POETRY.
OXFORD AT NIGHT. Han towers in heavenly splendour soar And smoulder to the starlit air,
As though her beauty; slumbering, wore The robe Immortals wear.
It is not might of armoured fleets Nor power of sword she deems most dear, Soldier and sailor in her streets Are guests and strangers here.
But, is there one like him who came Bare-footed to St. Mary's Porch?• It is for him she guards her flame
And holds the sa3red torch.
Austere she stood in ancient times, A refuge for the pure in heart, And still the music of her chimes Peals from a world apart.
And when we hear those cloister'd bells After long years, or absence long, With what high hopes and proud farewells Their haunting echoes throng!
Until it seems as if she brings (To mock the pride of lonely men), Only the tears of mortal things That cloud our mortal ken.
Yet, through her silence breathes a spell Of deeper import, wider range, That speaks of things invisible And charms through every change.
Still, o'er the waste of Time's decay, Dove-like she broods with dreaming wing, Or, fluttering at her windows grey, Brings back the pledge of spring.
GASCOIGNE MACKIE.
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