Part 7

Spirit of mirth, whose chime of bells Shakes on his cap, and sweetly swells Across the Atlantic main, Grant that Mark’s laughter never die, That men, through many a century, May chuckle o’er Mark Twain!

III POEMS WRITTEN UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF WORDSWORTH

MIST

MIST, though I love thee not, who puttest down Trout in the Lochs, (they feed not, as a rule, At least on fly, in mere or river-pool When fogs have fallen, and the air is lown, And on each Ben, a pillow not a crown, The fat folds rest,) thou, Mist, hast power to cool The blatant declamations of the fool Who raves reciting through the heather brown.

Much do I bar the matron, man, or lass Who cries ‘How lovely!’ and who does not spare When light and shadow on the mountain pass,— Shadow and light, and gleams exceeding fair, O’er rock, and glade, and glen,—to shout, the Ass, To me, to me the Poet, ‘Oh, look there!’

LINES

Written under the influence of Wordsworth, with a slate-pencil on a window of the dining-room at the Lowood Hotel, Windermere, while waiting for tea, after being present at the Grasmere Sports on a very wet day, and in consequence of a recent perusal of Belinda, a Novel, by Miss Broughton, whose absence is regretted.

HOW solemn is the front of this Hotel, When now the hills are swathed in modest mist, And none can speak of scenery, nor tell Of ‘tints of amber,’ or of ‘amethyst.’ Here once thy daughters, young Romance, did dwell, Here Sara flirted with whoever list, Belinda loved not wisely but too well, And Mr. Ford played the Philologist! Haunted the house is, and the balcony Where that fond Matron knew her Lover near, And here we sit, and wait for tea, and sigh, While the sad rain sobs in the sullen mere, And all our hearts go forth into the cry, Would that the teller of the tale were here!

LINES

Written on the window pane of a railway carriage after reading an advertisement of sunlight soap, and Poems, by William Wordsworth.

I PASSED upon the wings of Steam Along Tay’s valley fair, The book I read had such a theme As bids the Soul despair.

A tale of miserable men Of hearts with doubt distraught, Wherein a melancholy pen With helpless problems fought.

Where many a life was brought to dust, And many a heart laid low, And many a love was smirched with lust— I raised mine eyes, and, oh!—

I marked upon a common wall, These simple words of hope, That mute appeal to one and all, Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!

Our moral energies have range Beyond their seeming scope, How tonic were the words, how strange, Cheer up! Use Sunlight Soap!

‘Behold,’ I cried, ‘the inner touch That lifts the Soul through cares!’ I loved that Soap-boiler so much I blessed him unawares!

Perchance he is some vulgar man, Engrossed in £ s. d. But, ah! through Nature’s holy plan He whispered hope to me!

ODE TO GOLF

‘DELUSIVE Nymph, farewell!’ How oft we’ve said or sung, When balls evasive fell, Or in the jaws of ‘Hell,’ Or salt sea-weeds among, ’Mid shingle and sea-shell!

How oft beside the Burn, We play the sad ‘two more’; How often at the turn, The heather must we spurn; How oft we’ve ‘topped and swore,’ In bent and whin and fern!

Yes, when the broken head Bounds further than the ball, The heart has inly bled. Ah! and the lips have said Words we would fain recall— Wild words, of passion bred!

In bunkers all unknown, Far beyond ‘Walkinshaw, Where never ball had flown— Reached by ourselves alone— Caddies have heard with awe The music of our moan!

Yet, Nymph, if once alone, The ball hath featly fled— Not smitten from the bone— That drive doth still atone; And one long shot laid dead Our grief to the winds hath blown!

So, still beside the tee, We meet in storm or calm, Lady, and worship thee; While the loud lark sings free, Piping his matin psalm Above the grey sad sea!

FRESHMAN’S TERM

RETURN again, thou Freshman’s year, When bloom was on the rye, When breakfast came with bottled beer, When Pleasure walked the High; When Torpid Bumps were more by far To every opening mind Than Trade, or Shares, or Peace, or War, To senior humankind; When ribbons of outrageous hues Were worn with honest pride, When much was talked of boats and crews, When Proctors were defied: When Tick was in its early bloom, When Schools were far away, As vaguely distant as the tomb, Nor more regarded—they! When arm was freely linked with arm Beneath the College limes, When Sunday grinds possessed a charm Denied to College Rhymes: When ices were in much request Beside the April fire, When men were very strangely dressed By Standen or by Prior. Return, ye Freshman’s Terms! They do Return, and much the same, To boys, who, just like me and you, Play the absurd old game!

A TOAST

Kate Kennedy is the Patron Saint of St. Leonard’s and St. Salvator. Her history is quite unknown.