The Spike: or, Victoria University College Review October 1905
"Where go the poet's lines?
Answer, ye evening tapers,
Ye auburn locks, ye golden curls,
Speak from your folded papers!"
"Idas Te Diliget Unam."
When you and I are apart (Alas!)
The fairest lilies are dark with despair,
And the roses are pale with grief to the tips.
The imperial purple maragon
Droops wan to the ground that you walked upon:
The myrtle yields no scent as I pass;
Not the faintest breath from the laurel slips
To fill a want in the summer air.
But should you come again, O my heart!
The lilies would sway in their pure delight,
And a flush from the tips of the roses start.
The listless grace of the maragon
Would rise from your feet, and its purple don;
And myrtle and laurel would yield their scent,
Of your own soul-sweetness redolent,
And the blue weather break from the brows of Night.
For Pallas loves the berries filled
Lip-red, with the ripeness bursting though;
And Bacchus, the joy the crushed rapes out-spilled;
Priapus, the tumbling orchard-yields;
And Pales, the stretch of the happy fields:
But Idas,—he knoweth no worth but you
Thy sun that set at Trafalgar and shed
Glory on England, like a star that dies
Leaving the earth a light though it be dead,
Flames evermore to our believing eyes.
We cannot doubt thee, Nelson; thou hast placed
Thy spell upon the battle-haunted sea
That we have loved, and there thy names is traced;
We cannot love it without loving thee.
Oh splendour of renown where every tide
Floated thy menace to the foeman's shore.
What if the eagle in the dome abide,
Outwatching tempests far below—no more
Than thy great realm his empery; the wind
Bore thy unconquerable thunder far,
Till death that loveth sacrifice was kind
To thee, for ever England's avatar.
Like Wycliffe's ashes thy dear shade has passed
Over the waters of the earth that we
Should find our freedom; we shall hold it fast
Till England is no longer true to thee.
And we her children far upon the main,
Where never any but her cannon call,
Share for thy triumph her immortal pain,
For thee the humblest keep a festival.
Auream Quisquis mdiocritatem
diligit tutus - - - - caret invidenda sobrius aula.
Strike the drum in festive manner,
Wave aloft glorious banner,
Everywhere let joy be seen.
Wherefore, wherefore, is this wild mood ?
Don't you see ? In'ts second childhood,
Horace leads his "Golden Mean."
Standing round are vice and virtue,
Sought too hard they both will hurt you,
Handle both with thick wrought glove.
Money's false, don't try to wed it,
Live so long you can on credit,
Then on poetry and love.
If the "terms" are drawing nigher,
Not to fail 's your one desire,
All your time in "swot" is spent.
Don't let life become a burden,
Shun a first-class and a third 'un,
With a second rest content.
If o'er football you're ecstatic,
Don't let speech be too emphatic!
Be not slack nor t yet too keen.
Don't go in for maiming, killing,
Just proceed to make it "willing,"
When the referee's not seen.
Do not live above your station,
Take your food in moderation,
Store the wine until 'tis ripe.
Follow then each useful adage.
Live on celery and cabbage,
Varied with a little tripe.
We acknowledge, gentle Horace,
You have done your utmost for us,
With philosophy serene.
You have shown us all your graces,
Never mind the common places,
Let them be the "Golden Mean.