[Impressions of an absent Alumnus.]
Since 1642, when CROMWELL (late
Of Sidney Sussex), constitution-wrecker,
Sat on the Cam to keep the college plate
From drifting into CHARLES'S low exchequer,
No shattering battle-blast has shocked the walls
Of these enchanted halls.
But now their hoary shrines and hallowed shade
Provide the billets for a camp's headquarters;
An army, bedded out on King's Parade,
Usurps the wonted haunt of gowns and mortars,
Even adopts--a wanton thing to do--
The blessed name of "Blue"!
The paths where pensive scholars paced at ease
Ring to the hustling clank of spurs and sabres;
The ploughshare, forged for pale examinees,
Forgets its usual academic labours
And, commandeered for ends unknown before,
Turns to a tool of war.
The buttery becomes a mere canteen;
Upon the dais whence the Johnian fellow
Pities the undergraduate's rude cuisine
(His own condition verging on the mellow),
Foreign attachés eat the local swans
Bred for the use of dons.
I see the grass of many an ancient court
All divots where the cavalry has pawed it;
I see the thirsty aides-de-camp resort
There where the Trinity fountain runs with audit;
I see the Reverend MONTAGU, Chief BUTLER,
Acting as army sutler!
Those swards that grace his own familiar quad,
Where only angels (looking in from Ely),
Angels and dons alone, till now have trod--
There I remark the War-Lord, Colonel SEELY,
Brazenly tramping, under martial law,
Dead to a sense of awe.
Where mid her storied reeds old Granta flows
Profane vedettes discuss the morrow's mêlée;
On Parker's sacred Piece the troopers dose,
And, when the sudden bugle sounds reveille,
Feed their indifferent chargers on the dews
Ambrosial of the Muse.
And what is this strange object like a whale
In Jesus Close? None ever thought to meet a
Monster like that, on such a bulgy scale
(Not though it bore the classic sign of "Beta"),
Lashed for the night in yon Elysian lair--
Not there, my child, not there.
The peaceful pedant by his well-trimmed lamp,
Dimly aware of this adjacent bogie,
Protests against the horrors of a camp
And _Cur_, he asks, _cur cedunt armis togae_?
And the same thought is echoed on the lips
Of bedders and of gyps.
O Cambridge, home of Culture's pure delights,
My fostering Mother, what a desecration!
Yet England chose you (out of several sites)
To be her bulwark and to save the nation;
Compared with this proud triumph you have won,
Pray, what has Oxford done?
SIR OWEN SEAMAN.
Sept. 25, 1912.