STAC* ANNbi S 036 7S4 EDITED BY ROSSLYN BRUCE. Ex Libris C. K. OGDEN > OXFORD VERSES EDITED BY ROSSLYN BRUCE WORCESTER COLLEGE jforfc B. H. BLACKWELL. 50 & 51, BROAD STREET Ixmton SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT & CO, I8 94 DEDICATED TO MRS. C. H. O. DANIEL. 1C81575 ACKNOWLEDGMENT. THE Editor is pleasantly conscious that the labour of collecting "Oxford Verses" has not been wasted : for, should they fail in their endeavour to justify their own existence in this form, they at least stand as a monument of the generous courtesy of literary people in general and of publishers in particular. He is indebted to Messrs. Alden and Co., for permission to re-print from " In College Groves" and " Common Room Carols ": to Messrs. Elkin Matthews and John Lane, for extracts from " Poems, by Laurence Binyon " : to Messrs. Remington and Co., for the use of "Poems and Sonnets, by Lord Rosslyn" : and to the " Pall Mall Gazette," Vlll. ACKNOWLEDGMENT. and "The Oxford Magazine," for verses from their columns. He is anxious to ac- knowledge his ample appreciation of the concession of very real and substantial claims, which are by no means merely formal prerogatives. WORCESTER COLLEGE, Nov., 1894. LA BONNE BLAGUE. To say evil or frivolity of poetry in these days were a thing out of date and super- of the fl uous - F or the position of the poet present. ^as b een mos t clearly affirmed in many ways ; so that what was but lately a disgust to the Philistine and a scoffing to the Positivist is by them now much sought after and sometimes understanded. In the guile- less seventies it was not so ; howbeit that were a time of self-labelled enlightenment, yet was it one that smacked as strangely of the prosaic and the middle-aged as any we wot of. The bald head, the spectacles, the sermo pedestris, was most grievously with us. X. LA BONNE BLAGUE. Such days were virtuous with a Stoicism and a lack of frivolity that was painful and irk- some. Not unto us of these days be the glory, but we have reached unto a freedom that is but promise of a larger hope. At this present we are rejoicing in an age of youth ; theology and sociology are on the upper shelf and the dust thereof. Youth has revindi- cated its fit place and from seekings after truth we turn to seekings after beauty ; and Poetry is, where Science has been. This for excuse, if excuse were needed. Oxford can claim learning with a title that is but shaky and does not endure criticism. Its scholarship is an offence to Readers, fae German, its Law a stumbling- block to the Inns of Court. It must plead guilty to much want of vitality, nay even to fossildom in high places. And the simple reformer is fain to observe Cut it down, LA BONNE BLAGUE. XI. why cumbereth it the ground ? And we seek eagerly for reasons why this home wrongly styled of learning should still exist. To our own day which has seen youth brought once more into its right and fitting place, small explanation need be laboured forth. So as you have poetry, the true complement of youth, all should be well. The Modern Folk by their eagerness for verse going beyond Lending Libraries and reaching even to Cash Purchases have graciously granted to the poet a right to live they have even asked for more. Here, if you will, are some who would answer to this request. So much for the audience ; if it may please and delight you then Vos plauditc. And of the Critic; let us not hear the weary, stale, unprofitable an- swer ' Here be good store of undergraduate verse ; considering, why 'twill do.' This is Of the Critic. xii. LA BONNE BLAGUE. neither criticism nor common sense. This is a book, judge it by the standards such as they be whereby other books stand or fall at your hands. Apply to this nor pity nor patronage nor effrontery. Put it not in a small place by itself as an it were a strange beast, an exotic flower. For the rest what can we say but the hope that you, not less than they who read, may find therein the wherewithal for interest, for delight. P. J. MACDONELL. ALPHABETICAL INDEX TO AUTHORS. STANLEY ADDLESHAW : An old Picture 58 A Tragedy 56 Love at Hinksey . . . . . . 59 LAURENCE BINYON : An April Day . . . . . . i Go now, Love . . . . . . 4 O world, be nobler for her sake ! 3 ROSSLYN BRUCE : A Fragment on Raphael's Holy Family . . . . . . 66 JOHN BURLAND : Autumn . . . . . . . . 36 The Lily and the Stream . . 34 To a Sphynx . . . . . . 37 J. W. CROWFOOT : Reflexion 39 INDEX TO AUTHORS. W. J. FERRAR: Spring-idyl 73 To Oxford : in August . . . . 75 R. L. GALES: A ma Belle Dame .. .. .. 46 GABRIEL GILLETT : Love Songs . . . . . . 28-32 A. GODLEY : A Dream . . . . . . . . 67 October Term : an aspect . . 70 E. A. C. McCuRDY: In a College Garden . . . . 76 Love's Garland . . . . . . 78 LENNOX MORISON : Vesper-tide . . . . . . . . 49 H. A. MORRAH: A Question of Criticism . . . . 23 A Welcome to Oxford . . . . 26 G. P. PEACHEY: Solace : a duologue . . . . 47 " JOHN PEN " : Mine error remaineth .. .. 13 They that go down to the sea in ships . . . . . . . . ii INDEX TO AUTHORS. XV. PAGE MOSTYN T. PIGOTT: A Ballade of Philistinism . . 52 A Letter 54 A little Novel 50 " RET RAILL " : Glowing Ashes . . . . . . 64 To a Minimus Poet . . . . xvii. ARTHUR RENWICK : Across long miles . . . . . . 20 Apology for the Villanelle . . 16 Do but love me . . . . . . 21 Envoy to Sursum Deorsum . . 22 Fairyland 18 MORLEY RICHARDS : A Vision 63 Love's Vigil 62 LORD ROSSLYN : Poetic Immortality .. .. xvii. Sonnet after Petrarch . . . . 33 M. C. C. SETON: Ballade of certain lectures . . 44 Rondeau . . . . . . . . 