It ceases, and all is over, The box is empty and cold,- WILLIAM SAWYER. THE UNIVERSITY BOAT RACE. 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 flash 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 of the oar! Ay, and the winners that day, whether light blue win it or dark blue, Seldom hereafter in life glory supremer shall know! GEORGE JOHN CAYLEY. MORTIMER COLLINS. THE IMPARTIAL: A BOAT-RACE SKETCH. sorrow and joy she has seen the beginning 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 contention, 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 But no; and, when the daub was done, Asked for five bob:' I offered one; 'Twas dear at that; but, as I gaze, The blotted surface seems to raise A maze of silk and tulle and lace; What memories it brings to me Tall bottles passing to and fro, And is this smudge the smile of one A face as fair as summer skies, That even lordly lorgnettes scanned Who blanched your cheek a pallid hue, That's long ago! Is your white brow As innocent and stainless now? For me, my summer's past, I trow; My eyes are rather dim to-night, These can't be tears—confound the light! 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 And, if my Muse may stoop to prose, A monument, but not, alas! Still, as I gaze, strange phantoms pass, Poor rubbish! True; but let it lie, H. B. FREEMAN PRIVATE THEATRICALS. OUR labours, my talented brother, They tell me that, somehow or other, Arrangements are nearly completed; Come, Clarence ;-it's really enchanting |