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(Exod. iv. 10), came to my lot in Pusey's Hebrew class, to my special confusion: but every tutor was very considerate and favoured the one who couldn't speak, and Mr. Biscoe in particular used to say when my turn came to read or to answer,--
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Never mind, Mr. Tupper, I'm sure you know it,--please to go on, Mr. So-and-So. This habitual confidence in my proficiency had the effect of forcing my consciousness to deserve it; and it usually happened that I really did know, silently, like Macaulay's cunning augur,
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Look, like a village Queen of May, the stream Dances her best before the holiday sun, And still, with musical laugh, goes tripping on Over these golden sands, which brighter gleam To watch her pale-green kirtle flashing fleet Above them, and her tinkling silver feet That ripple melodies: quick,--yon circling rise In the calm refluence of this gay cascade Marked an old trout, who shuns the sunny skies, And, nightly prowler, loves the hazel shade: Well thrown!--you hold him bravely,--off he speeds, Now up, now down,--now madly darts about,-- Mind, mind your line among those flowering reeds,-- How the rod bends,--and hail, thou noble trout!
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O, thou hast robbed the Nereids, gentle brother, Of some swift fairy messenger; behold,-- His dappled livery prankt with red and gold Shows him their favourite page: just such another Sad Galatæa to her Acis sent To teach the new-born fountain how to flow, And track with loving haste the way she went Down the rough rocks, and through the flowery plain, Ev'n to her home where coral branches grow, And where the sea-nymph clasps her love again: We the while, terrible as Polypheme, Brandish the lissom rod, and featly try Once more to throw the tempting treacherous fly And win a brace of trophies from the stream.
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Come then, coy Zephyr, waft my feathered bait Over this rippling shallow's tiny wave To yonder pool, whose calmer eddies lave Some Triton's ambush, where he lies in wait To catch my skipping fly; there drop it lightly: A rise, by Glaucus!--but he missed the hook,-- Another--safe! the monarch of the brook, With broadside like a salmon's, gleaming brightly: Off let him race, and waste his prowess there; The dread of Damocles, a single hair, Will tax my skill to take this fine old trout; So,--lead him gently; quick, the net, the net! Now gladly lift the glittering beauty out, Hued like a dolphin, sweet as violet.
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The Suttees and the
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African Desert, won respectively by Claughton, now Bishop of St. Albans, and Rickards, whose honours of course I ought to know, but don't. A good-looking and well-speaking friend of mine, E.H. Abney, now a Canon, was so certain that the said prizes in those two successive years were to fall to me, that he learnt my poems by heart in order to recite them as my speech-substitute in the Sheldonian Theatre at Commemoration, and he used frequently to look in upon me to be coached in his recital. It was rumoured that I came second on both occasions,--one of them certainly had a 2 marked on it when returned to me, but I know not who placed it there. However, my pieces were afterwards printed; both separately, and among my
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Ballads and Poems,