Chapter 4

She hears me not! with heart as hard as lead, She hurls a Rhombus at my luckless head. Lo, where her myrmidons, a wrangling crew, With howls and yells rise darkling to the view. There Algebra, a maiden old and pale, Drinks "double _x_," enough to drown a whale. There Euclid, 'mid a troop of "Riders" passes, Riding a Rhomboid o'er the Bridge of Asses; And shouts to Newton, who seems rather deaf, I've crossed the Bridge in safety Q.E.F. There black Mechanics, innocent of soap, Lift the long lever, pull the pulley's rope, Coil the coy cylinder, explain the fear Which makes the nurse lean slightly to her rear; Else, equilibrium lost, to earth she'll fall, Down will come child, nurse, crinoline and all! But why describe the rest? a motley crew, Of every figure, magnitude, and hue: Now circles they describe; now form in square; Now cut ellipses in the ambient air: Then in my ear with one accord they bellow, "Fly wretch! thou ne'er shalt be a Johnian Fellow!"

Must I then bid a long farewell to "John's," Its stately courts, its wisdom-wooing Dons, Its antique towers, its labyrinthine maze, Its nights of study, and its pleasant days? O learned Synod, whose decree I wait, Whose just decision makes, or mars my fate; If in your gardens I have loved to roam, And found within your courts a second home; If I have loved the elm trees' quivering shade, Since on your banks my freshman limbs I laid; If rustling reeds make music unto me More soft, more sweet than mortal melody; If I have loved to "urge the flying ball" Against your Racquet Court's re-echoing wall; If, for the honour of the Johnian red, I've gladly spurned the matutinal bed, And though at rowing, woe is me! no dab, I've rowed my best, and seldom caught a crab; If classic Camus flow to me more dear Than yellow Tiber, or Ilissus clear; If fairer seem to me that fragrant stream Than Cupid's kiss, or Poet's pictured dream; If I have loved to linger o'er the page Of Roman Bard, and Academian sage; If all your grave pursuits, your pastimes gay, Have been my care by night, my joy by day; Still let me roam, unworthy tho' I be, By Cam's slow stream, beneath the old elm tree; Still let me lie in Alma Mater's arms, Far from the wild world's troubles and alarms: Hear me, nor in stern wrath my prayer repel! oh Let, let me live to be a Johnian Fellow!

(1865).

THE LADY MARGARET 5TH BOAT,

_May_, 1863.

1. BOYCOTT, W. 5. PALEY, G. A. 2. FERGUSON, R. S. 6. GORST, P. F. 3. BOWLING, E. W. 7. SECKER, J. H. 4. SMITH, JASON. 8. FISHER, J. Steerer--BUSHELL, W. D.

Eight B.A.'s stout from town came out M.A. degrees to take, And made a vow from stroke to bow a bump or two to make. Weary were they and jaded with the din of London town, And they felt a tender longing for their long-lost cap and gown. So they sought the old Loganus: well pleased, I trow, was he, The manly forms he knew so well once more again to see: And they cried--"O old Loganus, can'st thou find us e'er a boat, In which our heavy carcases may o'er the waters float?" Then laughed aloud Loganus--a bitter jest lov'd he-- And he cried "Such heavy mariners I ne'er before did see; I have a fast commodious barge, drawn by a wellfed steed, 'Twill scarcely bear your weight, I fear: for never have I see'd Eight men so stout wish to go out a rowing in a 'height;' Why, gentlemen, a man of war would sink beneath your weight." Thus spake the old Loganus, and he laughed both long and loud, And when the eight men heard his words, they stood abashed and cowed; For they knew not that he loved them, and that, sharply tho' he spoke, The old man loved them kindly, tho' he also loved his joke: For Loganus is a Trojan, and tho' hoary be his head, He loveth Margareta, and the ancient Johnian red. So he brought them out an eight-oar'd tub, and oars both light and strong, And bade them be courageous, and row their ship along. Then in jumped Casa Minor, the Captain of our crew, And the gallant son-of Fergus in a "blazer" bright and new; And _Thomas o Kulindon_ [*] full proudly grasped his oar, And _Iason o Chalkourgos_ [*], who weighs enough for "four;" For if Jason and Medea had sailed with him for cargo, To the bottom of the Euxine would have sunk the good ship Argo. Then Pallidulus Bargaeus, the mightiest of our crew, Than whom no better oarsman ever wore the Cambridge blue. And at number six sat Peter, whom Putney's waters know; Number seven was young Josephus, the ever-sleepless Joe; Number eight was John Piscator, at his oar a wondrous dab, Who, tho' all his life a fisher, yet has never caught a crab; Last of all the martial Modius, having laid his good sword by, Seized the rudder-strings, and uttered an invigorating cry: "Are you ready all? Row, Two, a stroke! Eyes front, and sit at ease! Quick March! I meant to say, Row on! and mind the time all, please." Then sped the gallant vessel, like an arrow from a bow, And the men stood wondering on the banks to see the "Old'uns" row; And Father Camus raised his head, and smiled upon the crew, For their swing, and time, and feather, and their forms, full well he knew. They rowed past Barnwell's silvery pool, past Charon's gloomy bark, And nearly came to grief beneath the railway rafters dark: But down the willow-fringed Long Reach so fearful was their pace, That joyous was each Johnian, and pale each foeman's face. They rowed round Ditton corner, and past the pleasant Plough, Nor listened to the wild appeal for beer that came from bow; They rowed round Grassy Corner, and its fairy forms divine, But from the boat there wandered not an eye of all the nine; They rowed round First-Post Corner, the Little Bridge they passed, And calmly took their station two places from the last. Off went the gun! with one accord the sluggish Cam they smote, And were bumped in fifty seconds by the Second Jesus Boat.

