Where are they all departed,
The loved ones of my youth,
Those emblems white of purity,
Sweet innocence and truth?
When day-light drives the darkness,
When evening melts to night,
When noon-day suns burn brightest,
They come not to my sight.

I miss their pure embraces
Around my neck and throat,
The thousand winning graces
Whereon I used to dote.
I know I may find markets
Where love is bought and sold,
But no such love can equal
The tender ties of old.

My gentle washer-woman,
I know that you are true;
The least shade of suspicion
Can never fall on you.
Then fear me not, as fiercely
I fix on thee stern eyes,
And ask in terms emphatic,
"Where are my lost white ties?"

Each year I buy a dozen,
Yet scarce a year is gone,
Ere, looking in my ward-robe,
I find that I have none.
I don't believe in magic,
I know that you are true,
Yet say, my washer-woman,
What can those white ties do?

Does each with her own collar
To regions far elope,
Regions by starch untainted,
And innocent of soap?
I know not; but in future
I'll buy no more white ties,
But wear the stiff 'all-rounder'
Of Ritualistic guise.

There once was a time when I revelled in
rhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,

Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and poems produced by the dozens.

Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood's running
cold, all my laurels lie yellow and faded.

"We have come to the boss;" [1] like a weary old
hoss, poor Pegasus limps, and is jaded.

And yet Mr. Editor, like a stern creditor, duns
me for this or that article,

Though he very well knows that of Verse and of
prose I am stripped to the very last particle.

What shall I write of? What subject indite of?
All my vis viva is failing;

Emeritus sum; Mons Parnassus is dumb, and my
prayers to the Nine unavailing.—

Thus in vain have I often attempted to soften
the hard heart of Mr. Arenae;

Like a sop, I must throw him some sort of a
poem, in spite of unwilling Camenae.

* * * * * *

No longer I roam in my Johnian home, no more
in the "wilderness" wander;

And absence we know, for the Poet says so,
makes the heart of the lover grow fonder.

I pine for the Cam, like a runaway lamb that
misses his woolly-backed mother;

I can find no relief for my passionate grief, nor
my groanings disconsolate smother.

Say, how are you all in our old College Hall?
Are the dinners more costly, or plainer?

How are Lecturers, Tutors, Tobacco and Pewters,
and how is my friend, the Complainer?

Are the pupils of Merton, and students of Girton,
increasing in numbers, or fewer?

Are they pretty, or plain? Humble-minded or
vain? Are they paler, or pinker, or bluer?

How's the party of stormers, our so-called
Reformers? Are Moral and Natural Sciences

Improving men's Minds? Who the money now
finds, for Museums, and all their appliances?

Is Philosophy thriving, or sound sense reviving?
Is high-table talk metaphysic?

Will dark blue or light have the best of the
fight, at Putney and Mortlake and Chiswick?

I often importune the favour of Fortune, that no
misadventure may cross us,

And Rhodes once again on the watery plain,
may prove an aquatic Colossus.

[N.B. since I wrote I must add a short note,
by means of new fangled devices,

Our "Three" was unseated, and we were
defeated, and robbed of our laurels by Isis.]—

O oft do I dream of the muddy old stream, the
Father of wisdom and knowledge,

Where ages ago I delighted to row for the honour
and praise of my College.

I feel every muscle engaged in the tussle, I hear
the wild shouting and screaming;

And as we return I can see from the stern Lady
Margaret's red banner streaming;

Till I wake with a start, such as nightmares impart,
and find myself rapidly gliding,

And striving in vain at my ease to remain on a
seat that is constantly sliding.

Institutions are changed, men and manners
deranged, new systems of rowing and reading,

And writing and thinking, and eating and drinking,
each other are quickly succeeding.

Who knows to what end these new notions will
tend? No doubt all the world is progressing,

For Kenealy and Odgers, those wide-awake dodgers,
the wrongs of mankind are redressing.

No doubt we shall soon take a trip to the moon,
if we need recreation or frolic;

Or fly to the stars in the New Pullman Cars,
when we find the dull earth melancholic.

We shall know the delights of enjoying our
rights without any duties to vex us;

We shall know the unknown; the Philosopher's
stone shall be ours, and no problems perplex us;

For all shall be patent, no mysteries latent;
man's mind by intuitive notion,

The circle shall square, x and y shall declare,
and discover perpetual motion.

Meanwhile till the Earth has accomplished its
birth, mid visions of imminent glory,

I prefer to remain, as aforetime, a plain and
bloated and bigoted Tory.

* * * * * *
Dear Mr. Editor, lately my creditor, now fully
paid and my debtor,

I wonder what you will be minded to do, when
you get this rhapsodical letter.

If you listen to me (I shall charge you no fee
for advice) do not keep or return it;

To its merits be kind, to its faults rather blind;
in a word, Mr. Editor, burn it!

(1875).

[1] 'iam fervenimus usque ad umbilicos.' Martial iv. 91.