LINES
WRITTEN ON THE EVE OF A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.
I
St. Mary's tolls her longest chime, and slumber softly falls
On Granta's quiet solitudes, her cloisters and her halls;
But trust me, little rest is theirs, who play in glory's game,
And throw to-morrow their last throw for academic fame;
Whose hearts have panted for this hour, and, while slow months went by,
Beat high to live in story—half a dozen stories high.
II
No; there is no repose for them, the solitary few,
Who muse on all that they have done, and all they meant to do;
And leave the prisoned loveliness of some hope-haunted book,
With many a melancholy sigh, and many an anxious look;
As lovers look their last upon the Lady of their fancies,
When barb or bark is waiting, in the middle of romances.
III
And some were born to be the first, and some to be the last:—
I cannot change the future now; I will not mourn the past;
But while the firelight flickers, and the lonely lamp burns dim,
I'll fill one glass of Claret till it sparkles to the brim,
And, like a knight of chivalry first vaulting on his steed,
Commend me to my Patron Saint, for a blessing and good speed!—
IV
O Lady! if my pulse beats quick, and my heart trembles now,
If there is flush upon my cheek, and fever on my brow,
It is not, Lady, that I think, as others think to-night,
Upon the struggle and the prize, the doubt and the delight,
Nor that I feel, as I have felt, ambition's idle thrill,
Nor that defeat, so bitter once, is bitter to me still:
V
I think of thee! I think of thee! It is but for thy sake
That wearied energies arise, and slumbering hopes awake;
For others other smiles might beam, so only one were mine;
For others other praise might sound, so I were worthy thine;
On other brows the wreath might bloom, but it were more than bliss
To fling it at thy feet, and say “Thy friendship hath done this.”
VI
Whate'er of chastened pride is mine, whate'er of nurtured power,
Of self restraint when suns invite, of faith when tempests lower,
Whate'er of morning joy I have, whate'er of evening rest,
Whate'er of love I yet deserve from those I love the best,
Whate'er of honest fame upon my after life may be,—
To thee, my best and fairest,—I shall owe it all to thee!
VII
I am alone—I am alone! thou art not by my side
To smile on me, to speak to me, to flatter or to chide;
But oh! if Fortune favour now the effort and the prayer,
My heart will strive, when friends come round, to fancy thou art there;
To hear in every kindly voice an echo of thy tone,
And clasp in every proffered hand the pressure of thy own.
VIII
As those who shed in Fairy-land their childhood's happy tears
Have still its trees before their sight, its music in their ears,
Thus, midst the cold realities of this soul-wearying scene,
My heart will shrink from that which is, to that which once hath been;
Till common haunts, where strangers meet to sorrow or rejoice,
Grow radiant with thy loveliness, and vocal with thy voice.
IX
My sister!—for no sister can be dearer than thou art—
My sister!—for thou hadst to me indeed a sister's heart,—
Our paths are all divided now, but believe that I obey,
And tell me thou beholdest what I bid thee not repay:
The star in heaven looks brightest down upon the watery tide:
It may not warm the mariner,—dear Lady, let it guide!
