Tempora Mutantur.
by Edward Woodley Bowling

There once was a time when I revelled in rhyme, with Valentines deluged my cousins,
Translated Tibullus and half of Catullus, and poems produced by the dozens.
Now my tale is nigh told, for my blood's running cold, all my laurels lie yellow and faded.
"We have come to the boss;" [1] like a weary old hoss, poor Pegasus limps, and is jaded.
And yet Mr. Editor, like a stern creditor, duns me for this or that article,
Though he very well knows that of Verse and of prose I am stripped to the very last particle.
What shall I write of?    What subject indite of? All my vis viva is failing;
Emeritus sum; Mons Parnassus is dumb, and my prayers to the Nine unavailing. - 
Thus in vain have I often attempted to soften the hard heart of Mr. Arenae;
Like a sop, I must throw him some sort of a poem, in spite of unwilling Camenae.
*            *            *            *            *            *
No longer I roam in my Johnian home, no more in the "wilderness" wander;
And absence we know, for the Poet says so, makes the heart of the lover grow fonder.
I pine for the Cam, like a runaway lamb that misses his woolly-backed mother;
I can find no relief for my passionate grief, nor my groanings disconsolate smother.
Say, how are you all in our old College Hall? Are the dinners more costly, or plainer?
How are Lecturers, Tutors, Tobacco and Pewters, and how is my friend, the Complainer?
Are the pupils of Merton, and students of Girton, increasing in numbers, or fewer?
Are they pretty, or plain?     Humble-minded or vain?    Are they paler, or pinker, or bluer?
How's the party of stormers, our so-called Reformers?    Are Moral and Natural Sciences
Improving men's Minds?    Who the money now finds, for Museums, and all their appliances?
Is Philosophy thriving, or sound sense reviving? Is high-table talk metaphysic?
Will dark blue or light have the best of the fight, at Putney and Mortlake and Chiswick?
I often importune the favour of Fortune, that no misadventure may cross us,
And Rhodes once again on the watery plain, may prove an aquatic Colossus.
[N.B. since I wrote I must add a short note, by means of new fangled devices,
Our "Three" was unseated, and we were defeated, and robbed of our laurels by Isis.] - 
O oft do I dream of the muddy old stream, the Father of wisdom and knowledge,
Where ages ago I delighted to row for the honour and praise of my College.
I feel every muscle engaged in the tussle, I hear the wild shouting and screaming;
And as we return I can see from the stern Lady Margaret's red banner streaming;
Till I wake with a start, such as nightmares impart, and find myself rapidly gliding,
And striving in vain at my ease to remain on a seat that is constantly sliding.
Institutions are changed, men and manners deranged, new systems of rowing and reading,
And writing and thinking, and eating and drinking, each other are quickly succeeding.
Who knows to what end these new notions will tend?    No doubt all the world is progressing,
For Kenealy and Odgers, those wide-awake dodgers, the wrongs of mankind are redressing.
No doubt we shall soon take a trip to the moon, if we need recreation or frolic;
Or fly to the stars in the New Pullman Cars, when we find the dull earth melancholic.
We shall know the delights of enjoying our rights without any duties to vex us;
We shall know the unknown; the Philosopher's stone shall be ours, and no problems perplex us;
For all shall be patent, no mysteries latent; man's mind by intuitive notion,
The circle shall square, x and y shall declare, and discover perpetual motion.
Meanwhile till the Earth has accomplished its birth, mid visions of imminent glory,
I prefer to remain, as aforetime, a plain and bloated and bigoted Tory.
*            *            *            *            *            *
Dear Mr. Editor, lately my creditor, now fully paid and my debtor,
I wonder what you will be minded to do, when you get this rhapsodical letter.
If you listen to me (I shall charge you no fee for advice) do not keep or return it;
To its merits be kind, to its faults rather blind; in a word, Mr. Editor, burn it!
(1875).
[1] 'iam fervenimus usque ad umbilicos.'    Martial iv. 91.