I

Line after line the tale beneath the pen Moves on, and rodent Time with tireless tooth Works o’er our portion, till one day forsooth We tread the cool gray shadow, ageing men. This change I mark, and sadly pondering then Catch the soul’s murmur, accented with ruth: “Oh, let me hear upon the lips of youth ‘Eothen’ and ‘Eothen’ once again!” And Oxford, oh, do thou with soulful toil, While o’er our folk tumultuous ages throng, Mounted at night as o’er some priceless spoil, For us the fineness of this cult prolong, Still nurturing in our sweet English soil That glory from the Morningland of song.

HESEPE, 8th June