Chapter XIX (2)

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 bliss
To 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'd
To 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.

THE CLIMBER'S DREAM.

I made an ascent of the Eiger
Last 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 Perren
Cut 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, forgetting
To add a new stone to the _man_.

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 moment
Dispersed 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 forward
In 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 glissade _on 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!_"

THE BEACONSFIELD ALPHABET.

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 borrow
L _L. 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).

THE GLADSTONE ALPHABET.

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 about
T ancient Troy, which _I_ love 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 unite
Z in fresh Zeal for the 'People's Delight.'

(1879)

SOLITUDE IN SEPTEMBER.

O BEATA SOLITUDO; O SOLA BEATITUDO.

(_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 banished
Thy 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, ever
Regardless of peril and pain;
But in spite of my utmost endeavour
I 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 remember
How my heart with emotion did gush.
Here at least in these lonely recesses
With 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 Pontresina
Picnic papers polluted the walks;
On the top of the frosty Bernina
I 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 Landeck
A 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 seated
I picked up a lady's back hair!

From the Belle Vue in Thun I was hunted
By "'Arry" who wished to play pool;
On the Col du Bonhomme I confronted
The whole of a young ladies' school.
At Giacomo's Inn in Chiesa
I 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 floating
Old lemons (imagine my feelings!),
The fish in Lucerne were all gloating
On cast-away salads and peelings;
And egg-shells and old bones of chicken
On the shore of St. Moritz did lie:
My spirit within me did sicken--
Sweet Solitude, where shall I fly?

Disconsolate, gloomy, and undone
I take in the "Dilly" my place;
By Zurich and Basel to London
I rush, as if running a race.
My quest and my troubles are over;
As I drive through the desolate street
To my Club in Pall Mall, I discover
Sweet Solitude's summer retreat.

MEDITATIONS OF A

CLASSICAL MAN ON A MATHEMATICAL PAPER

DURING A LATE FELLOWSHIP EXAMINATION.

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 of _x_ and _y_ to 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! oh
Let, 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 "double _x_," 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 fear
Which 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 me
More 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 dear
Than yellow Tiber, or Ilissus clear;
If fairer seem to me that fragrant stream
Than Cupid's kiss, or Poet's pictured dream;
If I have loved to linger o'er the page
Of 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! oh
Let, let me live to be a Johnian Fellow!

(1865).

THE LADY MARGARET 5TH BOAT,

_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 cap
and 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 thou
find 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 never
have I see'd
Eight 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 both
long and loud,
And when the eight men heard his words, they
stood 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, and
oars 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;
And _Thomas o Kulindon_ [*] full proudly grasped his oar,
And _Iason 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 the
good 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! Eyes
front, and sit at ease!
Quick March! I meant to say, Row on! and
mind the time all, please."
Then sped the gallant vessel, like an arrow from a bow,
And the men stood wondering on the banks to
see the "Old'uns" row;
And Father Camus raised his head, and smiled upon the crew,
For their swing, and time, and feather, and their
forms, full well he knew.
They rowed past Barnwell's silvery pool, past
Charon's gloomy bark,
And nearly came to grief beneath the railway rafters dark:
But down the willow-fringed Long Reach so fearful
was 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 eye
of all the nine;
They rowed round First-Post Corner, the Little
Bridge 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 o Chalkourgos" 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.]

IN CAMUM.

Ridicula nuper cymba, sicut meus est mos,
Flumineas propter salices et murmura Cami,
Multa movens mecum, fumo inspirante, iacebam.
Illic forte mihi senis occurrebat imago
Squalida, torva tuens, longos incompta capillos;
Ipse manu cymbam prensans se littore in udo
Deposuit; Camique humeros agnoscere latos
Immanesque 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 secundo
Cymbam urgere loco cunctantem, et cedere victos.
Heu! quis erit finis? Quis me manet exitus olim?
Terga boum tergis vi non cedentia nostri
Exercent 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 Iönas
Et 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 deflent
O formose puer, quibus alto in gurgite mersis
Mille dedit, rapuit mille oscula candida Naias?
Quid decus amissum repeto, aut iam laude perempta
Nomina Putnaeis annalibus eruta testor?
"Granta ruit, periitque decus, periitque vetusta
Gloria 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' dixit
Erectum librate caput; nec pandere crura
Parcite, nec solidis firmi considere transtris!
Ast ubi contactas iam palmula senserit undas,
Compressa incipiat iam tum mihi crura phaselus
Accipere, et faciles iter accelerare per undas.
"Incipiente ictu qui vim non prompserit omnem
Dique 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--fluctus
Praecipites 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 carina
Evolet 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 habenas
Ultro hortare viros; fortes solare benignis
Vocibus; ignavos accende, suosque labores
Fac peragant, segnique veta torpere veterno.
Sed quid ego haec? priscae si iam pietatis imago
Ulla manet, si quid vobis mea gloria curae est,
Camigenae, misero tandem succurrite patri,
Ereptosque diu vincendo reddite honores!
Tunc ego arundinea redimitus tempora vitta
Antiquo fruar imperior iustisque triumphis:
Tum demum Cloacina meos foedissima fluctus
Desierit temerare, et puro flumine labens
Camus ad Oceanum volvetur amabilis amnis."