43 FRANK TAYLOR : At the Fleece 7 Loyalty 5 To Midia 9 TO THE MOCKER. ~f~\O you hate the erotic lack-a-daisical rose- watery decadence of an opiated sonnet ? Here you have excellent honest straight-forward fooling ! Or, do you despise the hopelessly bourgeois and Norfolk- jackety Philistinism of an average person ? Here you have a charming reverie of deep but tender passion ! " Inconsistency has a charm all its own in its surprising possibilities:" and "a mirror of the modern muse a mingled medley means." R. B. POETIC^ IMMORTALITY. HP HERE is no limit to the glorious strife Of human intellect that men call Life. Some wither in their youth ; some in their prime Yield to the chances, not the lapse, of time. Some in old age, like stately trees, prepare With dauntless heart the common fate to share. Yet all alike, for they who fall in youth But teach mankind this everlasting truth, That poets never die, but live sublime In the sweet measure of their deathless rhyme. LORD ROSSLYN. TO A MINIMUS POET. A ND thou knowest too what it is to feel With a poet's pulse what thou canst not reveal ; Thoughts and fancies that float thee by, Pause for a moment, then onward fly Out of thy grasp, tho' within thy reach Clear to thy mind, but not to thy speech. Oh ! is there aught in the world so hard As to have but the heart not the tongue of a bard ? RET RAILL. " Ye who expect that age will perform the promises of youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be supplied by the morrow, attend ! " RASSELAS. OXFORD VERSES. AN APRIL DAY. "O REEZES strongly rushing, when the North- West stirs, Prophesying Summer to the shaken firs ; Blowing brows of forest, where soft airs are free, Crowned with heavenly glimpses of the shining sea; Buds and breaking blossoms, that sunny April yields ; Ferns and fairy grasses, the children of the fields ; In the fragrant hedges' hollow brambled gloom Pure primroses paling into perfect bloom ; Round the elm's rough stature, climbing dark and high, Ivy-fringes trembling against a golden sky ; Woods and windy ridges darkening in the glow ; The rosy sunset bathing all the vale below ; B [Violet 2 OXFORD VERSES. Violet banks forsaken in the fading light ; Starry sadness filling the quiet eyes of night ; Dew on all things drooping for the summer rains ; Dewy daisies folding in the lonely lanes. LAURENCE BINYON. OXFORD VERSES. " O WORLD, BE NOBLER, FOR HER SAKE." S~\ WORLD, be nobler, for her sake ! ^- > ^ If she but knew thee, what thou art, What wrongs are borne, what deeds are done In thee, beneath thy daily sun, Know'st thou not that her tender heart, For pain and very shame, would break ? O World, be nobler, for her sake ! LAURENCE BINYON. OXFORD VERSES. "GO NOW, LOVE." f~* O now, Love, ^-^^ Since staying's joy no longer ! Leave me to prove If Time can make me stronger ; Nay, look not over thy shoulder so, Pleading so sweetly to remain, Where thou workest so much pain : Look not behind thee, haste and go ! Ah, how should I Deal to thee such hard measure, As force thee fly, Who brought'st me heavenly pleasure ? Take pity, Love, and be kind To him that could not refuse thee ! Is it not grief enough to lose thee ? Haste, O haste, nor look behind ! LAURENCE BJNYON. OXFORD VERSES. LOYALTY. T ADY, for thy word I thank thee, thou hast * ' spoke me passing fair, Heaven grant me to walk worthy of a love I may not share ! For I know full many a gallant would have held it half divine To have won from such as thou art such a love as this of thine ! But beyond the shadowy mountains, and beyond the echoing sea, Stands my own dear country fairer far than this fair Italy, Stands my home amid the meadows where the lazy cattle lie, And the oaks are round about, and the river runs thereby. [There 6 OXFORD VERSES. There from out the green old garden smiles a daughter of our race, Through the ivory gates of slumber nightly look I on her face, Framed in light brown English tresses, jewell'd with soft gray English eyes, Windows of a noble spirit, mirrors of our northern skies. Even so it was I left her in the opening world of spring, Riding blithely through the river, riding north- wards to the King; And, though earth and sea divide us, still there is a heaven above, Still my hand is for my master, and my heart is for my love. FRANK TAYLOR. OXFORD VERSES. AT THE FLEECE. T T ERE'S your health in purple wine, * * Drink me mine that I may see Brighter still those bright eyes shine, Rosy cheeks and laughter free ; Here's long life and rich increase, Sweet mine hostess of the Fleece ! Old Anacreon was not blind, Horace knew a thing or two, Tell me, where could either find Maid or matron such as you ? Not in Italy, or Greece, Sweet mine hostess of the Fleece ! Though I drive through all the town, Drive through all the laughing shire, Drive through England up and down Till my panting greys expire, Till the sun himself shall cease, Sweet mine hostess of the Fleece ; [Ne'er OXFORD VERSES. Ne'er from such a mouth of charms Shall I steal one fleeting taste, Ne'er shall fling ambitious arms Round so delicate a waist. Vive ma belle imperatrice, Sweet mine hostess of the Fleece ! FRANK TAYLOR. (From the Pall Mall Gazette.) OXFORD VERSES. TO MIDIA. T N that dear country which men call With sober phrase "your pretty face," There is no spring, there is no fall, And biting winter finds no place ; One light, one warmth, one tender air, One endless summer harbours there. In that dear country side by side There be two placid lakes that sleep ; 'Twere worth a kingdom to divide Each gray, unfathomable deep, And, daring all things, to possess The secrets of your soul's recess. In other lands, 'tis passing sweet To watch the whispering western wind Go ruffling all the whitened wheat, Nor leave the tiniest track behind ; To see the wanton wavelets rear Their crests along the glassy mere. [So OXFORD VERSES. So does the zephyr of your smile Lead on its fairy-footed dance From end to end of that dear isle, And dimples all the fair expanse ; And stops its course, and floats and flies In ripples o'er your laughing eyes. FRANK TAYLOR. (From the Pall Mall Gazette.) OXFORD VERSES. "THEY THAT GO DOWN TO THE SEA IN SHIPS." T ~\ 7HEN the dawning day was o'er us, And the world was all before us, We were little children playing by the sea, Who pause with wistful wonder To listen to the thunder Of the sullen surge that beats upon the lea. We were happy, little knowing What the fitful spray was blowing From the windy waste of waters free and far : We were happy, little dreaming What the seagull lone was screaming Of the sunken wrecks that lie beyond the bar. But we broke the ties that bound us, For the summons came and found us, And when it came, we could not choose but hear. Shelving sand and slopes of heather, Quiet harbour and fair weather, We left them for the waters wild and drear. [In 12 OXFORD VERSES. In unfathomed depth of waters. We have seen the ocean daughters, We have watched them as they combed their golden hair. We have heard their wanton singing, From off the islands ringing, Where they lure men on to danger and despair. We have little* left to