 | Lapsus Calami |  |
1
To C. S. C.
Oh, when the grey courts of Christ's College glowed
With all the rapture of thy frequent lay,
When printers' devils chuckled as they strode,
And blithe compositors grew loudly gay:
Did Granta realise that here abode,
Here in the home of Milton, Wordsworth, Gray,
A poet not unfit to cope with any
That ever wore the bays or turned a penny?
With all the rapture of thy frequent lay,
When printers' devils chuckled as they strode,
And blithe compositors grew loudly gay:
Did Granta realise that here abode,
Here in the home of Milton, Wordsworth, Gray,
A poet not unfit to cope with any
That ever wore the bays or turned a penny?
The wit of smooth delicious Matthew Prior,
The rhythmic grace which Hookham Frere displayed,
The summer lightning wreathing Byron's lyre,
The neat inevitable turns of Praed,
Rhymes to which Hudibras could scarce aspire,
Such metric pranks as Gilbert oft has played,
All these good gifts and others far sublimer
Are found in thee, beloved Cambridge rhymer.
The rhythmic grace which Hookham Frere displayed,
The summer lightning wreathing Byron's lyre,
The neat inevitable turns of Praed,
Rhymes to which Hudibras could scarce aspire,
Such metric pranks as Gilbert oft has played,
All these good gifts and others far sublimer
Are found in thee, beloved Cambridge rhymer.
2
And scholarship as sound as his whose name
Matched thine (he lives to mourn, alas, thy death,
And now enjoys the plenitude of fame,
And oft to crowded audience lectureth,
Or writes to prove religion is the same
As science, unbelief a form of faith):—
Ripe scholar! Virgil's self would not be chary
Of praises for thy Carmen Seculare.
Matched thine (he lives to mourn, alas, thy death,
And now enjoys the plenitude of fame,
And oft to crowded audience lectureth,
Or writes to prove religion is the same
As science, unbelief a form of faith):—
Ripe scholar! Virgil's self would not be chary
Of praises for thy Carmen Seculare.
Whene'er I take my “pint of beer” a day,
I “gaze into my glass” and think of thee:
When smoking, after “lunch is cleared away,”
Thy face amid the cloud I seem to see;
When “that sweet mite with whom I used to play,”
Or “Araminta,” or “the fair Miss P.”
Recur to me, I think upon thy verses,
Which still my beating heart and quench my curses.
I “gaze into my glass” and think of thee:
When smoking, after “lunch is cleared away,”
Thy face amid the cloud I seem to see;
When “that sweet mite with whom I used to play,”
Or “Araminta,” or “the fair Miss P.”
Recur to me, I think upon thy verses,
Which still my beating heart and quench my curses.
Ah, Calverley! if in these lays of mine
Some sparkle of thy radiant genius burned,
Or were in any poem—stanza—line
Some faint reflection of thy muse discerned:
If any critic would remark in fine
“Of C. S. C. this gentle art he learned;”
I should not then expect my book to fail,
Nor have my doubts about a decent sale.
Some sparkle of thy radiant genius burned,
Or were in any poem—stanza—line
Some faint reflection of thy muse discerned:
If any critic would remark in fine
“Of C. S. C. this gentle art he learned;”
I should not then expect my book to fail,
Nor have my doubts about a decent sale.
3
To R. K.
As long I dwell on some stupendous
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman's latest piece of graphic.
Browning.
And tremendous (Heaven defend us!)
Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrendous
Demoniaco-seraphic
Penman's latest piece of graphic.
Browning.
Will there never come a season
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse:
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an Ass,
And a boy's eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass:
Which shall rid us from the curse
Of a prose which knows no reason
And an unmelodious verse:
When the world shall cease to wonder
At the genius of an Ass,
And a boy's eccentric blunder
Shall not bring success to pass:
When mankind shall be delivered
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens:
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore:
When the Rudyards cease from kipling
And the Haggards Ride no more.
From the clash of magazines,
And the inkstand shall be shivered
Into countless smithereens:
When there stands a muzzled stripling,
Mute, beside a muzzled bore:
When the Rudyards cease from kipling
And the Haggards Ride no more.
