University of Virginia Library

OXFORD.

Fast is the pace that we go, in the first of the stages successive,
After the journey of life once has been fairly begun.
Seldom we stop to look back, and to measure the distance accomplished;
If we should happen to turn, 'tis for a moment, not more.
Only when time has elapsed, and the climbing grows ever more rugged,
Fairly we stop and look back, searching the plain underneath.
Cities and houses we see, through which we have passed on the journey,
Leaving in each as we went that which we cannot reclaim.
Ten are the years that are past; and now, on the arduous pathway,
Sadly I turn and look round, searching in memory's plain.
Many the cities I see, but one above all in its beauty,
Slowly, as rises the mist, taketh a tangible shape.
Colleges many and old, that nestle 'mid foliage ancestral,
Near to a river I see, covered with lightest of craft;
Pleasant and pensive retreats, whose beautiful inner quadrangles
Look upon carpets of turf, fit for the feet of a queen.
Blackened and battered by time is the stone that for ever is crumbling,
Yet has for centuries stood, yet may for centuries stand.
Beautiful precincts medieval, connected with all that is greatest,
Softened and hallowed by age, peopled for ever by youth!
Many are we who look back, with mingled affection and sadness,
Unto the days that we spent, happy and young, in your shade.
Fairer and dearer ye grow, as the number of summers and winters
Slowly augments unperceived, since we have bidden adieu.
Fairer and dearer ye grow, as we feel how since then we have altered;
If we returned for a day, scarce would ye know us again.
He whom ye knew as so gay, has become an habitual grumbler,
Not having met in the world that which he thought was his due.
He who was open of heart, has grown to be cold and suspicious;
He who the wittiest was, dull has become from routine.
Even the man that succeeds, and is working his way to the woolsack,
Or to a surplice of lawn, or to the Ministers' bench,
Thinks with a sigh of regret of the time of his youth by the Isis,
Caring the less for the prize as it approaches his grasp.
All of us something have lost, that we know we can never recover,
Graver we go our ways, bearing our burden of care.
Oxford I fondly remember: the hall in its noble proportions,
Panelled with blackest of oak, old as the college itself;
Where are arrayed all around the portraits of dead benefactors,
Wearing their garb of the past—faces severe and sedate,
Which by the tremulous flare of the giant fireplace lighted,
Restless appear in their frames, taking the queerest of shapes.
Under them tables are ranged, where the clatter of tongues and of tankards,
Mixed with the noisy jest, tells of the presence of youth.
All, save the table supreme, where the Dons in their glory are sitting,
High out of reach of the crowd, raised on a platform of state.
Yes, and the chapel I see, to which in the mornings we hurried;
Round it, in cap and in gown, gathers a numerous group.
Near to the door, in a niche, a figure in stone of the Virgin,
Headless and mouldering, stands, telling of Catholic days.
Likewise of oak is the chapel, with windows whose tinted reflections,
Orange and purple and green, fall on the pavement of stone.
Still I the chapel-bell hear, and a sound, as of choristers, cometh
Fainter but beautiful still, back through the distance of years.
Pretty and snug were my rooms; they looked on the Common Room Building;
Under the windows, the lawn stretched in its ample extent.
Could I revisit the place, I think I should hesitate somewhat
Ere I set foot in them now, different from what they were then.
Unto the room he is fond of, the occupant quickly imparteth
Something we cannot define,—part, as it were, of himself—
Maybe it lies in the way that the inmate his furniture places;
Maybe it lies in the things carelessly scattered about.
'Tis the most transient of gifts, which, different in mind, his successor,
Scarce has he entered the room, ruthlessly brushes away.
Who in my rooms is installed? the thought has its charm and its sadness;
Nothing but this can I tell—different he is from myself.
Is it a rowing-man strong, whose existence is all in his muscles,
Sitting there tired, inert, after the work of the day?
What if a reading man 'tis, whose “oak” is unceasingly “sported,”
Sitting alone with his lamp, working till daylight shall dawn?
What if a dreamer it is, or religious enthusiast ardent,
Left to himself by the rest, brooding o'er life and its aims?
Or is the occupant fast, and never alone for a moment;
Lavish of breakfasts and “wines,” constantly playing at cards?
Strong is the scent of cigars, the scout on the staircase is ever
Cider-cup fetching in haste, or sherry-cobbler and straws.
Oh, how the life of those days recurs as I write, and is vivid!
Faces of old college friends, details forgotten return.
Oxford, not perfect art thou; but let not thy faults be remembered;
Here, where in sadness I write, asking for nought but a sigh!
Only the things that are good, and memories dear to many,
Let me attempt to recall, leaving forgotten all else.
Wholesome are Latin and Greek, but the best of the lessons that Oxford
Unto her children imparts, not in the schools must be sought;
Many indeed are their forms, derived from the spirit that dwelleth
Lastingly over the place, born of tradition and time.
Good is the residence here, in these colleges ancient, poetic;
Here, if it ever was true, sermons are written in stones.
Good is the intercourse free with minds that are active and varied,
Favouring all that is best, courtesy, manliness, thought.
Good are the long-drawn debates, where eloquence, destined to conquer,
Measures its pinions, and youth borrows the wisdom of age.
Good are the walks in the country, through hamlets with ivy-clad churches;
Whiling, in talk with one's chum, gently the hours away.
Yes, and the long afternoons that with him one spends on the river,
Lazily mooring the skiff under the boughs that o'erhang.
What has become of thee, Grahame, since letters, grown rarer and rarer,
Ceased altogether, and Fate led us so widely apart?
Many a morsel, since then, of the bitterest bread have I eaten;
Wiser thou wast than myself, happier I hope thou hast been!
Good are the pastimes athletic, and good is the heart-stirring boat-race,
Nobly contested and won, fairest of sights in the world.
Say, have you stood on the bank, when the Eights, after leaving the barges,
Swiftly yet leisurely pass, seeking their place for the start?
Say, have you noted the oars all splendidly striking in cadence,
Then the long feathering sweep, kissing the face of the stream?
Match me, ye lands, if ye can, the men in their light silken jerseys,
Flower of youth and of strength, shirking nor toil nor pain!
Heard ye the gun? They are off! and the hum and the flutter increases,
Showing how keenly the crowd watches the fate of the race.
See, in the distance they come, and their partisans, heated and breathless,
Following close on the bank, shouting for ever, Well rowed!
Look, our boat is astern; and the distance, by Jove, is decreasing!
Louder the shouting becomes; now it has turned to a roar.
See, we are gaining upon them! the oars, as they pass through the water,
Bend like a wand. It is grand! Wilder their rowing has grown.
Now for the final spurt! Well rowed! Drive it out of the water!
Now our bow to their stern! well steered! and, by heavens, they're bumped!
Ah! it is long, long ago, since I shouted like this with the others;
Many a boat has been bumped, there on that river since then.
New generations of rowers, and new generations of shouters,
Closely each other succeed; who has a thought for the old?