. The minstrelsy of Isis; an anthology of poems relating to Oxford and all phases of Oxford life; . nearer side—The sleepy cattle seek a shady tis still sultry noon ; the martin wheels,Like a black spirit of night haunting the day,His phantom circles high in the upper blue ;Shrill grasshopper clacks loud his whirring peals ;Proud dragonflies glance by in armour new ;And the bee hums her homeward roundelay. J. B. Norton. 143 MERTON LIBRARY QUAINT gloomy chamber, oldest relic leftOf monkish quiet, like a ship thy form,Stranded keel upward by some sudden storm ;Now that a safe and poli
. The minstrelsy of Isis; an anthology of poems relating to Oxford and all phases of Oxford life; . nearer side—The sleepy cattle seek a shady tis still sultry noon ; the martin wheels,Like a black spirit of night haunting the day,His phantom circles high in the upper blue ;Shrill grasshopper clacks loud his whirring peals ;Proud dragonflies glance by in armour new ;And the bee hums her homeward roundelay. J. B. Norton. 143 MERTON LIBRARY QUAINT gloomy chamber, oldest relic leftOf monkish quiet, like a ship thy form,Stranded keel upward by some sudden storm ;Now that a safe and polished age hath cleftLocks, 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 may ambitious students here unsealThe secret mysteries of classic lore ;Though urged not by that blind and aimless zealWith which the Scot within these walls of yoreTranscribed the Bible without breaking through each word and perished at the last. J. B. Norton. 144 * 9 » *. o •^ a i SUNDAY AFTERNOON AT IFFLEY HERE lie the quiet dead—gems buried deepBeside the church antique that crowns the hill;The ceaseless music of the water-millSole requiem is of Loves enchanted sleep,Sweet iris-beds a claustral silence keep Save where, perchance, when all the fields are stillA nymph her lap with lilies shy may fillOr watch the jocund fish in circles leap. And far below the phantom city liesDreaming of life and dead philosophies ;While echoes of a thousand famous feetThat sometime trod her grey majestic street(Where laughing youth hath fixed his ageworn seat)Float oer her from a cloud of centuries. A. R. Bayley. Oxford Magazine, June 1S97. 145 ABOVE BABLOCKHYTHE WHERE to the north a silent sentinelOf Wessex upland spreads his bastion wide,Low-browed, and circled by the silver tideOf Thames, I gazed across the hedgerows tall,Oer meadow, nestling hamlet, lordly hallTo
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