Dixit, et in piceas Fluvius sese abdidit undas;
Sed me ridiculam solventem a littore cymbam
Nectaris ambrosii circumvolvuntur odores,
Decedente Deo; naresque impellit acutas
Confusi canis amnis et illaetabilis aura.

FATHER CAMUS.

Smoking lately in my "Funny," as I'm wont, beneath the bank,
Listening to Cam's rippling murmurs thro' the
weeds and willows dank,
As I chewed the Cud of fancy, from the water there appeared
An old man, fierce-eyed, and filthy, with a long
and 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 were
his 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 long
years have seen my Eight
Rowing second, vainly struggling 'gainst an unrelenting fate.
What will be the end, I know not! what will
be 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 might
to wrestle dare.
Arms we have long, straight, and sinewy,
Shoulders broad, necks thick and strong,
Necks that to the earth-supporting Atlas might
full well belong.
"But our strength un-scientific strives in vain
thro' stagnant water,
Every day, I blush to own it, Cambridge strokes
are rowing shorter.
With a short spasmodic impulse see the boats a moment leap,
Starting with a flying motion, soon they stop
and sink to sleep.
Where are Stanley, Jones, and Courage? where
is '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 as
Poet's gushing song.
Where is Paley? Where is Fairbairn, from
whose lips the Naiads dank
Snatched and gave their sweetest kisses when
our 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 is
left me but disgrace.
For regardless of all science, every oarsman now obeys
Wild, new fangled laws and notions, never
dream'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,' then
keep 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 your
legs with vigour ply,
Till the ship, as swift as lightning, thro' the
yielding water fly.
"He who 'misses the beginning' makes his comrades
all to suffer,
Spoils the swing, and is a nuisance; turn him
out, 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 dash
Plunge their oars into the water, and produce
a 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 once
its 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, of
their 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 do
their 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 streams
her 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, creeping
upward from the mud:
And for ever from the water's troubled face there
seem'd to rise
A melancholy fragrance of dead dogs unto the skies.

IN MEMORIAM G. A. P.

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 heart
No 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 more
His 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 grief
No tears from thy waves can waken:
Thy whisp'ring reed, and thy willow leaf
By 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).

GRANTA VICTRIX.

Let penny-a-liners columns pour
Of turgid efflorescence,
Describe in language that would floor
Our Cayleys, Rouths, and Besants,
How Oxford oars as levers move,
While Cambridge mathematics,
Though excellent in theory, prove
Unstable in aquatics.

Our muse, a maiden ne'er renowned
For pride, or self-reliance,
Knows little of the depths profound
Of "Telegraphic" science:
But now her peace she cannot hold
And 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 in
Must 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 brawn
As 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 bless
The magic name of Phelps.
Who was our Five? Herculean Lowe,
(Not he of the Exchequer),
So strong, that he with ease could row
A race in a three-decker.

Cam sighed--"When _shall_ I 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 pale
In azure tints of bright hue,
'More than a distance' lends to Dale,
His well earned double light-blue.

Proud Oxford burnt in days of old
Ridley the Cambridge Martyr,
But this year in our Ridley bold
Proud Oxford caught a Tartar.
And Randolph rowed as well beseemed
His school renowned in story,
And like old Nelson only dreamed
Of Westminster and glory.

These men of weight rowed strong and straight,
And led from start to finish;
Their slow and steady thirty-eight
No 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 well
The love of Alma Mater,
The smiles of every light-blue Belle,
The shouts of every Pater!
Unlimited was each man's store
Of courage, strength, and fettle,
From Goldie downwards every oar
Was 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 annex
To state a point omitted.
When Granta glorying in success
With Camus pours her orisons;
One name she gratefully must bless,
That name is mighty Morrison's.

