Classic and Contemporary Poetry
HIC VIR, HIC EST', by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY Poet's Biography First Line: Often, when o'er tree and turret, / eve a dying radiance flings Last Line: In my 'solitary fly'. Subject(s): Aging | ||||||||
OFTEN, when o'er tree and turret, Eve a dying radiance flings, By that ancient pile I linger Known familiarly as 'King's'. And the ghosts of days departed Rise, and in my burning breast All the undergraduate wakens, And my spirit is at rest. What, but a revolting fiction, Seems the actual result Of the Census's inquiries Made upon the 15th ult.? Still my soul is in its boyhood; Nor of year or changes recks, Though my scalp is almost hairless, And my figure grows convex. Backward moves the kindly dial; And I'm numbered once again With those noblest of their species Called emphatically 'Men': Loaf, as I have loafed aforetime, Through the streets, with tranquil mind, And a long-backed fancy-mongrel Trailing casually behind: Past the Senate-house I saunter, Whistling with an easy grace; Past the cabbage-stalks that carpet Still the beefy market-place; Poising evermore the eye-glass In the light sarcastic eye, Lest, by chance, some breezy nurse-maid Pass, without a tribute, by. Once, an unassuming Freshman, Through these wilds I wandered on, Seeing in each house a College, Under every cap a Don: Each perambulating infant Had a magic in its squall, For my eager eye detected Senior Wranglers in them all. By degrees my education Grew, and I became as others; Learned to blunt my moral feelings By the aid of Bacon Brothers; Bought me tiny boots of Mortlock, And colossal prints of Roe; And ignored the proposition That both time and money go. Learned to work the wary dogcart Artfully through King's Parade; Dress, and steer a boat, and sport with Amaryllis in the shade: Struck, at Brown's, the dashing hazard; Or (more curious sport than that) Dropped, at Callaby's, the terrier Down upon the prisoned rat. I have stood serene on Fenner's Ground, indifferent to blisters, While the Buttress of the period Bowled me his peculiar twisters: Sung 'We won't go home till morning'; Striven to part my backhair straight; Drunk (not lavishly) of Miller's Old dry wines at 7'e- :-- When within my veins the blood ran, And the curls were on my brow, I did, oh ye undergraduates, Much as ye are doing now. Wherefore bless ye, O beloved ones:-- Now unto mine inn must I, Your 'poor moralist', betake me, In my 'solitary fly'. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...AFTER THE GENTLE POET KOBAYASHI ISSA by ROBERT HASS MEMORY AS A HEARING AID by TONY HOAGLAND AMOROSA AND COMPANY by CONRAD AIKEN GRAY WEATHER by ROBINSON JEFFERS FROM THE SPANISH by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON A,B,C by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY BALLAD by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY COMPANIONS; A TALE OF A GRANDFATHER by CHARLES STUART CALVERLEY |
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