POETRY.

BRAWN.

SING we of brawn, not that whose ponderous weight The side-board decks of aldermanic state, Nor that wherein the quintessence of pies

In quaking jellies deep embosomed lies,—

Far nobler theme is ours ; that brawn we sing, Which steads the athlete in the perilous ring ; That brawn which clusters on the conquering arm Of you stout denizen of field or farm: The sturdy bargeman, or the prince of roughs, Lord of the manly art of fisticuffs.

But ye, weak crew of sophisters, retire, Lest ye provoke the hero's generous ire, Lest deigning once to touch a puny foe, He break your crania with one vengeful blow :— Avaunt, ye pedauts, spectacled and lean, Whose eyes are blinking, and whose skins are green ; Ye who in mid night vigils woo the Muse, And worthier joys for learning's sake refuse ; Ye who on tomes of scientific lore With heads half dazed by useless knowledge pore ; Poor fools I we fain would pity ; but your spite Provokes the stern rejoinder, "Might is right " :— " 'Tis not the will that's wanting, 'tis the power, And your vile canting means but Grapes are sour.'

Stand forth, thou champion of a thousand mills ; With hoarse applause the wide arena thrills I No young Apollo he, of dainty frame, With gold hair flowing, and deep eyes of flame ; But the stout thews which win the Olympic prize, The strong bull neck, the deep-set, watchful eyes ; The sinewy arm, the thighs as firm as trees,

The broad straight back of mighty Hercules,—

Admire and imitate him, ye who can,

And cry with Shakspere's self, "This is a man."

You think him over-flashy,—what of that?

There's not an inch, Sir, of superfluous fat : Handle the muscle, tough and hard as steel,— - He eats a leg of mutton at a meal, And not a morsel wasted ; see I his bound Is lithe and nimble as the staunchest hound ; He rowed the Henley course at racing speed, Then turned out coolly on the grassy mead, Beat long-legged Skinner at a hundred yards, Then put the stone past Bodkin of the Guards, Jumped twenty hurdles, cleared one six feet two, Tossed off a tankard of some cunning brew, Knocked a bargee who dared my lord to cheek Straight through the middle of to-morrow week :- Roughs grunt applause, and wondering bumpkins stare,.

Meanwhile the hero has not turned a hair.

These be thy gods, young England, stall-fed trine, Intrude and litter iu fair wisdom's shrine, Fill the broad courts to studious learning vowed With boyish revels, riotous and loud.

Lords of creation I who shall say them nay ?

Tremble, ye splay-foot pedants, and obey.

What ? I, a monarch of full fourteen stone, Yield to a strip of lath just five feet one :—

Rusticate me ! the fellow dares not gate,—

Why, pray, Sir, who's to coach the college eight ?

So speaks the giant : comrades shout applause, And outrage echo with their loud ' haw-haws.'

Let the pale student don the pensive gown,

And probe the mysteries of 7g and OTO

We'll case our calves in harlequin array, Shoulder the bat, and featly win the day.

See! fresh from school, where late he ruled supreme,

Down comes great Bumshus in a Quidnunc team, Stalks round the field in glowing flannels graced, Smokes a short clay to show his perfect taste, While small fourth form, of special knowledge proud, Recounts his triumphs to a gaping crowd.

Compared with these, what conquests worth the name Deserve a blazon on the scroll of fame ?

Who would not rather steer the Oxford Eight Than sit with G e at the helm of State ?

Who sticks to politics or studies law,

But men who couldn't face their beefsteaks raw,— Men who would drive a trainer to despair,—

Lean, bilious folk, whose strength all runs to hair.

At such dull tasks no hero deigns to grind, But aims at healthy impotence of mind ; Brainwork impairs the muscle ; midnight oil Unfits the sinews for a nobler toil.

Away with books, or if you're at a loss For some odd minutes, stick to " Handley Cross ;" Your paper, too, in moderation take, The Sporting Life may while away your steak.

The Field goes down with some men pretty well, But racier titbits grace the style of Bell.

'Tis true the Times has learnt to mend its ways, And honours merit with a stinted praise : There you may learn how Brown and Tomkins led, How by sheer gameness Bobster shot ahead : How thousands mourned o'er Dawkins' ankle sprained, And what was Figgins' weight before be trained.

As Piffle scans the page, his cheek grows pale, His shaking hand scarce grasps his morning ale ; Why that blanched visage, that dishevelled hair ?

Why do damp fingers clutch his elbow chair ?

Some friend belike is dead, some bank is broke, And ruined hundreds at one fatal stroke ; Fair England's flag has fallen to rise no more, The streets of Paris reek with civil gore ; Russia at war with Turkey, and her arms Convulse Calcutta with no vain alarms ; The Pope has fled to Malta, or again Without a ruler stands ungrateful Spain ; Far worse : far worse : such treason ne'er was hatched, The dreadful truth must out,—great Jobson scratched.