THE GREAT BOAT-RACE.

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.

BEFORE THE RACE.

Come, list to me, who wish to hear the glories of our crew,
I'll tell you all the names of those who wear the
Cambridge Blue.
First HAWKSHAW comes, a stalwart bow, as
tough 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 hope
am 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 they
see our "Three" so strong,
And doubt if such a mighty form to mortal mould belong.
"_What son_ is this?" they, one and all, will ask
in awe and wonder;
The men of Cam will answer make, "A mighty son of thunder."
Next HAWKINS comes at "number 4," the sole surviving pet
Of the patroness of rowing, the Lady Margaret;
When they think of his broad shoulders, and
strong and sinewy arms,
Nor parents dear, nor brothers stern, need foster fond alarms.
O! a tear of love maternal in Etona's eye will quiver
When she sees her favourate KINGLAKE also
monarch of the river.
Oh! that I could honour fitly in this unassuming song
That 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 he
hails from Trinity Hall.
Oh! in the race, when comes at last the struggle
close 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 well
A 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 far
far 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 slow
and 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 ever
steered light-blue.
O when he pulls the yielding string may he
shoot 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 have
looked on our defeat;
For three long years we ne'er have known the
taste 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'er
ship and crew was dashing,
And little were we troubled by the steamers and the splashing.
O little do the light-blues care when tempests
round them gather,
We'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father!
For though our vessel sank, our hearts were
buoyant as a feather,
Since we knew that we had done our best in
spite 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 be
breathed with that of "duffer!"
O melt the hearts of governors; for who can hope to thrive,
If, when we're just "together," they despoil us
of our "Five?"
And lastly, when 'mid shouts and cheers and
screams and deafening dins,
The two boats start upon their course--

AFTER THE RACE.

Dei mihi, Oxford wins!

(1864).

LINES BY A CAMBRIDGE ANCIENT MARINER

ADDRESSED TO HIS UNIVERSITY.

Wish ye, sons of Alma Mater,
Long lost laurels to replace?
Listen to a stout old Pater,
Once renowned in many a race.
Now, alas! I'm fat and forty,
And my form grows round to view;
And my nose is rather "porty;"
But my heart is still light-blue.

'Tis as bad as an emetic,
E'en my 'baccy I refuse,
When I hear that sports athletic
Interfere with Cambridge crews.
Once a Grecian runner famous
Scorned to fight his country's foes;
And to Greece, as some to Camus,
Caused innumerable woes.

When I hear the voice parental
Cry, "my youngster shall not row!"
Then my wrath is transcendental,
Then my words with vigour flow.
Sires, with hearts of alabaster,
Your stern "vetos" yet you'll rue,
When ye see a sixth disaster,
Overwhelm your loved light-blue.

But whatever to Cambridge happen,
Sons of Cam behave like men!
Rally round your royal Cap'en,
_King_ of _Lake_, and King of Fen!
Fortune helps the brave who court her,
Only to yourselves be true;
And perhaps, on Putney's water,
Victory will crown light-blue.

When your Cox'en cries "all ready,"
Be alert, dismiss all napping,
Get well forward, all sit steady,
Grasp the oar, avoid all "capping:"
Shoulders square, back straight, eyes ever
Fixed upon the back before;
Then all eight, with one endeavour,
Dip at once the bladed oar.

Catch your stroke at the beginning,
Then let legs with vigour work:
Little hope has he of winning,
Who his "stretcher" loves to shirk.
Let your rigid arms extended
Be as straight as pokers two;
And until the stroke is ended,
Pull it, without jerking, through!

Thus all disputations spurning,
Ye, ere many a year has past,
While old Fortune's wheel is turning,
Victory shall taste at last.
Only wait and work together;
Trust in discipline and pluck--
Soon bad luck will run his tether,
And good rowing bring good luck.

(1866).

THE SORROWS OF FATHER CAM.

1. WATNEY Lady Margaret. 5. STEAVENSON Trinity Hall
2. BEEBEE Lady Margaret. 6. BORTHWICK 1st Trinity.
3. PIGOTT Corpus 7. GRIFFITHS 3rd Trinity.
4. KINGLAKE 3rd Trinity. 8. LAWES 3rd Trinity.
Steerer, ARCHER, Corpus.

