'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).
A VISION.
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 rose
A 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 disclose
Of 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).
A MAY TERM MEMORY.
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 Races
That first I met her eye:
Amid a
thousand Graces
No form with her's could vie.
On Grassy's sward
enamelled
She reigned fair Beauty's Queen;
And every heart
entrammell'd
With 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 dissipation
Energetic of the May.
For x_ and _y will 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 duties
Which Granta wise imposes.
Who,
when such eyes are shining,
Can quell his heart's sensations;
Or
turn without repining
To Square Root and Equations?
And when conspicuous my name
By absence shall appear;
When I
have lost all hopes of fame,
Which once I held so dear;
When
'plucked' I seek a vain relief
In plaintive dirge or sonnet;
Thou wilt
have caused that bitter grief,
Thou beautiful Pink Bonnet!
(1866).
THE MAY TERM.
Mille venit variis florum Dea nexa coronis:
Scena ioci morem
liberioris habet.
OV. FAST. IV. 945, 946.
I wish that the May Term were over,
That its wearisome pleasures
were o'er,
And I were reclining in clover
On 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 bristle
With ladies
invading the Cam.
Last week, as in due preparation
For 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 disgusted
With 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 Ann
Should respect, tho' she deem
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