4
The Grand Old Pipe.
I have ceased to believe in the Leader
Whom I loved in the days of my youth:
Is he, or am I the seceder?
It were hard to determine the truth.
But my enmity is not impassioned:
I'll forgive and forget if I can,
And I'm smoking a pipe which is fashioned
Like the face of the Grand Old Man.
Whom I loved in the days of my youth:
Is he, or am I the seceder?
It were hard to determine the truth.
But my enmity is not impassioned:
I'll forgive and forget if I can,
And I'm smoking a pipe which is fashioned
Like the face of the Grand Old Man.
It was made in the days when his collars
Were still of the usual size,
And before the recipients of dollars
Were known as his trusted allies:
But I love, as I lounge in the garden,
Or work at my chambers, to gaze
At the face of the master of Hawarden,
As he was in the Grand Old Days.
Were still of the usual size,
And before the recipients of dollars
Were known as his trusted allies:
But I love, as I lounge in the garden,
Or work at my chambers, to gaze
At the face of the master of Hawarden,
As he was in the Grand Old Days.
My pipe was my one consolation
When its antitype kindled the flame
Which threatened the brave population
Of Ulster with ruin and shame:
I forgot that our ruler was dealing
With scamps of the Sheridan type,
While the true orange colour was stealing
O'er the face of my Grand Old Pipe.
When its antitype kindled the flame
Which threatened the brave population
Of Ulster with ruin and shame:
I forgot that our ruler was dealing
With scamps of the Sheridan type,
While the true orange colour was stealing
O'er the face of my Grand Old Pipe.
5
Did his conduct grow ever absurder
Till no remnant of reason seemed left?
Did he praise the professors of murder?
Does he preach the evangel of theft?
When he urges our eloquent neighbours
To keep other men's land in their gripe,
Grows he black in his face with his labours?
Well, so does my Grand Old Pipe.
Till no remnant of reason seemed left?
Did he praise the professors of murder?
Does he preach the evangel of theft?
When he urges our eloquent neighbours
To keep other men's land in their gripe,
Grows he black in his face with his labours?
Well, so does my Grand Old Pipe.
For the sake of its excellent savour,
For the many sweet smokes of the past,
My pipe keeps its hold on my favour,
Tho' now it is blackening fast:
And, remembering how long he has striven,
And the merits he used to possess,
And his fall, let him now be forgiven,
Though he has made a Grand Old Mess.
For the many sweet smokes of the past,
My pipe keeps its hold on my favour,
Tho' now it is blackening fast:
And, remembering how long he has striven,
And the merits he used to possess,
And his fall, let him now be forgiven,
Though he has made a Grand Old Mess.
6
Drinking Song.
To A. S.
There are people, I know, to be found,
Who say and apparently think
That sorrow and care may be drowned
By a timely consumption of drink.
Who say and apparently think
That sorrow and care may be drowned
By a timely consumption of drink.
Does not man, these enthusiasts ask,
Most nearly approach the divine
When engaged in the soul-stirring task
Of filling his body with wine?
Most nearly approach the divine
When engaged in the soul-stirring task
Of filling his body with wine?
Have not beggars been frequently known
When satisfied, soaked and replete,
To imagine their bench was a throne
And the civilised world at their feet?
When satisfied, soaked and replete,
To imagine their bench was a throne
And the civilised world at their feet?
Lord Byron has finely described
The remarkably soothing effect
Of liquor, profusely imbibed,
On a soul that is shattered and wrecked.
The remarkably soothing effect
Of liquor, profusely imbibed,
On a soul that is shattered and wrecked.
In short, if your body or mind
Or your soul or your purse come to grief,
You need only get drunk, and you'll find
Complete and immediate relief.
Or your soul or your purse come to grief,
You need only get drunk, and you'll find
Complete and immediate relief.
For myself, I have managed to do
Without having recourse to this plan,
So I can't write a poem for you,
And you'd better get someone who can.
Without having recourse to this plan,
So I can't write a poem for you,
And you'd better get someone who can.
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