FROM "A GLIMPSE OF ITALY."

OH joy! to seek bright cliffs - far-spied
O'er morning mist-glooms - silvery-gleaming
Through sun-lit fleece-bars, each beside
Its shadow, slowly steaming!

By Lauterbrun; up Meyringen;
Between the flanking walls to wander
And airy turrets of the glen

Of fiercely groaning Kander!

To thread the green white-speckled vales
Beneath some rampart so high-towering -
Across the clouds its summit sails!

Then watch black pines low-cowering;

Or crowding upward, where they pause,
Close-phalanxed storming some great fast-

ness;

Or strew their slain huge trunks like straws
Upon the mountain's vastness!

While earth and sky against us fight,
A savage scowling combination
To struggle up each giant height
In weary exultation!

To climb the skies on mountain sides,

An ocean-waste of peaks commanding ;

And drink the gale the eagle rides,

Breast, heart, and soul expanding!

This first:- and then aside we fling
Stern toilsome resolution's armour;
And rush where all thy Syrens sing,

Thou everlasting charmer!

ALFRED Domett.

SONG FOR A GOLFING DAY.

OUT of the south there's just the hint
In the touch of the breeze of the tang of mint
And the tonic essence hid in the fir,
Setting the pulse, like a chord, astir
To a tune that lures the heart away;·
Sing "hurrah!" 't is a golfing day!

Never a cloud in the sky a-swim!
Just a chalice from rim to rim
A-brim with the wine they call delight;
Come, and quaff from the nectar bright!
Could there be keener pleasure? Nay!
Sing "hurrah!" 't is a golfing day!

You and I on the green that gleams
Like the emerald reaches seen in dreams;
You and I with the staunch and swing
And stroke of our dearest visioning;
Where is the power shall bid us stay?
Sing "hurrah!" 't is a golfing day!

CLINTON SCollard.

GOLFER CUPID.

THERE'S mischief in his merry eye —
(Beneath the veinèd lid

What laughing wiles unnumbered lie
To witless mortals hid!)

There's pranksomeness within his air;
There's roguery in his pose;
Aye, man and maid had best beware
When Cupid golfing goes!

He takes the ball-is it a heart?
I' faith, methinks it is!
Behold him swing with faultless art –
And what a blow is his!
Before his prowess all must bow,
This bogey, ah, our woes!
No need of bow and arrows now

That Cupid golfing goes!

CLINTON SCOLLARD.

A TRINITY BOATING SONG.

ALL hail! ye men from Trinity, who sport the old dark blue,

Who man the brittle cedar ship and sweep your oar-blades through;

Who mark it well and far behind, and make the finish ring,

And shoot your hands like lightning out, and slowly, slowly swing;

Now fling your ancient banner forth; Dame Fortune smooths her frowns

When she sees your golden Lion with his triple gear of crowns;

Reach out, reach out and keep it long, O men of ship and tub,

Though the stroke be two-and-forty, for the
honour of your
Club!

So it's steady, boys, and swing to it,
And lift her as you spring to it:

Now, now you're fairly driving her, by Jupiter! she jumps!

And the men who follow after,

Shall recite with joy and laughter

All the glory of your story and the record of your bumps.

Ye cricketers, your runs mount up while brightly shines the sun;

With rain, in quite another sense, you have to cut and run.

But us nor native hurricane nor transatlantic

storm

Can force to quit our daily toil, our daily dose of form.

The rain may pour, the wind may blow-they pour and blow in vain,

With equal hearts we face the wind, with equal hearts the rain.

And, when the work is past and done and night begins to fall,

We pile the plate and fill the glass, and tell the tale in hall.

They can not know, who lounge and loaf, the fierce exultant glow

That warms the heart and stirs the pulse when eight men really row,

When the banks go wild with roaring, and the roar becomes a yell,

And the bowmen feel her dancing as she lifts upon the swell;

And the crowd in chaos blending rend the welkin with advice:

"Swing out, you've gained, you're gaining, you must get them in a trice!"

Till with one last stroke we do it, and the coxswain's face grows bright,

And it's "Easy all, my bonny boys, you 've made your bump to-night.”

I met a solid rowing friend, and asked about the race,

"How fared it with your wind," I said, "when stroke increased the pace?

You swung it forward mightily, you heaved it greatly back;

Your muscles rose in knotted lumps, I almost heard them crack.

And while we roared and rattled too, your eyes were fixed like glue,

What thoughts went flying through your mind, how fared it, Five, with you?"

But Five made answer solemnly, "I heard them

fire a gun,

No other mortal thing I knew until the race was done."