the path of duty sway,And no amount of plucking could his Student fair dismay.
Faint heart ne'er won fair lady, if in love you wouldhave luck,In wooing, as in warfare, trust in nothing else than pluck.
(1871).
'Tis done! Henceforth nor joy nor woeCan make or mar my fate;I gaze around, above, below,And all is desolate.Go, bid the shattered pine to bloom;The mourner to be merry;But bid no ray to cheer the tombIn which my hopes I bury!
I never thought the world was fair;That 'Truth must reign victorious';I knew that Honesty was rare;Wealth only meritorious.I knew that Womenmightdeceive,Andsometimescared for money;That Lovers who in Love believeFind gall as well as honey.
I knew that "wondrous Classic lore"Meant something most pedantic;That Mathematics were a bore,And Morals un-romantic.I knew my own beloved light-blueMight much improve their rowing:In fact, I knew a thing or twoDecidedly worth knowing.
But thou!—Fool, fool, I thought that thouAt least wert something glorious;I saw thy polished ivory brow,And could not feel censorious.I thought I saw thee smile—but thatWas all imagination;Upon the garden seat I sat,And gazed in adoration.
I plucked a newly-budding rose,Our lips then met together;We spoke not—but a lover knowsHow lips two lives can tether.We parted! I believed thee true;I asked for no love-token;But now thy form no more I view—My Pipe, my Pipe, thou'rt broken!
Broken!—and when the Sun's warm raysIllumine hill and heather,I think of all the pleasant daysWe might have had together.When Lucifer's phosphoric beamShines e'er the Lake's dim water,O then, my Beautiful, I dreamOf thee, the salt sea's daughter.
O why did Death thy beauty snatchAnd leave me lone and blighted,Before the Hymeneal matchOur young loves had united?I knew thou wert not made of clay,I loved thee with devotion,Soft emanation of the spray!Bright, foam-born child of Ocean!
One night I saw an unknown star,Methought it gently nodded;I saw, or seemed to see, afarThy spirit disembodied.Cleansed from the stain of smoke and oil,My tears it bade me wipe,And there, relieved from earthly toil,I saw my Meerschaum pipe.
Men offer me the noisome weed;But nought can calm my sorrow;Nor joy nor misery I heed;I care not for the morrow.Pipeless and friendless, tempest-tostI fade, I faint, I languish;He only who has loved and lostCan measure all my anguish.
By the waters of Cam, as the shades were descending,A Fellow sat moaning his desolate lot;From his sad eyes were flowing salt rivulets, blendingTheir tide with the river which heeded them not—
"O! why did I leave,"—thus he wearily muttered—"The silent repose, and the shade of my books,Where the voice of a woman no sound ever uttered,And I ne'er felt the magic of feminine looks?
"Then I rose when the east with Aurora was ruddy;Took a plunge in my Pliny; collated a play;No breakfast I ate, for I found in each studyA collation which lasted me all through the day.
"I know not what temptress first came to my gardenOf Eden, and lured me stern wisdom to leave;But I rather believe that a sweet 'Dolly Varden'Came into my rooms on a soft summer eve.
"From that hour to this, dresses silken and satinSeem to rustle around me, like wings in a dream;And eyes of bright blue, as I lecture in Latin,Fill my head with ideas quite remote from my theme.
"My life was once lonely, and almost ascetic;But now, if I venture to walk in the street,With her books in her hand, some fair PeripateticIs sure to address me with whisperings sweet.
"O, dear DR. OXYTONE, tell me the meaningOf this terrible phrase, which I cannot make out;And what is the Latin for "reaping" and "gleaning?"Is "podagra" the Greek, or the Latin for "gout?"
"'And what do you mean by "paroemiac bases?"Did the ladies in Athens wear heels very high?Dogive me the rules for Greek accents, and Crasis?Did CORNELIA drive out to dine in a fly?
"'When were bonnets first worn? was the toga becoming?Were woman's rights duly respected in Rome?What tune was that horrible Emperor strumming,When all was on fire—was itHome, Sweet Home?"
"Such questions as these (sweetest questions!) assail me,When I walk on our Trumpington-Road-Rotten-Row;The voice of the charmer ne'er ceases to hail me(Is itwiselyshe charmeth?) wherever I go.
"Locked up in my rooms, I sigh wearily 'ohe!'But cards, notes, and letters pour in by each post;From PHYLLIS, EUPHROSYNE, PHIDYLE, CHLOE,AMARYLLIS and JANE, and a numberless host.
"And now, I must take either poison or blue-pill,For things cannot last very long as they are."He ceased, as the exquisite form of a pupilDawned upon him, serene as a beautiful star.
