XIV

  Nay! till the Hour for pouring out the Cup
  Of Tea post-prandial calls you home to sup,
    And from the dark Invigilator’s Chair
  The mild Muezzin whispers “Time is Up”—­

  XV

  The Moving Finger writes:  then, having writ,
  The Product of your Scholarship and Wit
    Deposit in the proper Pigeonhole—­
  And thank your Stars that there’s an End of it!

LINES TO AN OLD FRIEND

  When we’re daily called to arms by continual alarms,
    And the journalist unceasingly dilates
  On the agitating fact that we’re soon to be attacked
    By the Germans, or the Russians, or the States: 
  When the papers all are swelling with a patriotic rage,
    And are hurling a defiance or a threat,
  Then I cool my martial ardour with the pacifying page
    Of the Oxford University Gazette.

  When I hanker for a statement that is practical and dry
    (Being sated with sensation in excess,
  With the vespertinal rumour and the matutinal lie
    Which adorn the lucubrations of the Press),
  Then I turn me to the columns where there’s nothing to attract,
    Or the interest to waken and to whet,
  And I revel in a banquet of unmitigated fact
    In the Oxford University Gazette.

  When the Laureate obedient to an editor’s decree
    Puts his verses in the columns of the Times;
  When the endless minor poet in an endless minor key
    Gives the public his unnecessary rhymes,
  When you’re weary of the poems which they constantly compose,
    And endeavour their existence to forget,
  You may seek and find repose in the satisfying prose
    Of the Oxford University Gazette.

  In that soporific journal you may stupefy the mind
    With the influence narcotic which it draws
  From the Latest Information about Scholarships Combined
    Or the contemplated changes in a clause: 
  Place me somewhere that is far from the Standard and the Star,
    From the fever and the literary fret,—­
  And the harassed spirit’s balm be the academic calm
    Of the Oxford University Gazette!

THE PARADISE OF LECTURERS

  When you might be a name for the world to acclaim,
      and when Opulence dawns on the view,
  Why slave like a Turk at Collegiate work
      for a wholly inadequate screw? 
  Why grind at the trade—­insufficiently paid—­of
      instructing for Mods and for Greats,
  When fortunes immense are diurnally made
      by a lecturing tour in the States?

  Do you know that in scores they will pay at the doors—­these
      millions in darkness who grope—­
  For a glimpse of Mark Twain or a word from Hall Caine
      or a reading from Anthony Hope? 
  We are ignorant here of the glorious career
      which conspicuous talent awaits: 
  Not a master of style but is making his pile
      by the lectures he gives in the States!