(1863).

[* Transcriber's note: The names "Thomas o Kulindon" and "Iason o Chalkourgos" were transliterated from the Greek as follows:

Thomas: Theta, omega, mu, alpha, sigma. o: omicron. Kulindon: Kappa, upsilon, lambda, iota, nu, delta, omega, nu.

Iason (Jason?): Iota, alpha, sigma, omega, nu. o: omicron. Chalkourgos: Chi, alpha, lambda, kappa, omicron, upsilon, rho, gamma, omicron, sigma.]

IN CAMUM.

Ridicula nuper cymba, sicut meus est mos, Flumineas propter salices et murmura Cami, Multa movens mecum, fumo inspirante, iacebam. Illic forte mihi senis occurrebat imago Squalida, torva tuens, longos incompta capillos; Ipse manu cymbam prensans se littore in udo Deposuit; Camique humeros agnoscere latos Immanesque artus atque ora hirsuta videbar: Mox lacrymas inter tales dedit ore querelas-- "Nate," inquit, "tu semper enim pius accola Cami, Nate, patris miserere tui, miserere tuorum! Quinque reportatis tumet Isidis unda triumphis: Quinque anni videre meos sine laude secundo Cymbam urgere loco cunctantem, et cedere victos. Heu! quis erit finis? Quis me manet exitus olim? Terga boum tergis vi non cedentia nostri Exercent iuvenes; nuda atque immania crura, Digna giganteas inter certare palaestras, Quisque ferunt, latosque humeros et brachia longa, Collaque Atlanteo non inferiora labore: "Sed vis arte carens frustrà per stagna laborat: Fit brevis inque dies brevior (proh dedecus ingens!) Ictus, et incerto tremulam movet impete cymbam, Usque volaturae similem, tamen usque morantem. Ah! Stanleius ubi est? ubi fortis et acer Iönas Et Virtus ingens, maiorque vel Hercule Iudas? Ah! ubi, laeva mei novit quem fluminis ora, Ile 'Ictus,' vitreis longe spectandus ocellis, Dulce decus Cami, quem plebs ignoblis 'Aulam,' Vulpicanem Superi grato cognomine dicunt? Te quoque, magne Pales, et te mea flumina deflent O formose puer, quibus alto in gurgite mersis Mille dedit, rapuit mille oscula candida Naias? Quid decus amissum repeto, aut iam laude perempta Nomina Putnaeis annalibus eruta testor? "Granta ruit, periitque decus, periitque vetusta Gloria remorum primaeque per aequora navis. Sed vos, O juvenes, sanguis quibus integer aevi, Spes ventura domus, Grantaeque novissima proles, Antiquum revocate decus, revocate triumphos! Continuo Palinurus ubi 'iam pergite' dixit Erectum librate caput; nec pandere crura Parcite, nec solidis firmi considere transtris! Ast ubi contactas iam palmula senserit undas, Compressa incipiat iam tum mihi crura phaselus Accipere, et faciles iter accelerare per undas. "Incipiente ictu qui vim non prompserit omnem Dique hominesque odere; hic, pondus inutile cymbae, Tardat iter; comites necat; hunc tu, nauta, caveto! Nec minus, incepto quoties ratis emicat ictu, Cura sit ad finem justos perferre labores. Vidi equidem multos--sileantur nomina--fluctus Praecipites penetrasse, sed heu! brevis effluit ictus, Immemor etremi mediique laboris in unda; Nam tales nisus tolerare humana nequit vis; Et quamvis primos jam jam victura carina Evolet in cursus, primisque triumphet in undis, Mox ubi finis adest atque ultima meta laborum, Labitur exanimis, vi non virtute subacta.

