Vale!

Eton, the Monarch of thy prayersE’en now receives his load of cares;Throned in the consecrated choirHe takes the sceptre of his sire,And wears the crown his father wore,And swears the oath his father swore,And therefore sounds of joy resound,Fair Eton, on thy classic ground.A gladder gale is round thee breathed;And on thy mansions thou hast wreathedA thousand lamps, whose various hueWaits but the night to burst to view.Woe to the poets that refuseTo wake and woo their idle Muse,When those glad notes, “God save the King,”From hill, and vale, and hamlet ring!Hark, how the loved inspiring tunePeals forth from every loyal loonWho loves his country, and excelsIn drinking beer or ringing bells!It is a day of shouts and greeting;A day of idleness and eating;And triumph swells in every soul,And mighty beeves are roasted whole,And ale, unbought, is set a-running,And pleasure’s hymn grows rather stunning,And children roll upon the green,And cry, “Confusion to the Queen!”And Sorrow flies, and Labour slumbers:And Clio pours her loudest numbers;And hundreds of that joyous throngWith whom my life hath lingered longGive their glad raptures to the gale,In one united echoing “Hail!”

I took the harp, I smote the string,I strove to soar on Fancy’s wing,And murmur in my sovereign’s praiseThe latest of my boyhood’s lays.Alas! the theme was too divineTo suit so weak a Muse as mine:I saw--I felt it could not be;No song of triumph flows from me;The harp from which those sounds ye askIs all unfit for such a task;And the last echo of its tone,Dear Eton, must be thine alone!

A few short hours, and I am borneFar from the fetters I have worn;A few short hours, and I am free!--And yet I shrink from liberty,And look, and long to give my soulBack to thy cherishing control.Control? Ah no! thy chain was meantFar less for bond than ornament;And though its links are firmly set,I never found them gall me yet.Oh still, through many chequered years,’Mid anxious toils, and hopes, and fears,Still I have doted on thy fame,And only gloried in thy name.How I have loved thee! Thou hast beenMy Hope, my Mistress, and my Queen;I always found thee kind, and thouHast never seen me weep--till now.

I knew that time was fleeting fast,I knew thy pleasures could not last;I knew too well that riper ageMust step upon a busier stage;Yet when around thine ancient towersI passed secure my tranquil hours,Or heard beneath thine aged treesThe drowsy humming of the bees,Or wandered by thy winding stream,I would not check my fancy’s dream;Glad in my transitory bliss,I recked not of an hour like this;And now the truth comes swiftly on,The truth I would not think upon,The last sad thought, so oft delayed,--“These joys are only born to fade.”

Ye Guardians of my earliest days,Ye Patrons of my earliest lays,Custom reminds me, that to youThanks and farewell to-day are due.Thanks and farewell I give you,--not(As some that leave this holy spot)In laboured phrase and polished lieWrought by the forge of flattery,But with a heart that cannot tellThe half of what it feels so well.If I am backward to express,Believe, my love is not the less;Be kind as you are wont, and viewA thousand thanks in one Adieu.My future life shall strive to showI wish to pay the debt I owe;The labours that ye give to MaySeptember’s fruits shall best repay.And you, my friends, who loved to shareWhate’er was mine of sport or care,Antagonists at fives or chess,Friends in the play-ground or the press,I leave ye now; and all that restsOf mutual tastes, and loving breasts,In the lone vision that shall come,Where’er my studies and my home,To cheer my labour and my painAnd make me feel a boy again.

Yes! when at last I sit me down,A scholar, in my cap and gown,--When learned doctrines, dark and deep,Move me to passion or to sleep,--When Clio yields to logic’s wrangles,And Long and Short give place to angles,--When stern Mathesis makes it treasonTo like a rhyme, or scorn a reason--With aching head and weary witYour parted friend shall often sit,Till Fancy’s magic spell hath bound him,And lonely musings flit around him;Then shall ye come with all your wiles,Of gladdening sounds and warming smiles,And nought shall meet his eye or ear,--Yet shall he deem your souls are near.

Others may clothe their valedictionWith all the tinsel charms of fiction;And one may sing of Father Thames,And Naiads with a hundred names,And find a Pindus here, and ownThe College pump a Helicon,And search for gods about the College,Of which old Homer had no knowledge;And one may eloquently tellThe triumphs of the Windsor belle,And sing of Mira’s lips and eyes,In oft-repeated ecstasies.Oh! he hath much and wondrous skillTo paint the looks that wound and kill,As the poor maid is doomed to brook,Unconsciously, her lover’s look,And smiles, and talks, until the poetHears the band play, and does not know it.To speak the plain and simple truth,--I always was a jesting youth,A friend to merriment and fun,No foe to quibble and to pun;Therefore I cannot feign a tear;And, now that I have uttered hereA few unrounded accents, bredMore from the heart than from the head,Honestly felt, and plainly told,My lyre is still, my fancy cold.