Sitting before it, we seem to evolve a fiery myth, and think that Apollo and Arthur and other “solar” heroes more probably leapt radiant from just such a fire before the eyes of more puissant dreamers in the old time. The light creeps along the wall, fingering title after title of our books. They are silently preluding to a second spring, when poets shall sing instead of birds, and we shall gather old fragrant flowers, not from groves, but from books. We see coming a long, new summer, a bookish summer, when we shall rest by olive and holm oak and palm and cypress, and not leave our chairs--a summer of evenings, with tropic warmth, no cloud overhead, and skies of what hue we please. There many Minstrales maken melody, To drive away the dull Melancholy, And many Bardes, that to the trembling chord Can tune their timely voices cunningly: And many Chroniclers, that can record Old loves and warres for Ladies doen by many a Lord. A certain Italian poet used “to retire to bed for the winter.” He had some wisdom, and we will follow him in spirit; but, having Oxford rooms and Oxford armchairs, that were not dreamed of in his philosophy, we need not stay abed. Few of the costless luxuries are dearer than the hour’s sleep amidst the last chapter of the night, while the fire is crumbling, grey, and murmurous, as if it talked in its sleep. The tenderest of Oxford poets knew these nights:-- About the august and ancient _Square_ Cries the wild wind; and through the air, The blue night air, blows keen and chill; Else, all the night sleeps, all is still. Now the lone _Square_ is blind with gloom, A cloudy moonlight plays, and falls In glory upon _Bodley’s_ walls: Now, wildlier yet, while moonlight pales, Storm the tumultuary gales. O rare divinity of Night! Season of undisturbed delight: Glad interspace of day and day! Without, an world of winds at play: Within, I hear what dead friends say. Blow, winds! and round that perfect _Dome_ Wail as you will, and sweep, and roam: Above _Saint Mary’s_ carven home, Struggle and smite to your desire The sainted watchers on her spire: Or in the distance vex your power Upon mine own _New College_ tower: You hurt not these! On me and mine Clear candlelights in quiet shine: My fire lives yet! nor have I done With _Smollett_, nor with _Richardson_: With, gentlest of the martyrs! _Lamb_, Whose lover I, long lover, am: With _Gray_, where gracious spirit knew The sorrows of arts lonely few.... And it is day once more; and beauty, the one thing in Oxford that grows not old, seems a new-born, joyous thing, to a late watcher who looks out and sees the light first falling on dewy spires. IN A COLLEGE GARDEN CHAPTER VII IN A COLLEGE GARDEN