cheer us, Faith is wider so less near us : Love is dead for those are dead we held most dear. But we struggle undefeated Till the journey be completed, For hope is ours who hope the end is near. JOHN PEN. OXFORD VERSES. MINE ERROR REMAINETH.' TAO I remember? ^ Can I forget* All that you were to me, All you are yet ? If the past is forgotten, The present is here, You are the same to me, Only more dear. Yet scorning tp be with you, Living a lie, I go from your presence, To go is to die. Beauty of innocence, Glory of truth, Splendour of manhood, Glamour of youth. [Of OXFORD VERSES. Of these we have little left, Little to mar, Would God we were anything But what we are ! We have boasted our madness And vaunted our shame, Made honour a plaything And God scarce a name. You hear not the discords That sound in the song, You see but the deed done And know not the wrong. You in your innocence, Safely can stay, We in our guiltiness Hurry away. Yet sometimes, O heart of hearts, When the mists rise, And the gold of the sunset First pales and then dies, When the silence lies brooding O'er what was the day, OXFORD VERSES. 15 And its noise and its tumult Seem far far away, Think of me sometimes As striving to be True to my better self, Worthy of me. JOHN PEN. 16 OXFORD VERSES. APOLOGY FOR THE VILLANELLE. A N echo soft, a tender spell, ^^ A mystic cadence, hushed yet clear, Are found within the Villanelle. Its notes are like the Vesper Bell Bringing through twilight grave and sere An echo soft, a tender spell. The busy murmurs of the shell, In turbulent repose a bier, Are found within the Villanelle. It is as if, in dusky dell Of the great world alone, we hear An echo soft, a tender spell ; The maddening haste, the rough pell-mell, Are far away peace, rest, are near, Are found within the Villanelle, OXFORD VERSES. 17 Let others make their task to tell The sterner accents to them dear ; An echo soft, a tender spell, Are found within the Villanelle. ARTHUR RENWICK. OXFORD VERSES. FAIRYLAND. , thou hast not left us *- Though the world be old and dim, Though time's swift flight have bereft us Of the shapes we loved to limn. Still there comes a pensive roaming In the page of fables wild When we sit amidst the gloaming, Hear the prattle of a child. Not yet is all sweetness faded From the dusty, weary road ; Little fingers wake the jaded Better than the cruel goad. For them lay we down the planning, Lay aside our toil to night, Plunge once more, to our unmanning, In their vistas of delight. OXFORD VERSES. 19 Giants stern and mystic mages Live once more at their request, And the theories of sages Are forgot in love's behest. Little matter though the story Is by telling oft outworn We must speak its wonders hoary As they ever have been borne. Goblins quaint and tiny heroes Trip across the wonted stage, Or in magic spell of Crusoe's Long adventures we engage. Little children, in your weakness Ye have taken, yet know it not, From about our path the bleakness Of the desert God forgot. ARTHUR RENWICK. c 2 OXFORD VERSES. ACROSS LONG MILES. T3 EMEMBER me when evening bringeth rest ; -^ Or with thy day's dawn when the thought is clear, For some brief moments let it hover near An absent friend, in snch regarding blest. Remember me, and even at my best ; Not as of yore while passing hours were sere But in the guise affection holds most dear Picture thou him who put thee to the test. Remember thee ! O would the sick control Of time and distance give sad-hearted slaves Sweet spacious liberty the spirit craves ! Remember thee ? Ay, till the golden bowl Break for this longing, and on twilight waves We float to silent music, soul with soul. ARTHUR RENWICK. OXFORD VERSES. " DO BUT LOVE ME." T^\O but love me *~' Though I would die ere show How my whole heart breaks out to thee In utter, passionate glow, Do but love me. Do but love me. The years are passing swiftly by ; To lingering, plaintive melody, I chant this one incessant cry Do but love me. Do but love me. While life and health pulse high within, And all goes well and cheerily, Fond friendship is no mortal sin ; Do but love me. ARTHUR RENWICK. OXFORD VERSES. ENVOY TO "SURSUM DEORSUM." T O, I am no more passionate or glad " ' Or filled with sorrow ; but a calm content Laps me about solace autumnal, sent To soothe and banish everything that had Been otherwise a spur whose fret forbad Dreamy oblivion peaceful wonderment Troubles so great, and yet so little, blent Within the tangled colours of life's plaid. The sun is ebbing, watery and wan The evening rising, gusty and pitch-dark, The sea and land are cold, hoar-frosted light ; Now must I rouse and haste me to be gone, Loosen the moorings of this tiny bark, Bid you farewell, set out to meet the night. ARTHUR RENWICK OXFORD VERSES. 23 A QUESTION OF CRITICISM. (Dedicated to the Edinburgh Review, The Minor Poet, and Mr. Andrew Lang.) " HEN the splendid fulminations of an undiscover'd sage In an admirable rage To illuminate the page Of a sober periodical foregather'd to engage : When his pantomimic thunder Upon poets' heads was spent : Was it most a thing of wonder Or a matter of lament ? Like the snapping of a cracker when his inuendoes sprang On the tender-hearted gang With an unexpected bang, And disturbed the nervous system of delightful Mr. Lang : Was there any mortal failing Out of kindness to reflect That the poets are an ailing And a persecuted sect ? 24 OXFORD VERSES. If philosophers arrange an Inquisition of the Schools Where their nicely temper'd tools Are administer'd by rules Made expressly for themselves and only danger- ous to fools : And if then our keenest fencer In his manner cold but kind Tortures Mr. Herbert Spencer For his treatment of the Mind : Is there any living mortal with a particle of sense Who'd be urging in defence That the subject is immense, And that logic should be shallow, since the human brain is dense ? Would not rather such a creature Take a possible delight In the scene's most likely feature Of the tortured showing fight ? But the poet must be treated in a very different way : He is not of common clay ! Far apart from any fray Let him weave the sentimental and the imitative lay! OXFORD VERSES. 25 Yet one makes interrogation : Need a critic talk so big For the simple delectation Of the literary prig ? H. A. MORRAH. (From In College Groves.) 