With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, In active games of nimbleness and strength; Where we did strain, trainèd with swarms of youth,

Our tender limbs, that yet shot up in length. HENRY HOWARrd, Earl of Surrey, 1657.

A FOOTBALL PLAYER.

IF I could paint you, friend, as you stand there, Guard of the goal, defensive, open-eyed,

Watching the tortured bladder slide and glide Under the twinkling feet; arms bare, head bare,

The breeze a-tremble through crow-tufts of hair; Red-brown in face, and ruddier having spied A wily foeman breaking from the side; Aware of him, of all else unaware:

If I could limn you, as you leap and fling

Your weight against his passage, like a wall; Clutch him, and collar him, and rudely cling For one brief moment till he falls

you fall:

My sketch would have what Art can never give

Sinew and breath and body; it would live.

EDWARD CRACROFT LEFROY.

COMPENSATION.

FOR when the breeze in merry Maytime blows And, merrier maid beside, our hero goes

Forth to his tennis, is not payment given For football dangers and November snows?

ANONYMOUS,

THE GLORY OF THE GAME.

A song to the Football Players,
A song to the Men of Might;
To the winner or loser I sing it-
Of the battle each must fight!

'Tis the battle of brain and muscle, the contest* of strength and skill,

The impact of brawn and bulldog, the guidance of iron will,

The rush and the counter-movement, the quickness of mind and eye,

The crash in the centre scrimmage that causes the blood to fly

Through the veins of the many watchers, as the battle is gained or lost; 'Tis the winning the thing they strive for, whatever may be the cost

'Tis the shout of the gazing thousands, the ringing of mighty cheers,

As the roars of the sides commingle, to sound like the sea in your ears;

While the floating colours of this crowd wave greeting in sweeping fold,

To be answered in kind by the other, whose hues make its partisans bold;

'Tis the screech and the blare of the trumpets, as they add to the hideous din,

And the cries of the rival factions as they volley: "We win! We win !"

'Tis the dash of the long-haired player, as he rushes a-down the field;

The snap of the interference, the forces that make him yield;

The down, and the wedge, and the end-play, the puzzles that all must know;

And the varying tide of contest, as the victories come and go;

'Tis the score standing even to even, and the weight of the solid whole,

The grasp of the final touch-down, the kick of the winning goal

Then, winner or loser, here's to him!
For, winner or loser, who cares?
Here's hurrah for the Football Player,
And the honours and glories he bears!
WILLIAM HAMILTON Cline.

TO ARISTOCLIDES.

(From Pindar's Third Nemean Ode.)

Boys among boys by various feats surpass;
Youth copes with youth; maturer age
Its own appropriate arts engage.
Such are the stages of our mortal race;
A fourth still follows life's declining day;
This too its powers, its blessings yields,
Whereof no stint hath he, and gilds
Calm virtue's close with wisdom's ray.

ABRAHAM MOORE.

THE BATTLE OF SPRINGFIELD.

(November 22, 1890.)

OF Harvard and her team

Sing the glorious day's renown,
When in struggles fierce the cream
Of her athletes bore the crown

Of triumph from the champions of the Blue;
When the Crimson in its might
Bore up the brunt of fight
Till the falling shades of night
Hid the view.

Like leviathans ashore

Stood our rushers in the line; While died out the hum and roar, When Irvine gave the sign;

'T was two-thirty post meridian by the chime; As Yale gathered in our path

There was silence deep as death;
Even Cumnock held his breath
For a time.

But the brawn of Harvard flushed
For a transformation scene;
And her "V" the fleeter rushed

O'er the dozen yards between ;

"Through them, boys!" our captain cried, when each man

With his mighty muscles strung

On his Yale opponent sprung,
And, on forging, Lake was flung
In the van.

Ten yards' gain again we hail,
And the rushes do not slack;
'T is a feeble cheer that Yale

To our cheering sends us back
Their shouts across the field slowly come;
And when Lee at last ran out
Round the right end, what a shout!
While Yale followed in a rout,
Dazed and dumb.

Now joy, Fair Harvard, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the roaring bonfires' blaze,

While the cheers ring out to-night

For Cumnock, Corbet, Lake, and Trafford's kicks,

For Newell, Cranston, Dean,

For the finest game we 've seen,
For the score so fair and clean,
Twelve to six.

FRANKLIN BALDWIN WILEY.

AFTER THE GAME.

Do not insult calamity :

It is a barbarous grossness, to lay on

The weight of scorn, where heavy misery

Too much already weighs men's fortunes down. SAMUEL DANIEL.