Sagittulae, Random Verses | Page 8

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)
THE SENIOR FELLOW.
When the shades of eve descending
Throw o'er cloistered courts their
gloom,
Dimly with the twilight blending
Memories long forgotten
loom.
From the bright fire's falling embers
Faces smile that smiled
of yore;
Till my heart again remembers
Hopes and thoughts that
live no more.
Then again does manhood's vigour
Nerve my arm with iron strength;

As of old when trained with rigour
We beat Oxford by a length.

Once again the willow wielding
Do I urge the flying ball;
Till "lost
ball" the men who're fielding
Hot and weary faintly call.
Then I think of hours of study,
Study silent as the tomb,
Till the
rays of morning ruddy
Shone within my lonely room.
Once again
my heart is burning
With ambition's restless glow;
And long hidden

founts of learning
O'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 bringing
From the land that knows no pain,

And when slowly from me stealing
Fades that vision into air,
Every
pulse beats with the feeling
That a Spirit loved was there.
A VALENTINE.
O how shall I write a love-ditty
To my Alice on Valentine's day?

How win the affection or pity
Of a being so lively and gay?
For I'm
an unpicturesque creature,
Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze

Without 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 graphic
Every possible language on
earth.
When she's roaming in regions Italic,
You would think her a
fair Florentine;
She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic
Better
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 nimble
Make music more
soft than a bird.
She speaks--'tis like melody stealing
O'er the
Mediterranean sea;
She smiles--I am instantly kneeling
On 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 seven
Are 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 answer
Comes 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 greeting
On the Eve of St.
Valentine's day.
A CURATE'S COMPLAINT.
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 embraces
Around my neck and throat,
The
thousand winning graces
Whereon I used to dote.

I know I may find
markets
Where love is bought and sold,
But no such love can equal

The tender ties of old.

My gentle washer-woman,
I know that you are true;
The least shade
of suspicion
Can never fall on you.
Then fear me not, as fiercely
I
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 collar
To regions far elope,
Regions by
starch untainted,
And innocent of soap?
I know not; but in future

I'll buy no more white ties,
But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'
Of
Ritualistic guise.
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
There once was a time when I revelled in
rhyme, 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 running