POETRY.
A FADED, shabby little book, Besmeared with many an inky stain, Down from my silent shelves I took, And turned the well-worn leaves again.
Not dearer to the scholar's heart His tomes of vellum and of gold Than this which has become a part And parcel of the days of old.
Around each page, from far-off years, The glamour of one's boyhood clings, And wakes once more the sense of tears, The sadness at the heart of things.
Through the Fourth Georgic, line by line, How wearily the Form would plod ! And how the summer sun would shine Upon the stillness of the Quad !
We saw not then the soul that lay Beneath the wistful, tender phrase, Nor thought how there would come a day, When we had gone our different ways, When that sweet charm, that magic touch, Would pierce the heart with sudden pain, And make us long—Ah me! how much !- To see that Form-room once again.
W. H. SAVILE.
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