26 OXFORD VERSES. A WELCOME TO OXFORD. (Commem., 1893.) /~\NCE more beneath battlements olden, ^-^ Once more beneath skies that are blue, Where fairies weave tapestries golden And carpets of emerald hue : Where Youth is companion'd by Laughter, Where Life is unburden'd of Care, And tender love-echoes come after The words of the fair ; There comes to our mirth and its measure No thought of the hours and their flight, No method determines our pleasure, We reckon no rules of delight : The sun in the sky is above us, His rays in our river lie clear, So come, and make glad, if you love us, The heart of the year ! OXFORD VERSES. 27 O welcome ! our fairies a table Shall spread you at twilight and dawn, Where the summer spreads amber and sable In sunshine and shade on the lawn : O welcome, to walk unreproved Where life knows no fetter nor chain, O welcome, thrice welcome, beloved, And welcome again ! H. A. MORRAH. (From In College Groves.) 28 OXFORD VERSES. LOVE SONGS. I. T SHEW'D you love's crown of gold Fair-wrought but you would not wear it, Love's sceptre your hands might hold And rule but you would not bear it, Love's prize of delight untold But you would not share it. Love's crown by the wayside lies, Love's sceptre of gold is broken, Love's heart in the darkness cries For a word or a look or token, For the light unborn in your eyes, And the word unspoken. GABRIEL GILLETT. OXFORD VKRSES. 29 II. "V7EARS and years I have loved you And dar'd not speak my love, Your face was a light to lead my feet To the crown of the Heav'ns above ; (Lean closer, kiss me again, again, For this is the Heav'n of love). Years and years I have waited And gazed at your face afar, Set in the dim wide night of my soul A tremulous silver star. (Lean closer, love is diviner now That the way to his shrine was far). Years and years I have fear'd the shame And the cruel speech of the world, But over our heads in the darkness now Is the banner of love unfurl'd, (Lean closer, cling to me, kiss my lips, Our love can despise the world.) GABRIEL GILLETT, 3 o OXFORD VERSES. III. ONLY one short week and I meet you Out on the hills that we love so well, Hear your footstep and turn to greet you, Tell you all that I long to tell. Out on the hills in the windy weather, Keen with the breath of the breezy sea, Sweet with the breath of the scented heather I see you waiting alone for me. Your sunburnt face in the clear air bright'ning Your lithe white limbs and your trusting hand, The flash of your eyes like summer lightning Call me out of the southern land. I dream of the days we shall roam and wander When the sun rides high in the Heav'n above, Or lie, looking over the cliffs, and ponder The deep, sweet secrets of life and love. OXFORD VERSES. 31 Or the fall of day, with its tired hours dreaming, When love remembers but shame forgets, Faint and gray, though the west be gleaming With a ling'ring glow of the sun that sets. Or, best of all, when the world lies sleeping, Your arms twin'd round me, your lips to mine, Love shields us both with his pinions steeping Our souls in music and fire and wine. Only one short week and I meet you, (Days run swift to a goal like this !) Hear your footstep and turn to greet you, With glance and, tremour and word and kiss. GABRIEL GILLETT. 32 OXFORD VERSES. IV. HPHRO' the gathering dusk and thro' -*- Weary distance dim and blue How my heart goes out to you f If I came and took your hand In the shadow-haunted land Would you turn and understand ? If I came with lips aflame Would you rise and speak my name, Rise and linger, if I came ? If I came and dar'd to lay Life and love before you, say, Would you cast the gift away ? GABRIEL GILLETT. OXFORD VERSES. 33 AFTER PETRARCH. T AURA, thou fairest laurel of my crown, ' Thou leaflet ever green to my fond heart, Not Death himself can force us twain apart Or daunt our spirits with his withering frown ; If thou, pure Seraph, on bright wings hast flown To God's own Heaven, my Laura still thou art, And thou to angels canst new grace impart, Not they to thee ; and thou art all mine own. I follow swiftly ; but I live in thee : And thou in me eternally shalt live. We heed not the sharp spasm miscalled Death, Genius and love make Immortality, And thou and I to each can either give, And blend our names in one undying wreath. LORD ROSSLYN. 34 OXFORD VERSES. THE LILY AND THE STREAM. A LILY was set by the side of a stream, *<* And the golden sun watched with love from on high, But it raised not its head, and it drank not the beam, For it kissed the waters, and dreamed its dream, And the stream flowed by. O lily that kissed with the lips of love, Are the waters more fair than the light in the sky ; Lift thy passionate look to the passion above, For thy blossom is bright as the breast of a dove, And the stream flows by. At evening the lily lay fallen and low, For it died at the touch of the stream with a sigh. And the waters were gold with the sun's tender glow, As he laid a last kiss on the petals of snow, But the stream flowed by. OXFORD VERSES. 35 O broken lily, so loved by me, My sweet broken lily content to die In the arms of the waters that laughed at thee, There is sorrow and silence on cloud and on tree, But the stream flows by. JOHN BURLAND. 36 OXFORD VERSES. AUTUMN. T X TAIL of the wind in the dripping trees, Rustle of leaves that are dead in the blast, Sobbing song of the autumn breeze, Music of all that is passing and past. Fallen gold of the leaf of the tree, Clouded gold in the rift in the sky, Gold of the trust that I had for thee, Gold that was sweetest and soonest to die. Land of the poppies and land of the corn, The corn for life, and the poppies for sleep, Life for thy spirit, too careless to mourn, Sleep for my sorrow, too weary to weep. JOHN BORLAND. OXFORD VERSES. 