  "Scinditur incertum studia in contraria vulgus." Oft has some fair inquirer bid me say, What tasks, what sports beguile the gownsman's day; What cares are ours—by what light arts we try To teach our sober-footed hours to fly. List, then, ye belles, who, nursed in golden ease, No arts need study, but the arts to please; Who need no science, while with skill ye know To wield the weapons which your charms bestow— With grace to thread the dance's mazy throng— To strike the tuneful chords, and swell the song— To rouse man's sterner spirit to his toil, And cheer its harshness with a grateful smile. Thus my weak muse a bolder flight shall raise, Lured by the glorious hope of Beauty's praise. Soon as the clouds divide, and dawning day Tints the quadrangle with its earliest ray, The porter, wearied with his watchings late, Half opes his eyelids and the wicket gate; And many a yawning gyp comes slipshod in, To wake his master ere the bells begin. Round yon gray walls, enchained by slumber's spell, Each son of learning snores within his cell. For though long vigils the pale student keep, E'en learning's self, we know, must sometimes sleep— So morn shall see him, with a brightened face, Fresh as a giant, to resume his race. But hark! the chimes of yonder chapel-tower Sound the arrival of the unwelcome hour. Now drowsy Lentulus his head half rears, To mumble curses on the Dean he fears. What though his gyp exhort him, ere too late, To seek the chapel and avert his fate? Who, when secure his downy sheets between, Recks of the threatenings of an angry Dean! Slow rolling round he bids his mentor go And bear his warnings to the shades below. Soon shall he, summoned to the well-known room, Repent his recklessness and learn his doom, Within the walls a dull constraint to know, And many a midnight jollity forego. Far happier he, to whom the harsh-tongued bell Sounds, as it should, his murdered slumber's knell. Cold he contemns, and, shuffling on his clothes, Boldly stalks forth, nor heeds his redd'ning nose. Straight o'er the grass-plot cuts his dewy line In mad defiance of the College fine; Breathless with hurry gains the closing grate, And thanks his stars he was not just too late. His name prick'd off upon the marker's roll, No twinge of conscience racks his easy soul, While tutor's wines and Dean's soft smiles repay His prompt submission to the College sway. The service o'er, by Cam's dull bank of sedge He strides, while hunger gains a keener edge; (Though fasting walks I cannot loathe too much, Since such my custom, my advice be such.) For him, who straight returns, what horrors wait! How chill and comfortless his chamber's state. The crackling fuel only serves too well To show the cold it vainly strives to quell; While the grim bedmaker provokes the dust, And soot-born atoms, which his tomes encrust: Awhile suspended high in air they soar, Then, sinking, seek the shelves on which they slept before. Down bolt his commons and his scalding tea, Then off to lectures in pedantic glee. He notes each artifice and master-stroke— Each musty parallel and mustier joke; Snaps up the driblets to his share consigned, And as he cram'd his body crams his mind; Then seeks at home digestion for his lore, And slams in Folly's face the twice-barred door. This hour, perchance, sees Lentulus descend To seek the chamber of some jovial friend— Yawn o'er the topics of the passing day, Or damn the losses of his last night's play; While well he augurs from the clattering plates, The glad intelligence that breakfast waits. From Memory's store the sportive muse may glean The charms that gild awhile the careless scene— The song, the anecdote, the bet, the joke, The steaming viands, and the circling smoke— The racy cider-cup, or brisk champagne, Long prompt the merriment and rouse the strain; Till Pleasure, sated of the loaded board, Seeks what amusement fresher scenes afford. Some prove their skill in fence—some love to box— Some thirst for vengeance on the dastard fox; Each by his fav'rite sport's enchanting power, Cheats of its tediousness the flying hour. Now the dull court a short siesta takes, For scarce a footstep her still echo wakes, Save where the prowling duns their victim scout, And seize the spendthrift wretch that dares steal out. Come, let us wander to the river's bank, And learn what charm collects yon breathless rank; The hope or horror pictured in each face Marks the excitement of the coming race. Hark! o'er the waters booms the sound of strife; Now the hush'd voices leap at once to life; Now to their toil the striving oarsmen bend; Now their gay hues the flaunting banners blend; Now leap the wavedrops from the flashing oar; Now the woods echo to the madd'ning roar; Now hot th' enthusiastic crowd pursue, And scream hoarse praises on the unflinching crew; Now in one last wild chance each arm is strained; One panting struggle more—the goal is gained. Scarce rival Isis on her fairer tide. But think not thus could live th |
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