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It ceases, and all is over,

The box is empty and cold,
And the amber drapery deadens
To satin that has been gold.

WILLIAM SAWYER.

THE UNIVERSITY BOAT RACE.

W

HICH of all moments of life brims over

with glory supremest ? Sweet, Senior Wrangler and Smith's

Prizeman, to pass Double First ! Sweet, in your maiden speech to astonish the

Treasury benches, While even Palmerston grunts, “ 'Gad! here's a

chap that can speak.” Sweet, amid lime-trees' blossom, astir with the

whispers of springtide, Maiden speech to hear, eloquent murmur and

sigh. Ah! but the joy of the Thames when, Cam with

Isis contending, Up the Imperial stream Aash the impetuous

Eights! Sweeping and strong is the stroke as they race

from Putney to Mortlake, Shying the Crab Tree bight ; shooting through

Hammersmith Bridge; Onward elastic they strain to the deep low moan

of the rowlock; Louder the cheer from the bank, swifter the flash Ay, and the winners that day, whether light blue

of the oar!

win it or dark blue, Seldom hereafter, in life glory supremer shall know !

GEORGE JOHN CAYLEY.
MORTIMER COLLINS.

THE IMPARTIAL:

A Boat-RACE SKETCH.

N sorrow and joy she has seen the be

ginning Her lightness of spirit half dashed by

the “ blues”. With cheers in her heart for the crew who are

winning, Whilst tears fill her eyes for those fated to lose.

If you'll narrowly watch 'midst the noise and con

tention, You'll note, as her Arab paws proudly the dust, A deftly-twined bouquet of speedwell and gentian 'Neath her little white collar half carelessly

thrust!

The tint of a night in the still summer weather

Her tight-fitting habit just serves to unfold, While delicate cuffs are scarce fastened together By dainty-wrought fetters of turquoise and

gold.

Ah! climax of sweet girlish neutral devices ! What smiles for the winners, for losers what

sighs !

She has twined her fair hair with the colours of

Isis, Whilst those of the Cam glitter bright in her eyes.

J. ASHBY STERRY.

MY SHILLING PHOTOGRAPH,

AN ASCOT LYRIC.

ENTS, take yer picters!' With a will

He blazons, in falsetto shrill,
His camera's itinerant skill ;

I bade him · Hook it!'
But no; and, when the daub was done,
The modest artist of the sun
Asked for five bob:' I offered one ;

He cursed, and took it.

'Twas dear at that; but, as I gaze,
The blotted surface seems to raise
Sweet shapes and joys of other days,

With pain for pendant ;
A maze of silk and tulle and lace;
A drag-five dames of courtly grace
Watching the Cup-day's grandest race,

Five squires attendant.

What memories it brings to me
Of quips and jests that fluttered free
On wings of wit and repartee

And bright abandon !
Tall bottles passing to and fro,
And clear-cut crystal's creamy flow,
Where vied with velvet Veuve Clicquot

Moët and Chandon.

And is this smudge the smile of one
Who “ thought that Ascot would be fun,”–
Bright hair, as golden as the sun

That glowed upon it;
A face as fair as summer skies,
Where many a blush in ambush lies;
Such witchery of sweet gray eyes,

And such a bonnet,

That even lordly lorgnettes scanned
Your features from the Royal stand,
And watched the little snow-white hand

You gave the gipsy,
Who blanched your cheek a pallid hue,
With“ Pretty miss, your love you'll rue!”
I wonder was the sibyl true,

Or only tipsy?

That's long ago! Is your white brow
As innocent and stainless now?
For me, my summer's past, I trow;

I'm in December.
My eyes are rather dim to-night,
Or is the picture faded quite ?
These can't be tears—confound the light !

How I remember

The homeward drive that came too soon,
By “parks and lodges” bright with June,
And how we mocked the afternoon

With lazy laughter,
Till welcome Windsor gaily shows
Her cots of clematis and rose ;
And, if my Muse may stoop to prose,

The ices after!

A monument, but not, alas !
Ære perennius—only glass ;
Still, as I gaze, strange phantoms pass,

And Fancy flashes.
Poor rubbish! True; but let it lie,
It half recalls the years gone by;
They'll break it up some day when I
Am dust and ashes !

H. B. FREEMAN

PRIVATE THEATRICALS.

OUR labours, my talented brother,

Are happily over at last;
They tell me—that, somehow or other,

The Bill is rejected, or past;
And now you'll be coming, I'm certain,

As fast as your posters can crawl, To help us to draw up our curtain,

As usual, at Fustian Hall. Arrangements are nearly completed;

But still we've a lover or two, Whom Lady Albina entreated

We'd keep, at all hazards, for you: Sir Arthur makes horrible faces;

Lord John is a trifle too tall;
And yours are the safest embraces

To faint in, at Fustian Hall.
Come, Clarence ;—it's really enchanting

To listen and look at the rout:
We're all of us puffing and panting,

And raving, and running about ; Here Kitty and Adelaide bustle ;

There Andrew and Anthony bawl;

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