37 TO A SPHINX. MORE silent than the sleeping summer woods, More lovely than the light on summer sea. And yet in all thy sweetest darkest moods, Inscrutable as Heaven itself to me, Enshrouded in thy robe of mystery : Thou angel-soul, beloved as angels are, Unknown and dearer since we may not see But only worship them ; thou voiceless star, In glorious silence set, too fair to be so far. So quiet is the grandeur of thy face, So passionless the splendour of thine eyes, That none may read them, or may dare to trace The golden soul that in their darkness lies As light behind the grey and clouded skies ; So lonely that the lonely ones in sleep, Whose souls are borne from all realities, Are not so far away as thou, nor steep The whisperings of life in so profound a deep. [There 38 OXFORD VERSES. There are no longings in the marble breast, To rend the veil upon thee, or to break The solitary stillness of thy rest ; For thee are not the passions that awake The storm of waters sleeping in the lake Of thy deep eyes ; for thee no tearful gleam Of passionate unrest, since thou dost make Thine own fair world, and sorrows only seem The shadows floating past in thine eternal dream. JOHN BURLAND. OXFORD VERSES. 39 REFLEXION. T^HE day was languid, and I laid -*- My head upon the sleeping earth, And by me half-forgotten played A little child : she mocked in mirth My langour, then, for very dearth Of aught to do, she turned to weaving Bright daisies in a long green girth, That, when I rose with thought of leaving, She might imprison me, her present grief retrieving. A garland twisted with such care Some Roman feaster well might bind Above his brow, about his hair : Yet as I rose, all disentwined In separate parts it fell behind, Like fruit in Autumn sunshine mellow. I saw a little shroud entwined With blood-red tips each heart of yellow And then it slowly died, hard by a dying fellow. [Remembrance 40 OXFORD VERSES. Remembrance of this daisy chain Awakes in me, I know not why, Old dreams which rise and rise again, As some sad haunting melody Rings in the ear and will not die. Now, I could tell each passing pleasure Which ever gladdened me, and pry Beneath the grave of Life to measure The emptied bliss of days now stored in Memory's treasure. But they have fled and left me void, And now perforce in vacancy I linger, not to be decoyed From thoughts of self by poetry Or art or music : heavily Upon mine eyes the eyelids lower. Life has its deeper cadency, Things outward needs must lose their power To hold with magic art the spirit in such hour. Perhaps indeed 'tis better so, Better that after some excess, Be it of laughter or of woe, Should come a time of weariness, When the tired soul may seek redress OXFORD VERSES. 4 From others' mirth, and others' weeping, And by itself, itself confess, Too sad to think of backward keeping Aught it would often hide, too wrong to be sleeping. Then with a fearless strength it tears The drapery of life aside, And gazes into what it bares With jealous eyes, as on his bride A lover looks, nay ! we are tried Before a sterner inquisition, No mist of love our faults can hide, Piercing with cold impartial vision Each unexpressed excuse, we do pronounce decision. Yet strength and wisdom may be born, When by the spirit's penance wrought We live, as anchorites, forlorn : No light emotion stains the thought : Seems Nature's sympathy as naught, Sweet human love a bond how slender ! We banish these things, and are brought Thro' dreams ecstatic to surrender Ourselves to lofty moods and the soul's lonely splendour. ['Tis 42 OXFORD VERSES. Tis blessed in this purity Of penitential thought to sit Alone, tho' long it may not be : E'en now my over-venturous wit Has filled the air with forms which flit About me : poorly ye dissemble, Who would those pure eternals knit With outward shapes ! 'tis gone : I tremble, I turn, I fly the forms my waking dreams assemble. J. W. CROWFOOT. OXFORD VERSES. 43 RONDEAU. pHYLLIS is fair above all praise ! Magicians of the golden days, When Muses poured their favours down, Alone could give her due renown : We cannot weave her wreath of bays. Ah ! could we master cunning phrase, And tune our voice to courtly lays, To sing that, if she smile or frown, Phyllis is fair ! Her grace has power our lives to raise, No art her worthiness portrays ; How can we hymn those eyes of brown, The head that merits Love's own crown ? We can but murmur, as we gaze, Phyllis is fair ! M. C. C. SETON. 44 OXFORD VERSES. BALLADE OF CERTAIN LECTURES. ~\X 7"E rest close-pent like wayward sheep That long to breathe the outer air, Sinking in scant, uneasy sleep, Or wakeful 'neath the gaslight's flare ; We scribble notes in bored despair, Or listen with a dazed ennui, Save when we lift our eyes, and dare Tb worship sweet Hermione. On leaden feet the moments creep While at the clock we sadly stare ; We hear, unmoved, of thinkers deep For thinkers deep no whit we care ! We hear unmoved how Germans snare The guileless soul with subtlety ; For us one thing alone seems fair To worship sweet Hermione. 'Tis vain our minds in thought to steep, And prune our hearts of fancies bare : Fancies will still their bounds outleap, Though Prudence ever cries " Beware !" OXFORD VERSES. 45 Romance, light-hearted, debonair, Scorns all severe philosophy ; And so our souls will still prepare To worship sweet Hermione. L'ENVOI. Lecturer ! to whose halls we fare Not all to hearken unto thee ; Desert thy Professorial chair And worship sweet Hermione ! M. C. C. SETON. 46 OXFORD VERSES. A MA BELLE DAME. ' I A HE birdis sing in fair green covers Whereby is many a pleasaunte shade, And I sing in this month of lovers : Bon jour, belle dame, et Dieu vous ayde. For sunny smiles and dainty greetings Whereof my heart was half afraid, For sweet stray words of our stray meetings : Merci, belle dame, et Dieu vous ayde. My byegone Avrils and Decembers So sweet your flower face has made With living thoughts that love remembers : Adieu, belle dame, et Dieu vous ayde. R. L. GALES. OXFORD VERSES. 47 SOLACE: A DUOLOGUE. \/^OU, who abuse T All men alive, Kindness refuse, Will the world shrive ? Wisdom you make her shun, Angry, you see her run : Softly the prize is won. Delightful veneer ! The world's grown gray, Teaching how to sneer, How to look away, Witty, if there's venom in it : Kindly, if you well can din it : Gently, you will never win it. Yet we'll give the world no moan, Not decry it, but deny it, [Seek 48 OXFORD VERSES. Seek no monument in stone, Simply live in peace and quiet : You and I alone together, Seeking sunshine on the heather, Caring nought for why or whether. G. P. PEACHEY. OXFORD VERSES. 