POETRY.
ALMA MATER.
WHEN I am dead my soul will come
To where, beside the sluggish stream, The old grey city's sleepy hu m Drones on like music in a dream ; From the pale meads of asphodel That fringe the Stygian river's flow, Or from the bleak, black plains of Hell, The Kingdom of Eternal Woe, Back to the many-storied town
Where for a while youth dwells with age ; The great green-room, where King and clown Await their summons to the stage.
When from Tom Tower the bell hath tolled
Its warning note, serenely grave, Great Mother, you will not withhold
Some memory of the life you gave ?
Adown the crowded, hurrying street My listless, shiftless ghost will drive With silent, incorporeal feet, And dream that I am still alive.
Later, when midnight strikes, 'twill keep The long grey bridge 'neath Magdalen Tower When Town and College lie asleep, All save the bells which mark the hour.
And when some glint of winged fire, The red outrider of the morn, Has gilded old St. Mary's spire, My wandering wraith shall flee forlorn Back to the Kingdom of the Dead,
Where scentless poppies bloom for aye,
And where on Lethe's bosom spread The broad white lilies swing and sigh.
J. H. K. ADKIN.
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