IT Cambridge. CAMBRIDGE. was a dreary morning when the wheels Rolled over a wide plain o'erhung with clouds, And nothing cheered our way till first we saw The long-roofed chapel of King's College lift Turrets and pinnacles in answering files, Extended high above a dusky grove. Advancing, we espied upon the road He passed, nor was I master of my eyes The Evangelist St. John my patron was: Three Gothic courts are his, and in the first Was my abiding-place, a nook obscure; Right underneath, the college kitchens made A humming sound less tunable than bees, But hardly less industrious; with shrill notes Voyaging through strange seas of thought, alone. * All winter long, whenever free to choose, With sinuous trunk, boughs exquisitely wreathed, With clustering ivy, and the lightsome twigs William Wordsworth. INSIDE OF KING'S COLLEGE CHAPEL, CAMBRIDGE. ПAX not the royal saint with vain expense, TAX With ill-matched aims the architect who planned Albeit laboring for a scanty band Of white-robed scholars only-this immense And glorious work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst: high Heaven rejects the lore So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense William Wordsworth. HAT awful pérspective! while from our sight WHAT With gradual stealth the lateral windows hide Their portraitures, their stone-work glimmers, dyed In the soft checkerings of a sleepy light. Martyr, or king, or sainted Eremite, Whoe'er ye be, that thus, yourselves unseen, Imbue your prison-bars with solemn sheen, fade with coming, night! Shine on, until ye But, from the arms of silence, list! O, list! The notes luxuriate, every stone is kissed William Wordsworth. HEY dreamt not of a perishable home THEY Who thus could build. Be mine, in hours of fear Or grovelling thought, to seek a refuge here; Or through the aisles of Westminster to roam; William Wordsworth. I TRINITY COLLEGE. PAST beside the reverend walls In which of old I wore the gown; I roved at random through the town, And saw the tumult of the halls; And heard once more in college fanes The storm their high-built organs make, And thunder-music, rolling, shake The prophets blazoned on the panes ; And caught once more the distant shout, The measured pulse of racing oars Among the willows; paced the shores And many a bridge, and all about The same gray flats again, and felt The same, but not the same; and last Up that long walk of limes I past To see the rooms in which he dwelt. Another name was on the door: I lingered; all within was noise Of songs, and clapping hands, and boys That crashed the glass and beat the floor; Where once we held debate, a band Of youthful friends, on mind and art And labor, and the changing mart, And all the framework of the land; |