* * * * * *
  Now he, who was once a confirmed woman-hater,
    Sees faces around him far dearer than books;
  And no longer a Coelebs, but husband and “pater,”
    Lauds in Latin and Greek MRS. OXYTONE’S looks.

  (1871)

THE SENIOR FELLOW.

  When the shades of eve descending
    Throw o’er cloistered courts their gloom,
  Dimly with the twilight blending
    Memories long forgotten loom. 
  From the bright fire’s falling embers
    Faces smile that smiled of yore;
  Till my heart again remembers
    Hopes and thoughts that live no more.

  Then again does manhood’s vigour
    Nerve my arm with iron strength;
  As of old when trained with rigour
    We beat Oxford by a length. 
  Once again the willow wielding
    Do I urge the flying ball;
  Till “lost ball” the men who’re fielding
    Hot and weary faintly call.

  Then I think of hours of study,
    Study silent as the tomb,
  Till the rays of morning ruddy
    Shone within my lonely room. 
  Once again my heart is burning
    With ambition’s restless glow;
  And long hidden founts of learning
    O’er my thirsty spirit flow.

  Soon fresh scenes my fancy people,
    For I see a wooded hill;
  See above the well-known steeple;
    Hear below the well-known rill;
  Joyous sounds each gale is bringing,
    Wafted on its fragrant breath;
  Hark!  I hear young voices singing,
    Voices silent now in death.

  Brothers, sisters, loved and loving,
    Hold me in their fond embrace;
  Half forgiving, half reproving,
    I can see my Mother’s face,
  Mid a night of raven tresses,
    Through the gloom two sad eyes shine;
  And my hand a soft hand presses,
    And a heart beats close to mine.

  In mine ears a voice is ringing,
    Sweeter far than earthly strain,
  Heavenly consolation bringing
    From the land that knows no pain,
  And when slowly from me stealing
    Fades that vision into air,
  Every pulse beats with the feeling
    That a Spirit loved was there.

A VALENTINE.

  O how shall I write a love-ditty
    To my Alice on Valentine’s day? 
  How win the affection or pity
    Of a being so lively and gay? 
  For I’m an unpicturesque creature,
    Fond of pipes and port wine and a doze
  Without a respectable feature,
    With a squint and a very queer nose.

  But she is a being seraphic,
    Full of fun, full of frolic and mirth;
  Who can talk in a manner most graphic
    Every possible language on earth. 
  When she’s roaming in regions Italic,
    You would think her a fair Florentine;
  She speaks German like Schiller; and Gallic
    Better far than Rousseau or Racine.