WARRIOR of warriors! are thine arms laid down? Lord of the battle! are thy conflicts o'er? Is there no haughty foe, no fallen crown, To strike to dust, or raise on high once more? No! Peace is brooding on thy native shore— Peace by thine efforts for thy country won; And nought recalls the woes that erst she bore, Her hard-won fights, and deeds in battle done, But thine own glorious fame, immortal Wellington!

Amid these ancient walls the peaceful muse Sings by her limpid fountain-who shall cast Over thy laurel wreaths a flood of dews Gleaned from the choicest blossoms of the past, With which embued they shall for ever last ; Like some cropt bough within a fairy spring, That, sheltered there, and reckless of the blast, Becomes an heavenly, and eternal thing,

A galaxy of gems, in endless blossoming!

No battle standards here the breeze has fannedNo arms have gleamed beneath the sunbeam's light, Since Charles's bugles called his gallant band To peril all in battle for the right.

O! hadst thou marshalled forth one equal fight, Could they have had one day-one hour-of thee, Then Marston Moor had seen another sight, And heard such shouts, as far beyond the sea, On Salamanca's plain gave note of victory.

Such things may be no more-but who can know What in the storehouse of the future lies?

For happiness has smoothed the way to woe,
And storms have slumbered deep in cloudless skies.
Yet, whatsoe'er it be, whene'er it rise,

Who but shall rush to meet it undismayed,
While there is One, on whom his country's eyes
May turn with stedfast hope of present aid;
One who will never rest till that fell storm be stayed.

But why should aught but joyful thoughts intrude On this bright day, when Oxford hastes to greet Him whom of old with love and hope she viewed, To take amid her bowers his chosen seat.

In such an hour as this it is not meet

To name one single thought akin to fear:
Nay, let us glory in our still retreat,

And say,

"Well may thy name to us be dear;

Hadst thou not warred for us, that peace had not been here."

The bond can ne'er be loosed: while Oxford stands,
The name of Oxford shall be joined with thine:
Amid the glorious gifts of other lands-

Greatest and last-her noble name shall shine;
She with thine ancient laurel-wreaths shall twine,
Leaves of a calmer but a lovelier hue:

And they who hear thy titles' endless line,

In after-times-and how thy glory grew,

Shall mark the honoured name, and know the tale is true.

But wherefore dare to praise thee? thou hast quaff'd Thy fill of nobler, and of worthier praise :

And mighty men have mixed the honied draught,
And bards have cast therein their sweetest lays-
Men who shall live with thee in future days-
Gifted with endless fame-yet not as thou-
But rather as the sunbeam's light that plays
Far o'er the hills, on some blue mountain's brow,
That is but seen, because the hill receives its glow.

JOHN WICKENS,
BALLIOL.

Στροφή.

Χρυσοδαιδάλοισι Νίκα

πτεροῖς, ὁπαδὸς κλέους κελεύθων, ὡς αἰετὸς εὐφίλητον ὑπὲρ σκόπελον, ἀμαιμακέτοισι πόντου ἐν βύθοισιν, οὐρανο

μήκη κίονα, σοῖς περὶ

στροφοδινείται κροτάφοις, ὦ φέριστον

ἄγαλμα γαίας· σε δὲ καὶ

ἔρεισμα χώρας, Ειράνα πόλει

ὑπέστασεν, ἔν τ ̓ ἀρχαῖς καν νόμοις ἅμα

κλεινότατον κάρα. Εἰ δέ τις

ἀγλαΐαισι σὺν ἀμφοτέραις

Αντιστροφή.

ἅρματι ζεύγνυσι δαιδα

λόεντι Μοισᾶν φίλων ἄωτον,

εἰς ἄκρον ἔθηκε δαιμόνιον

βάθρον ἀρετᾶς ποδ ̓, ἐπαξίοις τι

μαΐσιν εὖ μεμιγμένης.

κρείσσον φθόνου, ἐκ νύκτος ὡς

γλέφαρον Φοίβου, κλέος. Ἐν δυσβρέμοντι, πάλαι μονώτας, πελάγει

τὸ πύργος ἔστας, οἴακα στρέφων

χθονός. Τὸν δ ̓ ἀφ ̓ ὑψίστων εἰσορῶσιν ἔδ. ρων μάκαρες θεοὶ ἀφθόνως

ἀγνοτάτῃ φρενὶ κέδνα νέμοντο,

Επωδός.

εὐπραξίας κεῖνον οὔποτ ̓ ἀδώ

ρητον ἔθηκαν.

Αλλ ̓ ἴθ', "Αρεος

αἰχματοῦ στεφάνοισι κρᾶτα

ἀνίκατον κεκαδμένος,

ἔν τ ̓ ἀρχῇ πόλιος κάλλιστα δρέπων ἄνθε ̓Αθάνας, ̓Απολλωνός τε γένου

Μοισᾶν τ ̓ ἐν θρόνοις ἄναξ.

J. C. PRICHARD,

E COLL. TRIN.