To C. S. C.
Oh, when the grey courts of Christ's College glowed With all the rapture of thy frequent lay,When printers' devils chuckled as they strode, And blithe compositors grew loudly gay:Did Granta realise that here abode,Here in the home of Milton, Wordsworth, Gray,A poet not unfit to cope with anyThat ever wore the bays or turned a penny?
The wit of smooth delicious Matthew Prior,The rhythmic grace which Hookham Frere displayed,The summer lightning wreathing Byron's lyre.The neat inevitable turns of Praed,Rhymes to which Hudibras could scarce aspire,Such metric pranks as Gilbert oft has played,All these good gifts and others far sublimerAre found in thee, beloved Cambridge rhymer.
