LXXI “Hic Vir, Hic Est.”
The subtle mingling of pathos and satire in this poem evoked the warm admiration of Mr. J. Russell Lowell. This is published by special permission of Messrs. G. Bell & Sons, to whom thanks are tendered.
Often, when o’er tree and turret,
Eve a dying radiance flings,
By that ancient pile I linger,
Known familiarly as “King’s”.
And the ghosts of days departed
Rise, and in my burning breast
All the undergraduate wakens,
And my spirit is at rest.
What, but a revolting fiction,
Seems the actual result
Of the Census’s inquiries,
Made upon the 15th ult.?
Still my soul is in its boyhood;
Nor of year or changes recks,
Though my scalp is almost hairless,
And my figure grows convex.
Backward moves the kindly dial;
And I’m numbered once again
With those noblest of their species
Called emphatically “Men”;
Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime,
Through the streets, with tranquil mind,
And a long-backed fancy-mongrel
Trailing casually behind.
Past the Senate-house I saunter,
Whistling with an easy grace;
Past the cabbage stalks that carpet
Still the beefy market-place;
Poising evermore the eye-glass
In the light sarcastic eye,
Lest, by chance, some breezy nursemaid
Pass, without a tribute, by.
Once, an unassuming Freshman,
Thro’ these wilds I wandered on,
Seeing in each house a College,
Under every cap a Don;
Each perambulating infant
Had a magic in its squall,
For my eager eye detected
Senior Wranglers in them all.
By degrees my education
Grew, and I became as others;
Learned to blunt my moral feelings
By the aid of Bacon Brothers;
Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock,
And colossal prints of Roe;
And ignored the proposition,
That both time and money go.
Learned to work the wary dogcart,
Artfully thro’ King’s Parade;
Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with
Amaryllis in the shade:
Struck, at Brown’s, the dashing hazard;
Or (more curious sport than that)
Dropped, at Callaby’s, the terrier
Down upon the prisoned rat.
I have stood serene on Fenner’s
Ground, indifferent to blisters,
While the Buttress of the period
Bowled me his peculiar twisters:
Sung, “We won’t go home till morning”;
Striven to part my backhair straight;
Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller’s
Old dry wines at 78/:—
When within my veins the blood ran,
And the curls were on my brow,
I did, oh ye undergraduates,
Much as ye are doing now.
Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones:—
Now into mine inn must I,
Your “poor moralist”, betake me,
In my “solitary fly”.