Health to courage firm and high! 
   Health to Granta’s chivalry! 
   Wisely finding, day by day,
   Play in toil, and toil in play. 
   Granta greets them, gliding down
   On by park and spire and town;
   Humming mills and golden meadows,
   Barred with elm and poplar shadows;
   Giant groves, and learned halls;
   Holy fanes and pictured walls. 
   Yet she bides not here; around
   Lies the Muses’ sacred ground. 
   Most she lingers, where below
   Gliding wherries come and go;
   Stalwart footsteps shake the shores;
   Rolls the pulse of stalwart oars;
   Rings aloft the exultant cry
   For the bloodless victory. 
   There she greets the sports, which breed
   Valiant lads for England’s need;
   Wisely finding, day by day,
   Play in toil, and toil in play. 
   Health to courage, firm and high! 
   Health to Granta’s chivalry!

Yet stay a while, severer Muses, stay,
For you, too, have your rightful parts to-day. 
Known long to you, and known through you to fame,
Are Chatsworth’s halls, and Cavendish’s name. 
You too, then, Alma Mater calls to greet
A worthy patron for your ancient seat;
And bid her sons from him example take,
Of learning purely sought for learning’s sake,
Of worth unboastful, power in duty spent;
And see, fulfilled in him, her high intent.

      Come, Euterpe, wake thy choir;
      Fit thy notes to our desire. 
      Long may he sit the chiefest here,
      Meet us and greet us, year by year;
      Long inherit, sire and son,
      All that their race has wrought and won,
      Since that great Cavendish came again,
      Round the world and over the main,
      Breasting the Thames with his mariners bold,
      Past good Queen Bess’s palace of old;
      With jewel and ingot packed in his hold,
      And sails of damask and cloth of gold;
      While never a sailor-boy on board
      But was decked as brave as a Spanish lord,
         With the spoils he had won
         In the Isles of the Sun,
         And the shores of Fairy-land,
      And yet held for the crown of the goodly show,
      That queenly smile from the Palace window,
         And that wave of a queenly hand. 
      Yes, let the young be gay,
      And sun themselves to-day;—­
   And from their hearts, as from their dress,
      Let mourning pass away. 
But not from us, who watch our years fast fleeing,
And snatching as they flee, fresh fragments of our being. 
      Can we forget one friend,
      Can we forget one face,
      Which cheered us toward our end,
      Which nerved us for our race? 
      Oh sad to toil, and yet forego
      One presence which has made us know
      To Godlike souls how deep our debt! 
      We would not, if we could, forget.