"Tu quoque qui cymbae tendis Palinurus habenas Ultro hortare viros; fortes solare benignis Vocibus; ignavos accende, suosque labores Fac peragant, segnique veta torpere veterno. Sed quid ego haec? priscae si iam pietatis imago Ulla manet, si quid vobis mea gloria curae est, Camigenae, misero tandem succurrite patri, Ereptosque diu vincendo reddite honores! Tunc ego arundinea redimitus tempora vitta Antiquo fruar imperior iustisque triumphis: Tum demum Cloacina meos foedissima fluctus Desierit temerare, et puro flumine labens Camus ad Oceanum volvetur amabilis amnis."

Dixit, et in piceas Fluvius sese abdidit undas; Sed me ridiculam solventem a littore cymbam Nectaris ambrosii circumvolvuntur odores, Decedente Deo; naresque impellit acutas Confusi canis amnis et illaetabilis aura.

FATHER CAMUS.

Smoking lately in my "Funny," as I'm wont, beneath the bank, Listening to Cam's rippling murmurs thro' the weeds and willows dank, As I chewed the Cud of fancy, from the water there appeared An old man, fierce-eyed, and filthy, with a long and tangled beard; To the oozy shore he paddled, clinging to my Funny's nose, Till, in all his mud majestic, Cam's gigantic form arose. Brawny, broad of shoulders was he, hairy were his face and head, And amid loud lamentations tears incessantly he shed. "Son," he cried, "the sorrows pity of thy melancholy sire! Pity Camus! pity Cambridge! pity our disasters dire! Five long years hath Isis triumphed, five long years have seen my Eight Rowing second, vainly struggling 'gainst an unrelenting fate. What will be the end, I know not! what will be the doom of Camus? Shall I die disowned, dishonoured? Shall I live, and yet be famous? Backs as strong as oxen have we, legs Herculean and bare, Legs that in the ring with Titan wrestler might to wrestle dare. Arms we have long, straight, and sinewy, Shoulders broad, necks thick and strong, Necks that to the earth-supporting Atlas might full well belong. "But our strength un-scientific strives in vain thro' stagnant water, Every day, I blush to own it, Cambridge strokes are rowing shorter. With a short spasmodic impulse see the boats a moment leap, Starting with a flying motion, soon they stop and sink to sleep. Where are Stanley, Jones, and Courage? where is 'Judas' stout and tall, Where the Stroke named ''all' by Bargemen, known to Cambridge as 'Jack Hall'? 'Twas a spectacle to see him in his gig-lamps row along, And the good ship speeding onward swift as Poet's gushing song. Where is Paley? Where is Fairbairn, from whose lips the Naiads dank Snatched and gave their sweetest kisses when our Eight at Chiswick sank? What avails it to remember brilliant days now lost in night? What avails it Putney's annals, and past glories to recite? "Lost is Granta, lost our glory, lost our former pride of place, Gone are all my blushing honours, nought is left me but disgrace. For regardless of all science, every oarsman now obeys Wild, new fangled laws and notions, never dream'd of in old days. But do you, my gentle Freshmen, who have youth in every vein, Labour by your manly valour our lost laurels to regain! When you hear the Cox'n's 'row on all,' then keep erect your head; Then be your arms and bodies with one motion for'ard sped: Sit firm upon your cushions all; and, when the oar is in, With one harmonious action let your work at once begin: Press your feet against the stretcher, and your legs with vigour ply, Till the ship, as swift as lightning, thro' the yielding water fly. "He who 'misses the beginning' makes his comrades all to suffer, Spoils the swing, and is a nuisance; turn him out, for he's a duffer! Having made a good beginning you must carry on the work, And until the stroke is finished not an atom must you shirk. I have seen--no names I mention--certain oarsmen with a dash Plunge their oars into the water, and produce a sudden splash! But the middle and the finish are all wasted in the air, And no human constitution can such toil incessant bear; For although the ship at starting may at once its distance clear, And victory seem certain, when the winning post is near, The crew worn out and breathless have nothing in them left, And though pluck may ne'er desert them, of their vigour are bereft.

"And do you, my Palinuris, steering straight the gallant bark, By voice and exhortation keep your heroes to the mark. Cheer the plucky, chide the cowards who to do their work are loth, And forbid them to grow torpid by indulging selfish sloth. Fool! I know my words are idle! yet if any love remain; If my honour be your glory, my discredit be your pain; If a spark of old affection in your hearts be still alive! Rally round old Father Camus, and his glories past revive! Then adorned with reedy garland shall I take my former throne, And, victor of proud Isis, reign triumphant and alone. Then no more shall Cloacina with my streams her offerings blend, And old Camus clear as crystal to the ocean shall descend!"