Much of syntax and "accidence moving" our FellowDiscoursed as they sat by the murmuring stream,Till, as youngDesdemonawas charmed byOthello,She listened, as one who is dreaming a dream.
* * * * * *Now he, who was once a confirmed woman-hater,Sees faces around him far dearer than books;And no longer a Coelebs, but husband and "pater,"Lauds in Latin and Greek MRS. OXYTONE'S looks.
(1871)
When the shades of eve descendingThrow o'er cloistered courts their gloom,Dimly with the twilight blendingMemories long forgotten loom.From the bright fire's falling embersFaces smile that smiled of yore;Till my heart again remembersHopes and thoughts that live no more.
Then again does manhood's vigourNerve my arm with iron strength;As of old when trained with rigourWe beat Oxford by a length.Once again the willow wieldingDo I urge the flying ball;Till "lost ball" the men who're fieldingHot and weary faintly call.
Then I think of hours of study,Study silent as the tomb,Till the rays of morning ruddyShone within my lonely room.Once again my heart is burningWith ambition's restless glow;And long hidden founts of learningO'er my thirsty spirit flow.
Soon fresh scenes my fancy people,For I see a wooded hill;See above the well-known steeple;Hear below the well-known rill;Joyous sounds each gale is bringing,Wafted on its fragrant breath;Hark! I hear young voices singing,Voices silent now in death.
Brothers, sisters, loved and loving,Hold me in their fond embrace;Half forgiving, half reproving,I can see my Mother's face,Mid a night of raven tresses,Through the gloom two sad eyes shine;And my hand a soft hand presses,And a heart beats close to mine.
In mine ears a voice is ringing,Sweeter far than earthly strain,Heavenly consolation bringingFrom the land that knows no pain,And when slowly from me stealingFades that vision into air,Every pulse beats with the feelingThat a Spirit loved was there.
O how shall I write a love-dittyTo my Alice on Valentine's day?How win the affection or pityOf a being so lively and gay?For I'm an unpicturesque creature,Fond of pipes and port wine and a dozeWithout a respectable feature,With a squint and a very queer nose.
But she is a being seraphic,Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth;Who can talk in a manner most graphicEvery possible language on earth.When she's roaming in regions Italic,You would think her a fair Florentine;She speaks German like Schiller; and GallicBetter far than Rousseau or Racine.
She sings—sweeter far than a cymbal(A sound which I never have heard);She plays—and her fingers most nimbleMake music more soft than a bird.She speaks—'tis like melody stealingO'er the Mediterranean sea;She smiles—I am instantly kneelingOn each gouty and corpulent knee.
'Tis night! the pale moon shines in heaven(Where else it should shine I don't know),And like fire-flies the Pleiades sevenAre winking at mortals below:Let them wink, if they like it, for ever,My heart they will ne'er lead astray;Nor the soft silken memories sever,Which bind me to Alice De Grey.
If I roam thro' the dim Coliseum,Her fairy form follows me there;If I list to the solemn "Te Deum,"Her voice seems to join in the prayer."Sweet spirit" I seem to remember,O would she were near me to hum it;As I heard her in sunny September,On the Rigi's aërial summit!
O Alice where art thou? No answerComes to cheer my disconsolate heart;Perhaps she has married a lancer,Or a bishop, or baronet smart;Perhaps, as the Belle of the ball-room,She is dancing, nor thinking of me;Or riding in front of a small groom;Or tossed in a tempest at sea;
Or listening to sweet Donizetti,In Venice, or Rome, or La Scala;Or walking alone on a jetty;Or buttering bread in a parlour;Perhaps, at our next merry meeting,She will find me dull, married, and gray;So I'll send her this juvenile greetingOn the Eve of St. Valentine's day.
Where are they all departed,The loved ones of my youth,Those emblems white of purity,Sweet innocence and truth?When day-light drives the darkness,When evening melts to night,When noon-day suns burn brightest,They come not to my sight.
I miss their pure embracesAround my neck and throat,The thousand winning gracesWhereon I used to dote.I know I may find marketsWhere love is bought and sold,But no such love can equalThe tender ties of old.
My gentle washer-woman,I know that you are true;The least shade of suspicionCan never fall on you.Then fear me not, as fiercelyI fix on thee stern eyes,And ask in terms emphatic,"Where are my lost white ties?"
Each year I buy a dozen,Yet scarce a year is gone,Ere, looking in my ward-robe,I find that I have none.I don't believe in magic,I know that you are true,Yet say, my washer-woman,What can those white ties do?
Does each with her own collarTo regions far elope,Regions by starch untainted,And innocent of soap?I know not; but in futureI'll buy no more white ties,But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'Of Ritualistic guise.