Part 10 (2/2)
Shall I die disowned, dishonoured? Shall I live, and yet be famous?
Backs as strong as oxen have we, legs Herculean and bare, Legs that in the ring with t.i.tan wrestler might to wrestle dare.
Arms we have long, straight, and sinewy, Shoulders broad, necks thick and strong, Necks that to the earth-supporting Atlas might full well belong.
”But our strength un-scientific strives in vain thro' stagnant water, Every day, I blush to own it, Cambridge strokes are rowing shorter.
With a short spasmodic impulse see the boats a moment leap, Starting with a flying motion, soon they stop and sink to sleep.
Where are Stanley, Jones, and Courage? where is 'Judas' stout and tall, Where the Stroke named ''all' by Bargemen, known to Cambridge as 'Jack Hall'?
'Twas a spectacle to see him in his gig-lamps row along, And the good s.h.i.+p speeding onward swift as Poet's gus.h.i.+ng song.
Where is Paley? Where is Fairbairn, from whose lips the Naiads dank s.n.a.t.c.hed and gave their sweetest kisses when our Eight at Chiswick sank?
What avails it to remember brilliant days now lost in night?
What avails it Putney's annals, and past glories to recite?
”Lost is Granta, lost our glory, lost our former pride of place, Gone are all my blus.h.i.+ng honours, nought is left me but disgrace.
For regardless of all science, every oarsman now obeys Wild, new fangled laws and notions, never dream'd of in old days.
But do you, my gentle Freshmen, who have youth in every vein, Labour by your manly valour our lost laurels to regain!
When you hear the c.o.x'n's 'row on all,' then keep erect your head; Then be your arms and bodies with one motion for'ard sped: Sit firm upon your cus.h.i.+ons all; and, when the oar is in, With one harmonious action let your work at once begin: Press your feet against the stretcher, and your legs with vigour ply, Till the s.h.i.+p, as swift as lightning, thro' the yielding water fly.
”He who 'misses the beginning' makes his comrades all to suffer, Spoils the swing, and is a nuisance; turn him out, for he's a duffer!
Having made a good beginning you must carry on the work, And until the stroke is finished not an atom must you s.h.i.+rk.
I have seen--no names I mention--certain oarsmen with a dash Plunge their oars into the water, and produce a sudden splas.h.!.+
But the middle and the finish are all wasted in the air, And no human const.i.tution can such toil incessant bear; For although the s.h.i.+p at starting may at once its distance clear, And victory seem certain, when the winning post is near, The crew worn out and breathless have nothing in them left, And though pluck may ne'er desert them, of their vigour are bereft.
”And do you, my Palinuris, steering straight the gallant bark, By voice and exhortation keep your heroes to the mark.
Cheer the plucky, chide the cowards who to do their work are loth, And forbid them to grow torpid by indulging selfish sloth.
Fool! I know my words are idle! yet if any love remain; If my honour be your glory, my discredit be your pain; If a spark of old affection in your hearts be still alive!
Rally round old Father Camus, and his glories past revive!
Then adorned with reedy garland shall I take my former throne, And, victor of proud Isis, reign triumphant and alone.
Then no more shall Cloacina with my streams her offerings blend, And old Camus clear as crystal to the ocean shall descend!”
He spoke, and 'neath the surface, black as pitch, he hid his head, And, punting out my Funny, I my homeward journey sped.
But a strange ambrosial odour, as the G.o.d sank 'neath the flood, Seem'd to float and hover round me, creeping upward from the mud: And for ever from the water's troubled face there seem'd to rise A melancholy fragrance of dead dogs unto the skies.
IN MEMORIAM G. A. P.
He has gone to his grave in the strength of youth, While life shone bright before him; And we, who remember his worth and truth, Stand vainly grieving o'er him.
He has gone to his grave; that manly heart No more with life is glowing; And the tears to our eyes unbidden start, Our sad hearts' overflowing.
I gaze on his rooms as beneath I pace, And the past again comes o'er me, For I feel his grasp, and I see his face, And his voice has a welcome for me.
I gaze on the river, and see once more His form in the race competing; And I hear the time of his well-known oar, And the shouts his triumph greeting.
Flow on, cold river! Our bitter grief No tears from thy waves can waken: Thy whisp'ring reed, and thy willow leaf By no sad sighs are shaken.
Thy banks are thronged by the young and gay, Who dream not of the morrow; No ear hast thou for a mournful lay, No sympathy with sorrow.
Flow on, dull river! Thy heedless wave, As it echoes shouts of gladness, Bears forms as stalwart, and hearts as brave, As his whom we mourn in sadness.
But an arm more strong, and a heart more bold, And with purer feelings glowing, Thy flowing waters shall ne'er behold, Till time has ceased from flowing.
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