XIII.

THE WALK OF THE TWO TOWERS.

THERE was in Merton Gardens a broad, straight walk, where a beautifully picturesque effect was produced by introducing at either end of the vista the chapel towers of Magdalene and Merton.

SURELY this walk, straight, simple in its line,
Was fashioned by some holy-hearted man,
That, at each limit turning, he might scan
Thy tower, dear Merton, or, fair Magdalene, thine,
Point skyward with solemnity divine;

So, while he walked, were his reflections given
In ceaseless meditation to the heaven

Of which his eyes beheld the earthly sign;
Thus, while slow-pacing, often pausing, there,
I loved, perchance erroneously, to dream;
And O, methought, with an unuttered prayer,
May my life's pathway, level, straight, and true,
Like this, with cause for holy breathings teem,
Begin and end with God, him alway view.

XIV.

"TOM "" OF CHRIST CHURCH.

ONE hundred and one times the mighty sound,
Such as when Vulcan forged the war-god's shield,
Startled the Lemnian shepherd in his field,
Hath Christ Church giant bell swung out around,
And the night songster's voice melodious drowned;
Yet on mine ear did the tone's volume fall

Not fearful, but sad, solemn, musical,

Though frighted air yet shakes with the rebound;
Nor strange; for my note-stricken memory

Hath wandered to the village

1

where I spent

Some of youth's happiest days, where yet the proud Old Norman law had not to fashion bent,

And curfew nightly woke the silent sky,

With sounds as slow, as solemn, though less loud.

John Bruce Norton.

THE CHESTNUT OF BRAZENOSE.

DOCTORS from Radcliffe's dome look down on thee,

-

Unconscious chestnut with the leafy crown!
And so on unpruned nature, fresh and free,
Learning too often looks complacent down,
Learning decorous in her cap and gown,
And feasting on the brains of men long dead,
What should she see in all this stately town
To make her bend the knee or veil the head?
And yet not Plato, not the Stagyrite,

Could teach a bud to expand into a flower;
Take then thy pen, book-worshipper, and write,
Learning is but a secondary power,

And look not down, but reverently look up

To every blossomed spray that rears its dewy cup!

Henry Glassford Bell.

1 Sleaford, in Lincolnshire.

SMITH OF MAUDLIN.

MY chums will burn their Indian weeds

The very night I pass away,

And cloud-propelling puff and puff,

As white the thin smoke melts away; Then Jones of Wadham, eyes half closed, Rubbing the ten hairs on his chin,

Will say,

This very pipe I use

Was poor old Smith's of Maudlin."

That night in High Street there will walk
The ruffling gownsmen three abreast,
The stiff-necked proctors, wary-eyed,
The dons, the coaches, and the rest;
Sly "Cherub Sims will then purpose

Billiards, or some sweet ivory sin; Tom cries, "He played a pretty game, Did honest Smith of Maudlin."

--

The boats are out! the arrowy rush,
The mad bull's jerk, the tiger's strength;
The Balliol men have wopped the Queen's,
Hurrah! but only by a length.

Dig on, ye muffs; ye cripples, dig!

Pull blind, till crimson sweats the skin; The man who bobs and steers cries, "O For plucky Smith of Maudlin! "

Wine-parties met, a noisy night,

Red sparks are breaking through the cloud;

The man who won the silver cup
Is in the chair erect and proud;

Three are asleep,

one to himself

Sings, “Yellow jacket 's sure to win."
A silence; "Men, the memory
Of poor old Smith of Maudlin!

The boxing-rooms, with solemn air
A freshman dons the swollen glove;
With slicing strokes the lapping sticks
Work out a rubber, three and love;

With rasping jar the padded man

Whips Thompson's foil, so square and thin, And cries, "Why, zur, you 've not the wrist Of Muster Smith of Maudlin."

But all this time beneath the sheet

I shall lie still, and free from pain,
Hearing the bed-makers sluff in

To gossip round the blinded pane;
Try on my rings, sniff up my scent,
Feel in my pockets for my tin;
While one hag says, "We all must die,

Just like this Smith of Maudlin."

Ah! then a dreadful hush will come,
And all I hear will be the fly
Buzzing impatient round the wall,

And on the sheet where I must lie;

Next day a jostling of feet,

The men who bring the coffin in:

Penrith.

HART'S-HORN TREE, NEAR PENRITH.

ERE stood an oak, that long had borne affixed

HE

To his huge trunk, or, with more subtle art,
Among its withering topmost branches mixed,
The palmy antlers of a hunted hart,

Whom the dog Hercules pursued, — his part
Each desperately sustaining, till at last

Both sank and died, the life-veins of the chased
And chaser bursting here with one dire smart.
Mutual the victory, mutual the defeat!
High was the trophy hung with pitiless pride;
Say, rather, with that generous sympathy
That wants not, even in rudest breasts, a seat;
And, for this feeling's sake, let no one chide
Verse that would guard thy memory, HART'S-HORn Tree!
William Wordsworth.

THE COUNTESS' PILLAR.

ON the roadside between Penrith and Appleby there stands a pillar with the following inscription:

"This pillar was erected, in the year 1656, by Anne Countess Dowager of Pembroke, &c., for a memorial of her last parting with her pious mother, Margaret Countess Dowager of Cumberland, on the 2d of April, 1616; in memory whereof she hath left an annuity of 4 1. to be distributed to the poor of the parish of Brougham, every 2d day of April forever, upon the stone table placed hard by. Laus Deo!"

HILE the poor gather round, till the end of time

WHILE

May this bright flower of charity display

Its bloom, unfolding at the appointed day;