Oxford

I. The Tow-Path

FURROW to furrow, oar to oar succeeds, Each length away, more bright, more exquisite; The sister shells that hither, thither, flit Strew the long stream like scattered maple-seeds. A comrade on the marge now lags, now leads, Who with short calls his pace doth intermit: An angry Pan, afoot; but if he sits, Auspicious Pan among the river reeds.

West of the glowing hayricks, tawny black Where waters by their warm escarpments run, Two lovers, newly crossed from Kennington, Print in the early dew a married track, And drain the aroma'd eve, and spend the sun, Ere in laborious health the crews come back.

II. Ad Antiquarium

MY gentle Aubrey, who in everything Hadst of thy city's youth so lovely lust, Yet never lineal to her towers august Thy spirit could fix, or perfectly upbring, Sleep, sleep! I ope, not unremembering, Thy comely manuscript, and interthrust Find delicate hueless leaves more sad than dust, Two centuries unkissed of any Spring.

Filling a homesick page beneath a lime, Thy mood beheld, as mine thy debtor's now, The endless terraces of ended Time Vague in green twilight. Goodly was release Into that Past where these poor leaves, and thou, Do freshen in the air of eldest peace.

III. Martyrs' Memorial

SUCH natural debts of love our Oxford knows, So many ancient dues undesecrate, I marvel how the landmark of a hate For witness unto future time she chose; How 'gainst her own corroborate ranks arose The Three, in great denial only great, For Art's enshrining! Thus, averted straight, My soul to seek a holier captain goes:

That sweet adventurer whom Truth befell Whenas the synagogues were watching not; Whose crystal name on royal Oriel Hangs like a shield; who to an outland spot Led hence, beholds his Star, and counts it well To live of all his dear domain forgot.

IV. Parks Road

VIEWED yesterday, in sad elusive light, These everlasting heptarchs, tree by tree, Seemed filing off to exile, lingeringly, Each with his giant falchion, kinless quite. All the wild winter day and flooded night They feigned to march far as the eye could see, Through transient oceans plunging to the knee Their centuried greaves, ebon and malachite.

To-day, accustomed bole and branch all bare Stand with old gems inlaid. Like coloured snow Or vista'd flame along the drowsy air, Their gold-green lichens stir and cling and glow. What secret craftsmen painted them so fair? Angels of Moisture and the Long Ago.

V. Tom

HARK! the king bell, loud in his vesper choir. As in between each golden roar doth come That solemn, plangent, unregarded hum Chiding the truant with archaic ire, On Worcester mere far off, in elfin gyre The wavelets laugh, and laughter showereth from May's chestnut like a lampadarium By Brasenose, with every point afire.

Yet over all roofs to the uttermost, Call, Shepherd dear, from thy dream-haunted ground: For some there be, on whatsoever coast, In midst of any morrow's ordered round, Hear as of old (in earth and heaven an host!) And like young lambs, leap homeward at the sound.

VI. On the Pre-Reformation Churches about Oxford