49 VESPER TIDE. '"PHE dying light of the dying sun Streams through the windows old, And, like to a web of jewels spun, Scatters its purple and gold As upon sculptured shrines it falls, And the oaken carvings of ancient stalls. And far away through the arches dim A sad sweet melody, Like the wind as it wails its evening hymn Over the rustling sea Rises now like a bird on the wing, Now sinks to an amorous murmuring. Thy slim white fingers are laid in mine, And the light of thy sweet grey eyes Beams with the radiance of love divine, Of the love that never dies, But shall ever live between me and thee, In the strength of its exquisite purity. LENNOX MORISON. OXFORD VERSES. A A LITTLE NOVEL. (IN FOUR LITTLE CHAPTERS.) Chap. I. LITTLE nook in garden shady A little squeeze of finger-tips ; A little question to a lady ; A little " yes " from rosy lips. Chap. II. A little flirting with another ; A little shadow on the blind ; A little tiff, a little bother ; A little bit of beauty's mind. Chap. III. A little coolness in the greeting ; A little rift within the lute ; A little hour of wild entreating ; A little lady proudly mute. OXFORD VERSES. Chap. IV. A little note of sad upbraiding ; A little poison in a glass ; A little willow-tree o'ershading A little tomb-stone in the grass. M. T. PIGOTT. (From Common Room Carols.) 52 OXFORD VERSES. A BALLAD OF PHILISTINISM. T MARKED not that the air was green Nor that my Fate was violet, I failed to note the amber sheen That bathed the purple parapet. The fact I very much regret ; The times, I fear, I'm far behind : I simply noticed it was wet Forgive me ! I am colour-blind. The saffron that suffused the scene, The bistre that my path beset, The pale-mauve movements of the Dean, I somehow managed to forget. My life, maybe, was drab and yet Such thoughts occurred not to my mind ; 1 simply smoked a cigarette Forgive me ! I am colour-blind, OXFORD VERSES. 53 Tawny to-days perchance have been, To-morrows may be tinged with jet, Whilst yellow yesterdays may mean Magenta morrows to be met. The olive Fates may spread a net Before me, gore-incarnadined ; But still I smoke and drink and bet- Forgive me ! I am colour-blind. L'ENVOI. Chromatic penmen, do not fret That I am crude and unrefined : Wield ye the tinted epithet, Forgive me ! I am colour-blind. M. T. PIGOTT. (From Common Room Carols.) 54 OXFORD VERSES. M A LETTER. Y darling Kate, I write in fear, And frightful trepidation, To say that I'm sent down from here For insubordination. I'm down for good. My heart is sore And well-nigh broke. How dare I Inform your people I'm no more In statu pupillari ? When but a gulph in Mods I got, With horror it transfixed us ; 'Twas but a chance that there was not A great gulf then betwixt us. The cause my tutor did relate, The brute ! to your relations : " His pace he would not moderate Before his Moderations." OXFORD VERSES. 55 But I was pardoned, for I wore An air of deep contrition ; And I, ingrate ! in Greats I swore To take a high position. So dearest, let me know my fate ; Say not thy love's abated. Oh ! do not cut up rusty, Kate, Because I'm rusticated. M. T. PIGOTT. (From Common Room Carols.) OXFORD VERSES. A TRAGEDY. ' I A HE city seemed asleep that time, The cold December month crept^p And whitened with its snow and rime,^* The hardened ground, and yet within Our hearts there glowed a radiant flame Of Spring-like warmth though Winter came. We loved, and all around seemed gay To our enchanted gaze, though cold And keen the chilling winds would play With Autumn's leaves, so dead, so old. For us the air with song was filled, Though song and song-bird now were stilled. Through the long nights we two would sit To tell our love, the well-worn tale, Watching the fickle shadows flit O'er warm red walls and ceiling pale, Your hand within my hand was prest, Your head lay flower-like on my breast. OXFORD VERSES. 57 And yet you say I never knew Or cared to know your inmost soul, I never looked you through and through Or all your secret fancies stole ; I knew your lips, your eyes, your hair, But not the shy soul lurking there. So you drift from me, O my sweet ! Still colder grows your glance each day, Love flies as on his winged feet. I plead, but yet he will not stay. With tear-dimmed eyes I watch his flight Till daylight falters into night. But sometimes with reluctant voice We whisper the old words again, Feigning some long hour to rejoice In pleasures that have turned to pain, While ghosts of our dead joys arise, And mock us with their weeping eyes. STANLEY ADDLESHAW. 5 8 OXFORD VERSES. AN OLD PICTURE. T T hangs alone upon the panelled wall, A faded picture in a faded frame, No traces are there of the artist's name For each year as it stole into the hall Crept o'er the writing with its dusty feet, And Time upon the pale Madonna's face A veil has thrown, through which we dimly trace Eyes of deep blue by sorrow made more sweet. Perchance in bygone years in Tuscany Where maize-fields redden to the autumn sun The painter watched the slanting shadows run Over the city walls, and learned from him, The mystic Botticelli, how to limn A virgin's face ablaze with ecstacy. STANLEY ADDLESHAW. OXFORD VERSES. 59 LOVE AT HINKSEY. T N the grey city at our feet * The lights gleam out, and one by one Each gas-jet makes a mimic sun Now the real sun has set, and sweet The air grows with the heavy scent Each flowering bush of May has lent. The sky above a clear-cut gem, And the moon rising from the sea Trailing her white robes silently, Has seven stars for a diadem. When the sun set the breeze too fell, Fluttering down like a wounded bird, Now only its dying call is heard From where wan river waters swell. Amid tall lilies golden grown We two in silence stand alone. Your trembling hand in mine is prest, I know within your sweet grey eyes Love lights a torch which never dies But flares for ever in unrest. [I know o OXFORD VERSES. I know you love me now, and yet Have I not often felt despair Lest I should never touch your hair, Or that our lips had never met ? I thought that you would never be More than a simple friend to me. Have I not known you two long years ? Have I not striven to make you love ? I think some angel from above Has moved you by my aching tears. You are a perfect poem, sweet, Sung to an angel's melody Before the Throne in ecstasy, Where choir to choir the song repeat Through all the columned courts of Heaven. Dear God to you such grace has given, Has wrought you as a golden flower, Has made you as a purple star, Or as a drifting nenuphar, Or as a wondrous ivory tower. For in the hush of that young corn Where only birds and flowers may see, You shall be all in all to me, And we will rest there till the morn OXFORD VERSES 61 Turns emerald -sky to ruby red And crowns with gold your golden head, And lends unto your eyes new fire, And makes your splendid curving mouth A gorgeous poppy of the South Culled for a god's desire. STANLEY ADDLESHAW. 