POETRY.
THE LAST SUNDAY OF TERM. (Morituri to staulant.) Now that with outstretched arms we stand For the last time before thy throne, Dear mother of the fostering hand, Deal mother-like with these thine own. Lo, in thy bosom have we grown ; Deep in our hearts thy precepts live t Where we have failed thy love unknown, Mother, forgive.
Forgive the plausible pretence, The vain self-will, the blustering pride, The lack of trust and confidence That won us to misdoubt our guide.
" If youth but knew 1" . But Youth, denied The light of knowledge, blunders yet.
How oft we wandered from thy side, Mother, forget.
Forget in tenderness and love ; But oh, in love and tenderness, Remember moments when we strove To break the battle's storm and stress. One instant's courage in the press, One goal achieved upon our knees ; Small triumphs ? Ay ; but none the less Remember these.
And, mother; though we loved in vain, Remember that we loved thee still.
- This is Love's bitterest crown of pain— To yearn for good, and offer ill. Now for the last time take our will ; The call is ours—the summoning guns. Mother, our destiny fulfil :
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