They saw the young Save in the next night's moon,
They were over Belgrade by the afternoon,
And ere the sun set their journey was o'er,
On a willow-isle by the Danube's shore.

Toil, Sisyphus, toil on!
Thou'rt many, though but one!
Toil heart and brain!
One-but the type of all
Rolling the dreadful ball,
In vain, in vain!

PRINCIPAL J. C. SHAIRP. 1815-1885

A REMEMBRANCE

Within the ancient College-gate I passed,

Looked round once more upon the well-known square;

Change had been busy since I saw it last,

Replacing crumbled walls by new and fair; The old chapel gone-a roof of statelier show Soared high-I wondered if it sees below

As pure heart-worship, as confiding prayer. But though walls, chapel, garden, all are changed, And through these courts quick generations fleet, There are whom still I see round table ranged,

In chapel snowy-stoled for matins meet; Though many faces since have come and gone, Changeless in memory these still live on,

A scholar brotherhood, high-souled and complete.

From old foundations where the nation rears

Her darlings, came that flower of England's youth, And here in latest teens, or riper years,

Stood drinking in all nobleness and truth.
By streams of Isis 'twas a fervid time,

When zeal and young devotion held their prime,
Whereof not unreceptive these in sooth.

The voice that weekly from St. Mary's spake,
As from the unseen world oracular,

Strong as another Wesley, to rewake

The sluggish heart of England, near and far,
Voice so intense to win men, or repel,
Piercing yet tender, on these spirits fell,

Making them other, higher than they were.

Foremost one1 stood, with forehead high and broad,Sculptor ne'er moulded grander dome of thought,Beneath it, eyes dark-lustred rolled and glowed,

Deep wells of feeling where the full soul wrought; Yet lithe of limb, and strong as shepherd boy, He roamed the wastes and drank the mountain joy, To cool a heart too cruelly distraught.

The voice that from St. Mary's thrilled the hour,
He could not choose but let it in, though loth;
Yet a far other voice with earlier power

Had touched his soul and won his first heart-troth, In school-days heard, not far from Avon's stream: Anon there dawned on him a wilder dream,

Opening strange tracts of thought remote from both.

All travail pangs of thought too soon he knew,
All currents felt, that shake these anxious years,
Striving to walk to tender conscience true,

And bear his load alone, nor vex his peers.
From these, alas! too soon he moved apart;
Sorrowing they saw him go, with loyal heart,

Such heart as greatly loves, but more reveres.

Away o'er Highland Bens and glens, away

He roamed, rejoicing without let or bound. And, yearning still to vast America,

A simpler life, more freedom, sought, not found. Now the world listens to his lone soul-songs;

But he, for all its miseries and wrongs

Sad no more, sleeps beneath Italian ground.