Then shout for old First Trinity, and let your song be heard

Not less for those who proudly wear the blueand-white of Third.

One kindly mother claims us all, she bids us play our parts

As men whose Clubs are separate, while friendship joins their hearts.

We ply the oar in rivalry, and in the mimic fray With eager zest and dogged pluck we battle through the day.

But when the gallant fight is o'er, united we can stand,

And hold our own in name and fame, but clasp a foeman's hand.

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.

R. C. LEHMANN.

THE CANOE SPEAKS.

(From "Poems and Ballads," copyright, 1895, 1896, by Charles Scribner's Sons.)

On the great streams the ships may go

About men's business to and fro.

But I, the egg-shell pinnace, sleep

On crystal waters ankle-deep:

I, whose diminutive design,
Of sweeter cedar, pithier pine,
Is fashioned on so frail a mould,
A hand may launch, a hand withhold:
I, rather, with the leaping trout
Wind, among lilies, in and out;
I, the unnamed, inviolate,
Green, rustic rivers, navigate;
My dipping paddle scarcely shakes
The berry in the bramble-brakes;
Still forth on my green way I wend
Beside the cottage garden-end;
And by the nested angler fare,
And take the lovers unaware.
By willow wood and water wheel
Speedily floats my touching keel;
By all retired and shady spots
Where prosper dim forget-me-nots;
By meadows where at afternoon
The growing maidens troop in June
To loose their girdles on the grass.
Ah, speedier than before the glass
The backward toilet goes; and swift
As swallows quiver, robe and shift
And the rough country stockings lie
Around each young divinity.
When, following the recondite brook,
Sudden upon this scene I look,
And light with unfamiliar face
On chaste Diana's bathing-place,
Loud ring the hills about and all —
The shallows are abandoned.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

THE BOAT RACE.

"THERE, win the cup, and you shall have my girl. I won it, Ned; and you shall win it too,

Or wait a twelvemonth. Books for ever books!

Nothing but talk of poets and their rhymes! I'd have you, boy, a man, with thews and strength

To breast the world with, and to cleave your

way,

No maudlin dreamer, that will need her care, She needing yours.

you, Ned,

There there - I love

Both for your own and for your mother's sake: So win our boat race, and the cup, next month, And you shall have her." With a broad loud laugh,

A jolly triumph at his own conceit,

He left the subject; and, across the wine,

We talked,

or rather, all the talk was his, Of the best oarsmen that his youth had known, Both of his set, and others

- Clare, the boast Of Jesus', and young Edmunds, he who fell, Cleaving the ranks of Lucknow; and, to-day There was young Chester might be named with them;

"Why, boy, I'm told his room is lit with cups Won by his sculls. Ned, if he rows he wins; Small chance for you, boy!" And again his laugh,

With its broad thunder, turned my thoughts to gall;

But yet I masked my humour with a mirth Moulded on his; and, feigning haste, I went, But left not. Through the garden porch I turned, But, on its sun-flecked seats, its jessamine shades Trembled on no one. Down the garden's paths Wandered my eye, in rapid quest of one Sweeter than all its roses, and across

Its gleaming lilies and its azure bells,

There in the orchard's greenness, down beyond Its sweetbriar hedgerow, found her — found her there,

A summer blossom that the peering sun

Wavered down blossoms on, and amorous gold
Warm as that rained on Danaë. With a step,
Soft as the sunlight, down the pebbled path
I passed; and, ere her eye could cease to count
The orchard daisies, in some summer mood
Dreaming (was I her thought?), my murmured
"Kate

Shocked up the tell-tale roses to her cheeks,
And lit her eyes with starry lights of love
That dimmed the daylight. Then I told her all,
And told her that her father's jovial jest

Should make her mine, and kissed her sunlit tears

Away, and all her little trembling doubts,
Until hope won her heart to happy dreams,
And all the future smiled with happy love.

Nor, till the still moon, in the purpling east, Gleamed through the twilight, did we stay our talk,

Or part, with kisses, looks, and whispered words
Remembered for a lifetime. Home I went,
And in my College rooms what blissful hopes
Were mine! - what thoughts, that stilled to
happy dreams,

Where Kate, the fadeless summer of my life,
Made my years Eden, and lit up my home,
(The ivied rectory my sleep made mine),
With little faces, and the gleams of curls,
And baby crows, and voices twin to hers.
O happy night! O more than happy dreams!

But with the earliest twitter from the eaves,
I rose, and, in an hour, at Clifford's yard,
As if but boating were the crown of life,
Forgetting Tennyson, and books, and rhymes,
Even my new tragedy upon the stocks,

I throned my brain with talks of lines and curves,
And all that makes a wherry sure to win,
And furbished up the knowledge that I had,
Ere study put my boyhood's feats away,
And made me book-worm; all that day my
hand

Grew more and more familiar with the oar,
And won by slow degrees, as reach by reach
Of the green river lengthened on my sight,
Its by-laid cunning back; so, day by day,
From when dawn touched our elm-tops, till the

moon