The Scarlet Gown | Page 9

its flight.
I lent five shillings to some men,
They spent it all, I know not when,

For who is quick enough to know
The time in which a crown may
go?
Long, long afterward, in a whin
I found the golf-ball, black as sin;

But the five shillings are missing still!
They haven't turned up, and I
doubt if they will.
TO THE READER OF 'UNIVERSITY NOTES'
Ah yes, we know what you're saying,
As your eye glances over these Notes:
'What asses are these that are
braying
With flat and unmusical throats?
Who writes such unspeakable
patter?
Is it lunatics, idiots--or who?'
And you think there is 'something the
matter.'
Well, we think so too.
We have sat, full of sickness and sorrow,
As the hours dragged heavily on,
Till the midnight has merged into
morrow,
And the darkness is going or gone.
We are Editors. Give us the credit

Of meaning to do what we could;
But, since there is nothing to edit,

It isn't much good.
Once we shared the delightful delusion
That to edit was racy and rare,
But we suffered a sad disillusion,
And we found that our castles were air;
We had decked them with
carvings and gildings,
We had filled them with laughter and fun,
But all of a sudden the
buildings
Came down with a run.
Not a trace was there left of the carving,
And the gilding had vanished from sight;
But the 'column' for matter
was starving,
And we had not to edit--but write.
So we set to and wrote. Can you
wonder,
If the writing was feeble or dead?
We had started as
editors--Thunder!
We were authors instead.
We'd mistaken our calling, election,
Vocation, department, and use;

We had thought that our task was selection,
And we found that we had to produce.
So we sigh for release from
our labours,
We pray for a happy despatch,
We will take our last leave of our
neighbours,

And then--Colney Hatch.
We are singing this dolorous ditty
As we part at the foot of the stairs;
We cannot but think it's a pity,
But what matter? there's nobody cares.
Our candle burns low in its
socket,
There is nothing left but the wick;
And these Notes, that went up like
a rocket,
Come down like the stick.
[GREEK TITLE]
Ever to be the best. To lead
In whatsoever things are true;
Not stand among the halting crew,

The faint of heart, the feeble-kneed,
Who tarry for a certain sign
To make them follow with the rest--
Oh, let not their reproach be
thine!
But ever be the best.
For want of this aspiring soul,
Great deeds on earth remain undone,
But, sharpened by the sight of
one,
Many shall press toward the goal.
Thou running foremost of
the throng,
The fire of striving in thy breast,
Shalt win, although the
race be long,
And ever be the best.
And wilt thou question of the prize?
'Tis not of silver or of gold,
Nor in applauses manifold,
But hidden

in the heart it lies:
To know that but for thee not one
Had run the race or sought the quest,
To know that thou hast ever
done
And ever been the best.
CATULLUS AT HIS BROTHER'S GRAVE
Through many lands and over many seas
I come, my Brother, to thine
obsequies,
To pay thee the last honours that remain,
And call upon
thy voiceless dust, in vain.
Since cruel fate has robbed me even of
thee,
Unhappy Brother, snatched away from me,
Now none the less
the gifts our fathers gave,
The melancholy honours of the grave,

Wet with my tears I bring to thee, and say
Farewell! farewell! for
ever and a day.
LOST AT SEA
Lost at sea, with all on board!
No one saw their sinking sail,
No one
heard their dying wail,
Heard them calling on the Lord--
Lost at sea,
with all on board.
Till the sea gives up its dead,
There they lie in quiet sleep,
And the
voices of the deep
Sound unheeded overhead,
Till the sea gives up
its dead.
PLEASANT PROPHECIES
A day of gladness yet will dawn,
Though when I cannot say;
Perhaps it may be Thursday week,
Perhaps some other day,--
When man, freed from the bond of clothes,

And needing no more food,
Shall never pull his neighbour's nose,
But be extremely good.
When Love and Nobleness shall live
Next door to Truth and Right,
While Reverence shall rent a room,
Upon the second flight.
And wishes shall be horses then,
And beggars shall be kings;
And
all the people shall admire
This pleasant state of things.
But if it seems a mystery,
And you're inclined to doubt it,
Just ask your local poet. He
Will tell you all about it.
THE DELIGHTS OF MATHEMATICS
It seems a hundred years or more
Since I, with note-book, ink and pen,
In cap and gown, first trod the
floor
Which I have often trod since then;
Yet well do I remember when,
With fifty other fond fanatics,
I sought delights beyond my ken,
The deep delights of Mathematics.
I knew that two and two made four,
I felt that five