I mean to write with all my strength
(It lately has been sadly waning),
A ballad of enormous length—
Some parts of which will need explaining.
[1]Because (unlike the bulk of men,
Who write for fame and public ends),
I turn a lax and fluent pen
To talking of my private friends.
[2]For no one, in our long decline,
So dusty, spiteful and divided,
Had quite such pleasant friends as mine,
Or loved them half as much as I did.
The Freshman ambles down the High,
In love with everything he sees,
He notes the clear October sky,
He sniffs a vigorous western breeze.
[Pg vi]“Can this be Oxford? This the place”
(He cries), “of which my father said
The tutoring was a damned disgrace,
The creed a mummery, stuffed and dead?
“Can it be here that Uncle Paul
Was driven by excessive gloom,
To drink and debt, and, last of all,
To smoking opium in his room?
“Is it from here the people come,
Who talk so loud, and roll their eyes,
And stammer? How extremely rum!
How curious! What a great surprise.
“Some influence of a nobler day
Than theirs (I mean than Uncle Paul’s),
Has roused the sleep of their decay,
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