 | Words by the Wayside |  |
124
J. C. S.
Arnold and Arnold, Stanley, Landor, Clough,
Temple and Benson—servants of the lyre,
Or teachers, lit with apostolic fire—
Renown our Rugby. Souls of hero-stuff,
Sons of Hephaistos, making plain the rough,
Or purging the foul, ways, of sensual mire,
Their very memory doth sweet breath suspire,
Embalming the dead past! It is enough.
Temple and Benson—servants of the lyre,
Or teachers, lit with apostolic fire—
Renown our Rugby. Souls of hero-stuff,
Sons of Hephaistos, making plain the rough,
Or purging the foul, ways, of sensual mire,
Their very memory doth sweet breath suspire,
Embalming the dead past! It is enough.
Yet mind I one, wont as their peer to walk
Beneath yon elms, who tuned no songless harp,
Still quickening the dull air with trancèd talk,
One soul with Wordsworth. Fain were I to see
Within these walls some votive wreath to thee,
Singer of sweet Traquhair, John Campbell Shairp.
Beneath yon elms, who tuned no songless harp,
Still quickening the dull air with trancèd talk,
One soul with Wordsworth. Fain were I to see
Within these walls some votive wreath to thee,
Singer of sweet Traquhair, John Campbell Shairp.
| Words by the Wayside | |