Turn hither, turn thy steps,
O thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute can soothe the maddening winds, And through the stormy deep
Breathe thine own tender calm ;
Unlock thy copious stores; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem.
Nor spear nor buckler had those foreign men;
Each wore a snowy robe that downward flowed;
Fair in their front a silver cross they bore:
The chanting voices, as they rose and fell,
Hallowed the rude sea air. The foremost man,
Who seemed the leader of the white-robed train,
Unbent, although his head was white as snow,
Spake, while to Edwin he obeisance made.
'To thee, who bear'st the likeness of a king,
'Tis fit that I should speak our errand here.
We came to traffic not in horse or man,
Corn, wine, or oil; nor yet to gather gold,
Nor to win cities by the force of arms.
O king, we came across the dangerous seas
Relinque, et umbrosos recessus,
Et virides sine fine sylvas.
Tu dulciores Æolia lyra
Lydaque cantus fundere tibia
Calles, et iratos potenti
Voce vocans cohibere ventos.
Insanientis tu pelagi minas
Spirans serena pace potes tua
Mutare. Tu nobis recludis
Divitias pretiosiores.
Jamjam novellis germinibus leves
Imbres reducis, lætificans agros,
Roresque qui culmos tumentes
Mox gravidis onerent aristis.
Inde oratores peregrina ex urbe profecti
Protenus incedunt: non illis scuta nec hastæ
Arma; pedes candens defluxit vestis ad imos,
Et crucis argento perfectæ insigne gerebant.
Inde exaudiri voces cœpere canentum
In numerum, sanctusque rudem ferit æthera cantus.
Tum gregis albati ductor-nive tempora canent
Jamdudum, erecto solidæ stant corpore vires-
Alloquitur regem, et summissa voce profatur:
'O rex, namque geris regis vultumque decusque,
Da mihi pauca loqui et veniendi dicere causas.
Non nos empturi fruges aut munera Bacchi
Venimus, aut oleo servos mutare parati;
Non lucri nos urget amor, non usus equorum,
To win thee and thy people from their gods,
Who cannot hear a cry or answer prayer.'
ST. JOHN'S COLL. MERCHANT TAYLORS' SCHOLARSHIPS,
OXFORD, 1889.
Within a wood nymphs were inhabiting,
Sibella, lovely nymph, was wandering free;
And climbing up into a shady tree,
The yellow blossoms there was gathering.
Cupid, who thither ever turned his wing,
Cool in his shady midday sleep to be,
Would on a branch ere sleeping pendent see
The bow and arrows he was wont to bring.
The nymph, who now the fitting moment saw
For so great enterprise, in nought delays,
But flies the scorner with the arms she's ta’en ;
She bears the arrows in her eyes to draw.
Oh, shepherds, fly! for every one she slays;
Save me alone, who live by being slain.
MERTON, ST. JOHN'S, JESUS, and Pembroke
COLL. SCHOLARSHIPS, OXFORD, 1888.
The Black Prince on his Death-Bed
Then the Prince caused his chambers to be opened,
And all his followers to come in,
Who in his time had served him,
And served him with a free will:
Nec petimus captas ferro popularier urbes ;
Tot sumus experti terræ pelagique labores
Ut vos nil vestris doceamus fidere divis,
Qui nequeunt audire et respondere vocati.'·
Silva fuit, nymphis sedes habitata Napæis,
Quo vaga detulerat pulcra Sibella pedes.
Forte super densa consederat arbore virgo,
Cœperat et glaucas carpere frondis opes;
Has puer ad latebras solitus volitare Cupido
Quærebat medio somnia blanda die.
Et prius ex alto linquebat pendula ramo
Spicula, quam somno lumina fessa daret.
Nympha videt, tantæque incensa cupidine laudis,
Ipsa novum facinus-nec mora tardat―adit.
Tela rapit, fugiensque deum dea ludit inermem,
Inque oculos transfert spicula rapta suos.
Ite procul pueri! Cunctos necat illa; necavit
Me quoque, sed vitam mors mihi quæque novat.
Αναξ δ' ἀνοίγειν εἶπε δωμάτων θύρας, πάντας δὲ πιστοὺς προσκαλεῖν ὁπάονας, ὅσοι περ αὐτῷ χρῆσθ ̓ ὑπούργησαν πάλαι. ζύγον φέροντες ἐξ ἑκουσίας φρενός,
'Sirs,' quoth he, ‘pardon me,
For, by the faith I owe you,
You have served me loyally,
Though I cannot of my means
Render to each his guerdon;
But God, by His holy Name
And Saints, will render it you.'
Then each wept heartily,
And mourned right tenderly,
All who were there present.
Then said he in a clear voice,
'I recommend to you my son,
Who is but yet young and small,
And pray that as you served me,
So from
your heart you would serve him.'
The Dying Maiden's Song
Lay a garland on my hearse of the dismal yew;
Maidens, willow branches bear; say I died true.
My love was false, but I was firm from the hour of
Upon my buried body lie lightly, gentle earth.
The weary day rins down and dies,
The weary night wears through:
And never an hour is fair with flower,
And never a flower wi' dew.
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