One night, as I silently wandered
By Cam's slow meandering stream,
And many things mentally pondered,
I saw, as it were in a dream,
A black head emerge from the billows,
A broad body swim through the flood,
Till, beneath the o'ershadowing willows,
It sank gently down in the mud.

All alone--as a Scholar of Tyrwhitt
When examined in Hebrew he sits--
On a log that mysterious spirit
Smokes in silence, and silently spits.
And yet not alone sat the vision;
There came, as he sat on his log,
A wag of delight and submission
From the tail of each demi-drowned dog.

Black eels from his temples were hanging,
His teeth were like teeth of a jack;
His lips were inaudibly "slanging";
His eyes were all muddy and black;
And water-snakes, round his neck twining,
Were hissing; and water-rats swam
At his feet; so without much divining
I recognised Old Father Cam.

"All hail to thee, Camus the reedy!"
I cried, in alarm and surprise;
"Say, why are thy garments so weedy?
And why are these tears in thine eyes?"
Then the River-god answered me sadly,
"My glory aquatic is gone!
My prospects, alas! look but badly;
Not a race for four years have I won.

"I have oarsmen as strong---even stronger--
Than when my first honours I bore;
Their arms are as long--perhaps longer;
Their shoulders as broad as of yore,
Yet the prospects of light-blue look bluer;
I am losing my swing, form and time;
For who can row well in a sewer;
Or pull through miasma and slime?"

Thus murmured the River-god moaning;
But I bade him to dry his old eye--
"In vain is this weeping and groaning;
Let your motto be, 'Never say die!'
Though your waves be more foul than Cocytus,
Though your prospects, no doubt, are most blue;
Since Oxford is ready to fight us,
We will try to select a good crew.

My friend Lady Margaret tells me
She can lend me a Bow and a Two;
The Lady, I own, sometimes sells me,
But this time I am sure she'll be true.
For WATNEY is wiry and plucky,
And that BEEBEE'S A 1 all allow;
And our boat cannot fail to be lucky
With a double 1st Class in the bow.

"Then Corpus its PIGOTT shall lend us,
Young, healthy, and active, and strong;
And Etona her KINGLAKE shall send us,
To row our good vessel along;
And Five from the head of the river,
Like Pallas from Jove's head appearing,
Shall add to the weight of the quiver
Of the feather-weight Argonaut steering.

"Then BORTHWICK, the mighty and massive,
Shall row like a Briton at Six;
And GRIFFITHS, not prone to be passive,
Shall pull us to glory like bricks.
Our 'Stroke,' people say, on the feather
Is a trifle too fond of a pause;
But while some say, 'there's nothing like leather,'
I maintain there is nothing like LAWES.

"Washerwomen, not over aquatic,
Says he rows 'like a mangle'--what trash!
That his swing and his time are erratic;
That he puts in his oar with a splash.
But these wonderful judges of rowing,
If we win will be loud in applause;
And declare 'the result was all owing
To that excellent stroke, MR. LAWES.'

"Our Coach, on the bank briskly riding,
Will keep his strong team well together,
His Bucephalus gamely bestriding,
In spite of the wind and the weather.
For the laws of the land you may send me
To Counsel from chambers in Town;
For the laws of the river commend me
To the CHAMBERS of Cambridge renown.

"Then cheer up, beloved Father Camus!
Blow your nose! dry those tears that are falling;
You will live once again to be famous,
In spite of the prospects appalling.
Though dead dogs down your fair stream are floating,
Father Cam will their odours defy;
Though Oxford may beat us in boating,
Yet Cambridge will 'never say die!'"

(1865).

THE COMING BOAT RACE.

OXFORD. CAMBRIDGE.

1. R. T. RAIKES. 1. J. STILL.
2. F. CROWDER. 2. J. R. SELWYN.
3. W. FREEMAN. 3. J. A. BOURKE.
4. F. WILLAN. 4. J. FORTESCUE.
5. E. F. HENLEY. 5. D. F. STEVENSON.
6. W. W. WOOD. 6. R. A. KINGLAKE.
7. H. P. SENHOUSE. 7. H. WATNEY.
8. M. BROWN. 8. W. R. GRIFFITHS.
Steerer--C. R. W. TOTTENHAM. Steerer--A. FORBES.