62 OXFORD VERSES. LOVE'S VIGIL. TXT" HEN in the moonlit night I lie awake And only the loud clocks send forth a sound To vex the quiet of the languid air I think of thee, and my still room around Is peopled with thine image everywhere. What is thy charm, that thou the night canst make More rich and vivid than the sunlit day And fill my soul with bright imaginings Of thy loved presence, while dull sleep takes wings And broods in sullen envy far away ? MORLEY RICHARDS. OXFORD VERSES. 63 A VISION. A/T ETHOUGHT on western hills I strayed, ^'-*- And, restless, roamed from height to height ; The skies a crimson curtain made, The sinking sun foretold of night. What power, what god had led me there I knew not ; this alone I knew, The sun-enkindled hills were fair, And very sweet the thought of you. Before my feet down dropt a lark, His vibrant evensong was done ; Like some slow spectre came the dark, And plunged in far-off waves the sun. Lo ! on a sudden far away The gathering clouds dispelled once more, And, set in glory like the day, Your face upon their front they bore. MORLEY RICHARDS. 64 OXFORD VERSES. GLOWING ASHES. O O she is gone for ever ! That was my last embrace, Though I used my best endeavour To gain but a moment's grace. She is gone, but still there lingers A feel of her warm soft glow, That spread o'er my lips and fingers Only a short while ago. Ah ! she is gone, she is perished ! Hers was a cruel fate ; She dreamed not the hand that cherished Could also exterminate. For mine was the hand that slew her, Tho' mine were the lips that kissed, As on to her death I drew her Thro' the gloom of the smoky mist. OXFORD VERSES. 65 Just as she died I kissed her, But the kiss seemed to burn on my lips ; And there rose a small white blister On twain of my finger tips. So I mourn as bound in duty O'er the empty desolate place I robbed of my dusky beauty The last and the best of her race. Silent I sit downhearted, My thoughts are gone wandering far, They are gone with the dear departed : And she was my last cigar. RET RAILL. (From Wild Oats.) 66 OXFORD VERSES. TO OXFORD : IN AUGUST. A/T OTHER, what spirit folds thy streets of eld, And weather-chastened walls in such a trance Of moony silence ? No unordered chance Moulded those eyes of peace, which long have quelled Man's savage force, and mind their kingdom held : Fair wast thou made to guide the soul's advance Up to thy likeness : callow ignorance Taught in thy school sees all but truth dispelled. Oh ! storied leaves thy fingers turned for me, And reedy whispers by the riverside, Where brooding moorhens rest above the stream, Oh ! friendly echoes from a kingdom free, How thick ye throng, as palest moonbeams glide, And bathe Saint Mary's in her proper dream. W. J. FERRAR. (From Fritillaries.) OXFORD VERSES. 67 SPRING-IDYL. O PRING is afoot, ye shepherds, in the land ! **-' I saw her late rise from her mossy bed By yonder stream, where the bare pollards stand ; Like a lone maid 'awaked to innocent joy With kisses from the warm lips of a boy I saw her raise her disenchanted head. O tuneful shepherds ! what a thrill hath passed Through earth's heart, strong with joyous pro- phecy ; Dead was that heart, that now reviveth fast : The longtime dolorous mother from her shrine Greets the grave footstep of her child divine Come from the dark bliss of her empery. Round yon tall elms brabble the brawling rooks, Busy with nesting and their married cares : F 2 [And, 68 OXFORD VERSES. And, leaning o'er the laughter of the brooks, Burgeon those tasselled shoots, that maidens shred Upon Palm Sunday : yea, though earth was dead, Spring is afoot, and hitherward she fares. Spring is afoot ; and you her steps may meet, If half the afternoon you ply up-stream By budding sallows, where pied plovers greet The mimic keel that calm as moonlight speeds Through the lush . borders of the sunny meads There tarries she, and ponders her late dream. Soon will her gentle mantle all be wove, The early boon of flowers, and her quire Pour from each copse the natural chant of love : Yet greet we her, who comes in lowly dress, As some disguised Queen, who most will bless Those that first hailed her in her plain attire. W. J. FERRAR. (From Fritill arias.) OXFORD VERSES. 69 A DREAM. T N sleep the errant phantasy, ^ No more by sense imprisoned, Creates what possibly might be But actually isn't : And this my tale is past belief, Of truth and reason emptied, 'Tis fiction manifest in brief, I was asleep, and dreamt it. I dreamt I met an Oxford man Whose sage remarks concerning Such matters as the use of av Betrayed profoundest learning : I never knew a student who Could more at ease converse on The latest Classical Review Than that superior person. [He 70 OXFORD VERSES. He spoke of books but manly sports He deemed but meet for scoffing : He did not know the Racquet Courts And merely glanced at golfing. Professors ne'er were half so wise Nor readers more sedate ! He was I learnt with some surprise An undergraduate. Another man I met, whose head Was crammed with pastime's annals, And who to judge from what he said Must simply live in flannels. A shallow mind his talk proclaimed, And showed of culture no trace : One book and one alone he named His own 'twas on the Boat-race. " Of course " you cry " some brainless lad, Some scion of ancient Tories, Bob Acres sent to Oxford ad Emolliendos mores Meant but to drain the festive glass And win the athlete's pewter ! " There you are wrong : this person was That undergraduate's tutor. OXFORD VERSES. 71 'Twas but a dream, I said above, In concrete truth deficient, Belonging to the region of The wholly unconditioned : Yet, when I see how strange the ways Of undergrad. and don are, Methinks it was, in classic phrase, Not virap less than ovap. A. GODLEY. 72 OXFORD VERSES. OCTOBER TERM : AN ASPECT. ' *~PWAS the season when mist and when mud is The permanent state of the High, And Oxford resuming her studies Finds nought but her lecturers dry : When the oarsman returns to his oar, And the slacker returns to be slack, And the Railways employ an additional boy In short, 'twas the end of the Vac. 