He spoke, and 'neath the surface, black as pitch, he hid his head, And, punting out my Funny, I my homeward journey sped. But a strange ambrosial odour, as the God sank 'neath the flood, Seem'd to float and hover round me, creeping upward from the mud: And for ever from the water's troubled face there seem'd to rise A melancholy fragrance of dead dogs unto the skies.

IN MEMORIAM G. A. P.

He has gone to his grave in the strength of youth, While life shone bright before him; And we, who remember his worth and truth, Stand vainly grieving o'er him.

He has gone to his grave; that manly heart No more with life is glowing; And the tears to our eyes unbidden start, Our sad hearts' overflowing.

I gaze on his rooms as beneath I pace, And the past again comes o'er me, For I feel his grasp, and I see his face, And his voice has a welcome for me.

I gaze on the river, and see once more His form in the race competing; And I hear the time of his well-known oar, And the shouts his triumph greeting.

Flow on, cold river! Our bitter grief No tears from thy waves can waken: Thy whisp'ring reed, and thy willow leaf By no sad sighs are shaken.

Thy banks are thronged by the young and gay, Who dream not of the morrow; No ear hast thou for a mournful lay, No sympathy with sorrow.

Flow on, dull river! Thy heedless wave, As it echoes shouts of gladness, Bears forms as stalwart, and hearts as brave, As his whom we mourn in sadness.

But an arm more strong, and a heart more bold, And with purer feelings glowing, Thy flowing waters shall ne'er behold, Till time has ceased from flowing.

(1866).

GRANTA VICTRIX.

Let penny-a-liners columns pour Of turgid efflorescence, Describe in language that would floor Our Cayleys, Rouths, and Besants, How Oxford oars as levers move, While Cambridge mathematics, Though excellent in theory, prove Unstable in aquatics.

Our muse, a maiden ne'er renowned For pride, or self-reliance, Knows little of the depths profound Of "Telegraphic" science: But now her peace she cannot hold And like a true Camena, With look half-blushing and half-bold, Descends into the arena.

Sing who was he that steered to win, In spite of nine disasters, And proved that men who ne'er give in Must in the end be masters? No warrior stern by land or sea, With spurs, cocked hat, and sword on, Has weightier work than fell to thee, Our gallant little Gordon.

Who when old Cam was almost dead, His glory almost mouldy, Replaced the laurels on his head? Sweet Echo answers--"Goldie." Who was our Seven of mighty brawn As valiant as a lion? Who could he be but strapping Strachan, Australia's vigorous scion?

Who rowed more fierce than lioness, Bereft of all her whelps? A thousand light-blue voices bless The magic name of Phelps. Who was our Five? Herculean Lowe, (Not he of the Exchequer), So strong, that he with ease could row A race in a three-decker.

Cam sighed--"When _shall_ I win a race"? Fair Granta whispered--"When, Sir, You see at Four, his proper place, My Faerie-queen-like Spencer." 'Tis distance robes the mountain pale In azure tints of bright hue, 'More than a distance' lends to Dale, His well earned double light-blue.

Proud Oxford burnt in days of old Ridley the Cambridge Martyr, But this year in our Ridley bold Proud Oxford caught a Tartar. And Randolph rowed as well beseemed His school renowned in story, And like old Nelson only dreamed Of Westminster and glory.

These men of weight rowed strong and straight, And led from start to finish; Their slow and steady thirty-eight No spurts could e'er diminish: Till Darbyshire, not given to lose, Sees Cambridge rowing past him; And Goldie steps into his shoes; Long may their leather last him!

Glory be theirs who've won full well The love of Alma Mater, The smiles of every light-blue Belle, The shouts of every Pater! Unlimited was each man's store Of courage, strength, and fettle, From Goldie downwards every oar Was ore of precious metal.

Then fare-ye-well till this time year, Ye heroes stout and strapping, And then beware, forgive my fear, Lest Oxford find you napping; And, oh! when o'er your work ye bend, 'Mid shouts of--"light-blue's winning," If ye would triumph in the end, Remember the beginning!

P.S. The Muse true to her sex, Less to be blamed than pitied, A Post-script must of course annex To state a point omitted. When Granta glorying in success With Camus pours her orisons; One name she gratefully must bless, That name is mighty Morrison's.

THE GREAT BOAT-RACE.

1. HAWKSHAW 3rd Trinity. 5. KINGLAKE 3rd Trinity. 2. PIGOTT Corpus. 6. BORTHWICK 1st Trinity. 3. WATSON Pembroke. 7. STEAVENSON Trinity Hall. 4. HAWKINS Lady Margaret. 8. SELWYN 3rd Trinity. Steerer, ARCHER, Corpus.

BEFORE THE RACE.