’He falls’—­the Placets thundered,
    And filled the yawning gap;
  In vain his trusty comrades
    Avenge their chief’s mishap—­
        His last great fight is done. 
  ’They charge!  Brave Pottius prostrate lies,
  No Rider helps him to arise: 
  They charge!  Fierce Mariensis dies. 
        The Bridge, the Bridge is won!

  XVII.

  In vain did Bencornutus
    Flash lightnings from his beard;
  In vain Fabrorum Maximus
    His massive form upreared;
  And Lumbius Revisorius—­
    Diviner potent he!—­
  And Peronatus robed in state,
  And fine old Fossilis sedate,
  All vainly stemmed the tide of fate—­
        Triumphed the Graces Three!

  XVIII.

  But when in future ages
    Women have won their rights,
  And sweet girl-undergraduates
    Read through the lamp-lit nights;
  When some, now unborn, Pollia
    Her head with science crams;
  When the girls make Greek Iambics,
    And the boys black-currant jams;

  XIX.

  When the goodman’s shuttle merrily
    Goes flashing through the loom,
  And the good wife reads her Plato
    In her own sequestered room;
  With weeping and with laughter
    Still shall the tale be told,
  How pretty Pollia won the Bridge
    In the brave days of old.

  (1881).

[1] The ancient name of Hitchin.

  Julia.

  An Ode.

[Note.—­The following imitation of Cowper’s Boadicea was written in 1858; most of its predictions have since been fulfilled.]

  When the Cambridge flower-show ended,
    And the flowers and guests were gone,
  And the evening shades descended,
    Roamed a man forlorn alone.

  Sage beside the River slow
    Sat the Don renowned for lore
  And in accents soft and low
    To the elms his love did pour.

  “Julia, if my learned eyes
    Gaze upon thy matchless face: 
  ’Tis because I feel there lies
    Magic in thy lovely grace.

  “I will marry! write that threat
    In the ink I daily waste: 
  Marry—­pay each College debt—­
    College Ale no more will taste.

  “Granta, far and wide renowned,
    Frowns upon the married state;
  Soon her pride shall kiss the ground
    Hark!  Reform is at the gate.

  “Other Fellows shall arise,
    Proud to own a husband’s name: 
  Proud to own their infants’ cries—­
    Harmony the path to fame.

  “Then the progeny that springs
    From our ancient College walls,
  Armed with trumpets, noisy things,
    Shall astound us by their squalls.

  “Sounds no wrangler yet has heard,
    Our posterity shall fright: 
  E’en ‘the Eagle,’ [1] valiant bird,
    Shall betake itself to flight.”

  Such the thoughts that through him whirl’d
    Pensively reclining there: 
  Smiling, as his fingers curled
    His divinely-glowing hair.