“Granta ruit, periitque decus, periitque vetusta
  Gloria remorum primaeque per aequora navis. 
  Sed vos, O juvenes, sanguis quibus integer aevi,
  Spes ventura domus, Grantaeque novissima proles,
  Antiquum revocate decus, revocate triumphos! 
  Continuo Palinurus ubi ‘iam pergite’ dixit
  Erectum librate caput; nec pandere crura
  Parcite, nec solidis firmi considere transtris! 
  Ast ubi contactas iam palmula senserit undas,
  Compressa incipiat iam tum mihi crura phaselus
  Accipere, et faciles iter accelerare per undas. 
  “Incipiente ictu qui vim non prompserit omnem
  Dique hominesque odere; hic, pondus inutile cymbae,
  Tardat iter; comites necat; hunc tu, nauta, caveto! 
  Nec minus, incepto quoties ratis emicat ictu,
  Cura sit ad finem justos perferre labores. 
  Vidi equidem multos—­sileantur nomina—­fluctus
  Praecipites penetrasse, sed heu! brevis effluit ictus,
  Immemor etremi mediique laboris in unda;
  Nam tales nisus tolerare humana nequit vis;
  Et quamvis primos jam jam victura carina
  Evolet in cursus, primisque triumphet in undis,
  Mox ubi finis adest atque ultima meta laborum,
  Labitur exanimis, vi non virtute subacta.

  “Tu quoque qui cymbae tendis Palinurus habenas
  Ultro hortare viros; fortes solare benignis
  Vocibus; ignavos accende, suosque labores
  Fac peragant, segnique veta torpere veterno. 
  Sed quid ego haec? priscae si iam pietatis imago
  Ulla manet, si quid vobis mea gloria curae est,
  Camigenae, misero tandem succurrite patri,
  Ereptosque diu vincendo reddite honores! 
  Tunc ego arundinea redimitus tempora vitta
  Antiquo fruar imperior iustisque triumphis: 
  Tum demum Cloacina meos foedissima fluctus
  Desierit temerare, et puro flumine labens
  Camus ad Oceanum volvetur amabilis amnis.”

  Dixit, et in piceas Fluvius sese abdidit undas;
  Sed me ridiculam solventem a littore cymbam
  Nectaris ambrosii circumvolvuntur odores,
  Decedente Deo; naresque impellit acutas
  Confusi canis amnis et illaetabilis aura.

FATHER CAMUS.

  Smoking lately in my “Funny,” as I’m wont, beneath the bank,
  Listening to Cam’s rippling murmurs thro’ the
      weeds and willows dank,
  As I chewed the Cud of fancy, from the water there appeared
  An old man, fierce-eyed, and filthy, with a long
      and tangled beard;
  To the oozy shore he paddled, clinging to my Funny’s nose,
  Till, in all his mud majestic, Cam’s gigantic form arose. 
  Brawny, broad of shoulders was he, hairy were
      his face and head,
  And amid loud lamentations tears incessantly he shed. 
  “Son,” he cried, “the sorrows pity of thy melancholy sire! 
  Pity Camus! pity Cambridge! pity our disasters dire! 
  Five long years hath Isis triumphed, five long
      years have seen my Eight