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Meditations Of A Classical Man On A Mathematical Paper During A Late Fellowship Examination.
by Edward Woodley BowlingWoe, woe is me! for whither can I fly?
Where hide me from Mathesis' fearful eye?
Where'er I turn the Goddess haunts my path,
Like grim Megoera in revengeful wrath:
In accents wild, that would awake the dead,
Bids me perplexing problems to unthread;
Bids me the laws of x and y to unfold,
And with "dry eyes" dread mysteries behold.
Not thus, when blood maternal he had shed,
The Furies' fangs Orestes wildly fled;
Not thus Ixion fears the falling stone,
Tisiphone's red lash, or dark Cocytus' moan.
Spare me, Mathesis, though thy foe I be,
Though at thy altar ne'er I bend the knee,
Though o'er thy "Asses' Bridge" I never pass,
And ne'er in this respect will prove an ass;
Still let mild mercy thy fierce anger quell! oh
Let, let me live to be a Johnian fellow!
* * * * * *
She hears me not! with heart as hard as lead,
She hurls a Rhombus at my luckless head.
Lo, where her myrmidons, a wrangling crew,
With howls and yells rise darkling to the view.
There Algebra, a maiden old and pale,
Drinks "double x," enough to drown a whale.
There Euclid, 'mid a troop of "Riders" passes,
Riding a Rhomboid o'er the Bridge of Asses;
And shouts to Newton, who seems rather deaf,
I've crossed the Bridge in safety Q.E.F.
There black Mechanics, innocent of soap,
Lift the long lever, pull the pulley's rope,
Coil the coy cylinder, explain the fear
Which makes the nurse lean slightly to her rear;
Else, equilibrium lost, to earth she'll fall,
Down will come child, nurse, crinoline and all!
But why describe the rest? a motley crew,
Of every figure, magnitude, and hue:
Now circles they describe; now form in square;
Now cut ellipses in the ambient air:
Then in my ear with one accord they bellow,
"Fly wretch! thou ne'er shalt be a Johnian Fellow!"
Must I then bid a long farewell to "John's,"
Its stately courts, its wisdom-wooing Dons,
Its antique towers, its labyrinthine maze,
Its nights of study, and its pleasant days?
O learned Synod, whose decree I wait,
Whose just decision makes, or mars my fate;
If in your gardens I have loved to roam,
And found within your courts a second home;
If I have loved the elm trees' quivering shade,
Since on your banks my freshman limbs I laid;
If rustling reeds make music unto me
More soft, more sweet than mortal melody;
If I have loved to "urge the flying ball"
Against your Racquet Court's re-echoing wall;
If, for the honour of the Johnian red,
I've gladly spurned the matutinal bed,
And though at rowing, woe is me! no dab,
I've rowed my best, and seldom caught a crab;
If classic Camus flow to me more dear
Than yellow Tiber, or Ilissus clear;
If fairer seem to me that fragrant stream
Than Cupid's kiss, or Poet's pictured dream;
If I have loved to linger o'er the page
Of Roman Bard, and Academian sage;
If all your grave pursuits, your pastimes gay,
Have been my care by night, my joy by day;
Still let me roam, unworthy tho' I be,
By Cam's slow stream, beneath the old elm tree;
Still let me lie in Alma Mater's arms,
Far from the wild world's troubles and alarms:
Hear me, nor in stern wrath my prayer repel! oh
Let, let me live to be a Johnian Fellow!
(1865).