Attend, all ye who wish to see the names
of each stout crew,
Who've come to town from cap and gown to
fight for their favourite blue.

OXFORD.

First TOTTENHAM comes, a well-known name, that
cattle driving Cox'en.
Who oft to victory has steer'd his gallant team of Oxon.

O'er Putney's course so well can he that team in safety goad,
That we ought to call old Father Thames the
Oxford-Tottenham Road.
Then comes the Stroke, a mariner of merit and renown;
Since dark blue are his colours, he can never be dun-brown.
Ye who would at your leisure his heroic deeds peruse,
Go, read _Tom Brown at Oxford_ by the other Tom--TOM HUGHES.
Next SENHOUSE, short for Senate-house, but long
enough for seven,
Shall to the _eight-oar'd_ ship impart a _sen-at-orial_ leaven.
Then Number Six (no truer word was ever said in joke)
In keeping with his name of WOOD, has heart and limbs of oak.
The voice of all aquatic men the praise of "Five" proclaims;
No finer sight can eye delight than "HENLEY-upon-Thames."
Then Number Four who is heaver far than a number of Macmillan,
Though WILLAN'S his name may well exclaim,
"Here I am, but I hain't a willan." [1]
Then FREEMAN rows at Number Three, in a freer and manly style;
No finer oar was e'er produced by the Tiber, Thames, or Nile.
Let politicians, if they please, rob freemen of their vote,
Provided they leave Oxford men a FREEMAN for their boat.
Among the crowd of oarsmen proud no name
will fame shout louder
Than his who sits at Number Two, the straight
and upright CROWDER.
Then RAIKES rows bow, and we must allow that
with all the weight that's aft
The bow-oar gives a rakish air to the bows o'
the dark-blue craft.
This is the crew, who've donned dark blue, and
no stouter team of Oxon
Has ploughed the waves of old Father Thames,
or owned a better Cox'en.

CAMBRIDGE.

Now, don't refuse, aquatic Muse, the glories to rehearse
Of the rival crew, who've donned light blue, to
row for better for worse.
They've lost their luck, but retain their pluck,
and whate'er their fate may be,
Light blue may meet one more defeat, but disgrace
they ne'er will see.
We've seen them row thro' sleet and snow till
they sank--"_merses profundo_"
(HORACE, forgive me!) "_pulchrior Cami evenit arundo_."
First little FORBES our praise absorbs, he comes
from a learned College,
So Cambridge hopes he will pull his ropes with
scientific knowledge.
May he shun the charge of swinging barge
more straight than an archer's arrow,
May he steer his eight, as he sits sedate in the
stern of his vessel narrow!
Then comes the Stroke, with a heart of oak, who
has stood to his flag like twenty,
While some stood aloof, and were not proof
against _dolce far niente_.
So let us pray that GRIFFITHS may to the banks of Cam recall
The swing and style, lost for a while, since the
days of JONES and HALL.
Then WATNEY comes, and a pluckier seven ne'er
rowed in a Cambridge crew;
His long straight swing is just the thing which
an oarsman loves to view.
Then comes KINGLAKE, of a massive make, who
in spite of failures past,
Like a sailor true, has nailed light-blue as his
colours to the mast.
The Consul bold in days of old was thanked by
the Patres hoary,
When, in spite of luck, he displayed his pluck on
the field of Cannae gory;
So whate'er the fate of the Cambridge eight, let
Cambridge men agree,
Their voice to raise in their Captain's praise
with thrice and three times three.
Then Number Five is all alive, and for hard work always ready,
As to and fro his broad back doth go, like a
pendulum strong and steady.
Then FORTESCUE doth pull it through without delay or dawdlin';
Right proud I trow as they see him row are the
merry men of Magdalen.
Then comes a name well known to fame, the
great and gallant BOURKE;
Who ne'er was known fatigue to own, or neglect
his share of work.
_New zeal and_ life to each new stroke stout SELWYN doth impart,
And ever with fresh vigour, like Antaeus, forward start.
Then last, but not the least of all, to row the boat along,
They've got a bow whom all allow to be both STILL and strong.
No crew can quail, or ever fail to labour with a will,
When so much strength and spirits are supplied
them by their STILL.
We've done our task--to you who ask the probable result
We more will speak, if you next week our Prophet will consult.

(1866)

[1] Cf. _Pickwick_. "Here I am, but I hain't a willan."--FAT BOY.

A BALLAD.