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MAKERS OF HISTORY
Minstrels! who your choicest notes Keep for men who row in boats, Mark with what exalted mien Comes the Hero of the Scene!
He, amid the festal swarm, Fas.h.i.+on's gla.s.s and mould of form, How in shape and how in features Far surpa.s.sing other creatures, How incomparable to Common things like me and you!
He in whose transcendent state All the ages culminate- Could we ever keep him thus, How delightful 'twere for us!
Could he, 'mid the admiring throng, Ever beauteous, ever young, Still abide for ever pent In his true environment, Wear that aureole still which now Decks his high victorious brow!
Out, alas! that Fortune can't Ever give us what we want!
HE must quit this vernal stage: HE must sink to middle age (E'en the Poet's soaring wit Scarcely can envisage it): Go with men of common clay In to business every day: Be perhaps a Brewer, or Haply a Solicitor,- None the fact to notice that Haloes once adorned his hat: Ay! the ways of Fate are odd: Men are mortal . . . Ichabod . . .
Yet shall stay by stream and tree Something still of what was He,- Plainly put, his More or Less Immaterial Consciousness,- Very fine and very large, Floating o'er his College barge: Always while the world continues Bards shall sing his thews and sinews,- Here he rowed and here he ran, Being rather more than man;- Thus as ages onward go Still he'll great and greater grow, Larger still in prose or rhyme Looming down the aisles of time, Till he sit, sublime and vast, 'Mid the Giants of the Past, Men who lived in days of old (Ch-tty, W- -dg-te, N-ck-lls, G-ld), Lived and rowed in ages dark Long ere Noah built the Ark, Very, very famous oars, Mighty men in Eights and Fours, Towering o'er our Browns and Smiths Huge and grey, like Monoliths.
Thus the Hero's happy fate Keeps in store a blissful state, All adown the Future dim, Nearly worthy e'en of Him!
ALMA MATER FILIO
Dear Youth! whose wealth and lineage high Each outward sign denotes, The highly fas.h.i.+onable tie, The latest thing in coats- Imprinted on whose candid brow No gazer could detect (As e'en your enemies allow) The Pride of Intellect-
Who, 'spite your want of mental scope And lack of Serious Aim, Still left us, as we dared to hope, More pensive than you came, And thus at least, while critics vied In pointing out our flaws, For our continuance supplied A kind of Final Cause:-
Your part is played, your turn is o'er: Prepare to quit the stage: It seems you're not the person for The Spirit of the Age: Though high your birth, though large your means, I see-'tis sad, but true- Soon, 'mid these academic scenes, No corner left for you!
Ah! what avail the things that went To build your prosperous lot, The ample cash, the long descent, The athlete's frequent pot, The waistcoat bright of ardent red Or fascinating green, The social charm that captive led The Provost, and the Dean?
I see the Cherwell's peaceful flood, I see the courts of King's Invaded by a student brood Which knows all kinds of things- A crowd with high desires replete, Whose recreations are To sit at Professorial feet And join a Seminar:
Bright b.u.t.terfly! your haunts of old Are tenanted by men Who realise what studies mould Th' Efficient Citizen . . .
These shall alone the blessings know Of Isis and of Cam, And You (I'm sure 'tis better so) Will go to-Birmingham!
IN MEMORIAM EXAMINATORIS CUIUSDAM
Lo, where yon undistinguished grave Erects its gra.s.sy pile on One who to all Experience gave An Alpha or Epsilon!
The world and eke the world's content, And all therein that pa.s.ses, With marks numerical (per cent.) He did dispose in cla.s.ses:
Not his to ape the critic crew Which vulgarly appraises The Good, the Beautiful, the True In literary phrases:
He did his estimate express In terms precise and weighty,- And Vice got 25 (or less,) While Virtue rose to 80.
Now hath he closed his earthly lot All in his final haven,- (And be the stone that marks the spot _On one side only_ graven,)
Bring papers on his grave to strew Amid the gra.s.s and clover, And plant thereby that pencil blue Wherewith he looked them over!
There, freed from every human ill And fleshly trammels gross, he Lies in his resting-place until The final Viva Voce:
So let him rest till crack of doom Of mortal tasks aweary,- And nothing write upon his tomb Save -(?).
THE END
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
Footnotes:
{24} 1897
{77} 1900.
