A Lament

OVER THE SLOW RESTORATION OF PETERHOUSE-COLLEGE BUILDINGS.

O Phoenix, all-too-happy bird, Who enviless thy fame has heard? Thou, thine own mother, from the pyre-- Spices mix'd with flickering fire-- Sweetly didst thy breath suspire; Then rose again, and thy age gone In a swift resurrection-- Gone! by wondrous mystic skill Wearing a richer plumage still, Youth renew'd from feet to bill,-- Thou didst not linger in thine age, Nor a slow weary struggle wage, With changing cures and long delay Searching for life in every way. No; but a quick fate self-choosing, All hindering self-ruth refusing, Thou didst raise thy funeral pyre, Thou didst hovering i' the fire, From amidst the perfum'd flame Spring up, immortal as thy fame. Thou didst lift thy comely head, Ev'ry moulting feather shed; Thou didst raise thy radiant breast Blazing to the blazing West. O Phoenix, thou'rt an awful bird; Who enviless thy fame has heard? Climbing to thy funeral pyre, Climbing self-martyr'd to the fire, Sweetly there to bear thine ire; Fetching down from the great sun To piled nest of cinnamon Rays intense; then upward winging, Sudden from thine ashes springing; Victorious by this quaint mewing, Life strangely out of death renewing; Now i' the red fire consuming, Next at the sun thine eyes reluming. Alas, how different is the fate In this our later age, ingrate, Of her, my mother-college, lying All desolate and slowly dying; Lifting but a feeble wing, Though once, as Phoenix of the fire, Springing immortal from its pyre; When Apollo and the Graces Reign'd where Ruin now defaces, Gave her, when she shone in splendour, Orator, sage, and poet tender; Gave her sons, noble and good, Better than the bluest blood: O how chang'd, since those days olden Such as in the ages golden, I behold her, smitten, lorn, And by every Fury torn, Hanging in uncertain strife As it were 'twixt death and life; Doubting whether e'en she shall Have so much as funeral; Her corpse laid in some quiet bay, Where the sea-waves softly play; Willing they should take her bones-- Her time-stain'd, rent, and shatter'd stones; If only thus but once again Rebuilded, she might yet attain To something of her old renown By such resurrection, And, phoenix-like, herself out-do In her best days when she was new. O ye sons, your mother own In her desolation; Own her, though in aging years She shows few and thin gray hairs, Where once,--ah--in brave times of old-- Flash'd her proud locks with sheen of gold. Ah, Peter nam'd, thou art denied, Thus is thy name verified. 'Tis a spectacle for tears; 'Tis a spectacle for fears; 'Tis a spectacle for wonder; 'Tis a crime deserves the thunder, That from base to gold-touch'd ceiling Day by day her halls are reeling; Mullion'd window torn and rent, And destruction imminent; Everywhere such gaping wounds As a stranger e'en astounds; And what was in faith begun Left in desolation; Stone to stone in mute appealing, Cold neglect and scorn revealing, And the font of tears unsealing. Sons of my Mother-College lying All in ruins and slow dying, If ye have aught of piety Or least touch of charity, Look on these broken walls, and see Your mother in her misery; Holding up, in vain appealing, Wither'd hands, her woes revealing; And in the rank growths tangled there See her dishonoured gray hair. Woe is me, her genial breast, Which so many sons has blest, Each all welcoming that came, Drawn by her renowned name, Wither'd, shrunk, can quench no thirst, Ah, my heart with grief will burst. To my dim eye there rises clear The full tide that once roll'd here; Now shingle, sand, and fest'ring mud Tell of the far-refluent flood. O, pity her, ye sons, and vow Once more to crown your mother's brow; Once more to rear her crumbling walls; Once more to gather in her halls The young, the brave, the true, the good, The wise, the noble; and the Rood Over all shall bless and keep; So in old age ye shall not weep, Nor ever shall your fair fame sleep. G.

VENERABILI VIRO MAGISTRO TOURNAY,

TUTORI SUO SUMME OBSERVANDO.

Messis inauravit Cereri jam quarta capillos, Vitis habet Bacchum quarta corona suae, Nostra ex quo, primis plumae vix alba pruinis, Ausa tuo Musa est nidificare sinu. Hic nemus, hic soles, et coelum mitius illi; Hic sua quod Musis umbra vel aura dedit. Sedit ibi secura malus quid moverit Auster, Quae gravis hibernum vexerit ala Jovem. Nescio quo interea multum tibi murmure nota est: Nempe sed hoc poteras murmur amare tamen. Tandem ecce, heu simili de prole puerpera! tandem Hoc tenero tenera est pignore facta parens. Jamque meam hanc sobolem, rogo, quis sinus alter haberet? Quis mihi tam noti nempe teporis erat? Sed quoque et ipsa meus, de te, meus, improba, tutor, Quam primum potuit dicere, dixit, erit. Has ego legitimae, nec laevo sidere natae Non puto degeneres indolis esse notas; Nempe quod illa suo patri tam semper apertos, Tam semper faciles norit adire sinus. Ergo tuam tibi sume: tuas eat illa sub alas: Hoc quoque de nostro, quod tuearis, habe. Sic quae Suada tuo fontem sibi fecit in ore, Sancto et securo melle perennis eat. Sic tua, sic nullas Siren non mulceat aures, Aula cui plausus et sua serta dedit. Sic tuus ille, precor, Tagus aut eat obice nullo, Aut omni, quod adhuc, obice major eat.

TRANSLATION.

TO THE VENERABLE MAN MASTER TOURNAY,