Strange was the sight and smacking of

the time;

And long we gazed, but satiated at length Came to the ruins. High-arch'd and ivy

claspt,

Of finest Gothic lighter than a fire,

Thro' one wide chasm of time and frost

they gave

The park, the crowd, the house; but all within

The sward was trim as any garden lawn:
And here we lit on Aunt Elizabeth,
And Lilia with the rest, and lady friends
From neighbour seats: and there was
Ralph himself,

A broken statue propt against the wall,
As gay as any. Lilia, wild with sport,
Half child half woman as she was, had
wound

A scarf of orange round the stony helm, And robed the shoulders in a rosy silk, That made the old warrior from his ivied nook

Glow like a sunbeam : near his tomb a feast

Shone, silver-set; about it lay the guests, And there we join'd them: then the maiden Aunt

Took this fair day for text, and from it

preach'd

An universal culture for the crowd,

And all things great; but we, unworthier, told

Of college he had climb'd across the spikes,

And he had squeezed himself betwixt the bars,

And he had breath'd the Proctor's dogs;

and one

Discuss'd his tutor, rough to common men, But honeying at the whisper of a lord; And one the Master, as a rogue in grain Veneer'd with sanctimonious theory.

But while they talk'd, above their heads I saw

The feudal warrior lady-clad; which brought

My book to mind and opening this I read

Of old Sir Ralph a page or two that rang With tilt and tourney; then the tale of her

That drove her foes with slaughter from her walls,

And much I praised her nobleness, and 'Where,'

Ask'd Walter, patting Lilia's head (she lay Beside him) lives there such a woman now?'

With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans,

And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair.

I think they should not wear our rusty gowns,

But move as rich as Emperor-moths, or Ralph

Who shines so in the corner; yet I fear, If there were many Lilias in the brood, However deep you might embower the nest,

Some boy would spy it.'

At this upon the sward She tapt her tiny silken-sandal'd foot : 'That's your light way; but I would make it death

For any male thing but to peep at us.

Petulant she spoke, and at herself she laugh'd;

A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, And sweet as English air could make her, she:

But Walter hail'd a score of names upon her,

And petty Ogress,' and 'ungrateful

Puss,'

And swore he long'd at college, only

long'd,

All else was well, for she-society.

They boated and they cricketed; they talk'd

At wine, in clubs, of art, of politics; They lost their weeks; they vext the souls

of deans;

They rode; they betted; made a hundred friends,

And caught the blossom of the flying terms, But miss'd the mignonette of Vivian-place, The little hearth-flower Lilia. Thus he

spoke,

Part banter, part affection.

We seven stay'd at Christmas up to read;
And there we took one tutor as to read:
The hard-grain'd Muses of the cube and
square

Were out of season: never man, I think,
So moulder'd in a sinecure as he :
For while our cloisters echo'd frosty feet,
And our long walks were stript as bare as
brooms,

We did but talk you over, pledge you all
In wassail; often, like as many girls-
Sick for the hollies and the yews of home-
As many little trifling Lilias-play'd
Charades and riddles as at Christmas here,
And what's my thought and when and
where and how,

And often told a tale from mouth to mouth As here at Christmas.'

She remember'd that : A pleasant game, she thought: she liked it more

Than magic music, forfeits, all the rest. But these-what kind of tales did men tell men,

She wonder'd, by themselves?

A half-disdain Perch'd on the pouted blossom of her lips: And Walter nodded at me; He began,