'Mid leaves that were fading and yellow, Afar from the turbulent throng, I heard the complaint of a Fellow Who had not gone down for the Long : " Once more I'm confronted," he sang, " With Philosophy, History, Prose ! Farewell to my lease of retirement and peace. Of comparative peace and repose ! OXFORD VERSES. 73 " They come from their sojourns in cities, Their scalings of pass and of peak, To the storm and the stress of committees And the study of Latin and Greek : While the man is discoursing of schools, And the don his adventures relates And they bore me with shop till I'm ready to drop With their prating of Mods, and of Greats. " Farewell to the gardens I strayed in, Dear alleys so peaceful and lone, When e'en the Extensionist maiden Had studied, and picnicked, and gone : Farewell, speculations abstruse, Unhampered by dinner or tea, In the days when my scout was consistently out, And oblivious of meals and of me ! " Were Fortune benignantly swelling My purse with superfluous pelf, A College I'd found for my dwelling Endowed for one Fellow, myself: No Principals, Wardens, or Deans, No scouts to grow idle and fat : But a library free unto no one but me, A chapel, a cook, and a cat ! " ['Twas 74 OXFORD VERSES. 'Twas thus with demeanour dejected This Fellow I heard to repine, While he darkly on lectures reflected And pupils arriving at nine, And the peace and the tranquil repose, Which as optimist persons affirm Are a privilege none may enjoy but the don, And the special attraction of Term. A. GODLEY. OXFORD VERSES. 75 IN A COLLEGE GARDEN. (~* REAT Pan is dead yet here his spirit lingers, ^-^ Some radiance as of old-world grandeur falls, Here where the ivy clings with sun-kissed fingers, Around the moss-mosaic of these walls. This woodland maze of lawns and flower-beds, teeming With love-gifts by the hand of Chloris spread, Seems some green mead where dark Permessus gleaming Mirrors the fairy verdure overhead ; And Mopsus and Menalcus vie in singing A plaint for Daphnis dead ; with bubbling sound The founts of Helicon are ever ringing, And "Amaryllis" all the groves resound. [Ah! 76 OXFORD VERSES. Ah ! now no Muses teach the shepherds numbers, Pan's pipe is dumb, Amyntas learns no more ; The gods of Greece are wrapt in timeless slum- bers Blindly we grope on reason's barren shore, But here, 'mid scents of jessamine and roses, Come listen to the black-cap's soft sweet strain, An inner chord of memory it discloses, And all the dead past wakes to life again. E. A. C. McCuRDY. (From Parva Seges.) OXFORD VERSES. 77 LOVE'S GARLAND. T O ! a wreath I'll weave for thee, * ' Hyacinths and eglantine, Jonquils, musk, and columbine, Violets drooping tenderly ; Pollen of the roses white, Pollen of the roses red, Shall, in circling thy dear head, Blush and tremble with delight. Saffron-tinted daffodils, Poppy-flowers and heather-bells, Lilies, Naiads of the dells, Plucked beside the mossy rills ; All shall round thy brow be seen, All shall incense offer up, Raising each a quivering cup, Hailing thee as Flora's queen. Fairer thou than all the flowers, Fairer than Dione's dove, Ere I tell thee all my love, Past will be its honeyed hours. E. A. C. McCuRDY. (From Parva Scgfs.) 78 OXFORD VERSES. A FRAGMENT ON RAPHAEL'S HOLY FAMILY. T O ! When the picture first appeared to men, **** They gazed, and thought, then mutely gazed again ; But radiant angels, borne on silvery wing, Dropped from high heaven, all too glad to sing Their joyous welcome to the work complete, Then heavenward sped, their tidings to repeat Of art's new offering : how the gentle Muse Had breathed such fragrance on the glowing hues, That dazzling symbols, bathed in splendour bright, Figured in floods of faintly mellowed light. While thus they made the courts of Heaven ring, Rose, like the sounds that throbbing echoes bring, A song of praise, less loud, but not less clear, Telling how art in heaven was held more dear, Bidding sweet Raphael mid the saints appear. ROSSLYN BRUCE. INDEX TO FIRST LINES. A lily was set by the side of a stream . . . . 34 A little nook in garden shady . . . . . . 50 And thou knowest too what it is to feel . . . . xv. An echo soft a tender spell . . . . 16 Breezes strongly rushing, when the North- West stirs . . . . . . . . . . . . i Do but love me . . . . . . . . . . 21 Do I remember ? .. .. .. .. 13 Fairyland, thou hast not left us 18 Go now, Love .. .. .. .. .. 4. Great Pan is dead yet here his spirit lingers . . 75 Here's your health in purple wine . . . . 7 I marked not that the air was green . . . . 52 In sleep the errant phantasy . . . . . . 69 In that dear country, which men call . . . . 9 In the gray city at our feet . . . . . . . . 59 I shewed you Love's crown of gold . . . . 28 It hangs alone upon the panelled wall . . . . 58 Lady, for thy word I thank thee . . . . . . 5 Laura, thou fairest laurel of my crown . . 33 Lo ! a wreath I'll weave for thee . . . . . . 77 Lo ! I am no more passionate or glad . . . . 22 Lo ! when the picture first appeared to men . . 78 INDEX TO FIRST LINES. PAGE Methought on Western hills I strayed . . . . 63 More silent than the sleeping summer woods . . 37 Mother, what spirit folds thy streets of eld . . 66 My darling Kate, I write in fear . . . . . . 54 Once more beneath battlements olden . . . . 26 Only one short week and I meet you . . . . 30 O world be nobler for her sake . . . . . . 3 Phyllis is fair above all praise . . . . 43 Remember me when evening bringeth rest . . 20 So she is gone for ever . . . . . . . . 64 Spring is afoot, ye shepherds, in the land . . 67 The birdis sing in the fair green covers . . . . 46 The city seemed asleep that time . . . ._ . . 56 The- day was languid and I laid . . . . . . 39 The dying light of the dying sun .. .. ..49 There is no limit to the glorious strife . . . . xv. Thro' the gathering dusk and thro' . . . . 32 'Twas the season when mist and mud is . . . . 72 Wail of the wind in the dripping trees . . . . 36 We rest close pent like wayward sheep . . . . 44 When in the moonlit night I lie awake . . . . 62 When the dawning day was o'er us . . n When the splendid fulminations of an undiscovered sage 23 Years and years I have loved you . . . . . . 29 You, who abuse .. .. .. .. 47 A 000018319 4