Quaint gloomy chamber, oldest relic left Of monkish quiet, like a ship thy form, Stranded keel upward by some sudden storm; Now that a safe and polished age hath cleft Locks, bars and chains, that saved thy tomes from theft, May Time, a surer robber, spare thine age, And reverence each huge black-lettered page, Of real boards and gilt-stamped leather reft. Long may ambitious students here unseal The secret mysteries of classic lore; Though urged not by that blind and aimless zeal With which the Scot within these walls of yore Transcribed the Bible without breaking fast, Toiled through each word and perished at the last. J. B. NORTON. OXFORD 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: Now, on that clustering chestnut bloom, 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, a 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_, whose gracious spirit knew The sorrows of art's lonely few: With _Fielding_, great, and strong, and tall; _Sterne_, exquisite, equivocal; _Goldsmith_, the dearest of them all: While _Addison's_ demure delights Turn _Oxford_, into _Attic_, nights. Still _Trim_ and _Parson Adams_ keep Me better company, than sleep: Dark sleep, who loves not me; nor I Love well her nightly death to die, And in her haunted chapels lie. Sleep wins me not: but from his shelf Brings me each wit his very self: Beside my chair the great ghosts throng, Each tells his story, sings his song: And in the ruddy fire I trace The curves of each _Augustan_ face. I sit at _Doctor Primrose'_ board: I hear _Beau Tibbs_ discuss a lord. Mine, _Matthew Bramble's_ pleasant wrath; Mine, all the humours of the _Bath_. _Sir Roger_ and the _Man in Black_ Bring me the _Golden Ages_ back. Now white _Clarissa_ meets her fate, With virgin will inviolate: Now _Lovelace_ wins me with a smile, _Lovelace_, adorable and vile.