O bird too fortunate, whose glorious name Fills us with envy of her happy fame, Which by an easy death on soaring wing, Sweet mother of herself, doth upwards spring, Assumes afresh her shining youth's attire, And wins new lease of life through hasten'd fire! She--not through slow-revolving natal days To a thin shadow worn by sad delays-- Transports herself into another round Of centuries, as by a single bound; With beauteous leaves her head she covers o'er, And with a rosy birth shoots forth once more. Soon as she climbs the spicy funeral pyre Joyful she drinks the sun, and mounting higher, Now, now the ground her wings victorious strike, And her own ashes. But, alas, we follow No such example. 'Neath her own Apollo, Our Mother Peterhouse, now ancient grown, Our agèd Phœnix, hither, thither blown, And balancing herself on doubtful air, Hovers with wing uncertain, seeking where Her relics she may lay, worn out with toils, As in a nest, and from the very spoils Of her own age renew'd, she may arise In perfect comeliness of face and eyes, As in the days of old, to mount the skies. But now, alas, e'en in the very throes Of her reviving age our Phœnix knows And keenly feels a sad deficiency. Alas, in life's long lingering effort she Now in the mean while dies. Of doubtful face, Her buildings seem in part bedeck'd with grace; But elsewhere, heedless of inviting calls To union, stand the unfinish'd brother walls. On unresponsive ears the summons falls; As stones to fellow-stones appealing turn, The interrupted works together mourn, And beg a helping hand. O, succour bring, Whoe'er is pious, to the parent wing Which shelter'd thee beneath its holy shade, And gave so many mother churches[130] aid Parental; O, be now thy help display'd. Whoe'er thou art, the ruin'd courts to thee With gaping mouths are speaking audibly. Thy reverend mother would thine eyes engage To view thy walls, dismantled long with age And base neglect, and ponder her gray hair. By the full breasts which once she offer'd thee, By the dry breasts which she is doom'd to see Now for herself, she cries imploringly: 'My age to help, O fail not to appear; So may long-lasting youth thy bosom cheer, Youth which complaining age shall never fear.' R. WI. TRANSLATION (_more freely_). A LAMENT OVER THE SLOW RESTORATION OF PETERHOUSE-COLLEGE BUILDINGS.