“‘And on his arm the stirrup-thongs,
And in his gait the narrow seas,
And in his mouth Burgundian songs,
But in his heart the Pyrenees?’
“St Michael then will answer right
(And not without angelic shame),
‘I seem to know his face by sight:
I cannot recollect his name ...?’
“St Peter will befriend me then,
Because my name is Peter too:
‘I know him for the best of men
That ever wallopped barley brew.
“‘And though I did not know him well
And though his soul were clogged with sin,
I hold the keys of Heaven and Hell.
Be welcome, noble Peterkin.’
“Then shall I spread my native wings
And tread secure the heavenly floor,
And tell the Blessed doubtful things
Of Val d’Aran and Perigord.”
———
This was the last and solemn jest
Of weary Peter Wanderwide.
He spoke it with a failing zest,
And having spoken it, he died.
DEDICATORY ODE
I mean to write with all my strength
(It lately has been sadly waning),
A ballad of enormous length—
Some parts of which will need explaining.[A]
Because (unlike the bulk of men
Who write for fame or public ends),
I turn a lax and fluent pen
To talking of my private friends.[B]
For no one, in our long decline,
So dusty, spiteful and divided,
Had quite such pleasant friends as mine,
Or loved them half as much as I did.
———
The Freshman ambles down the High,
In love with everything he sees,
He notes the racing autumn sky.
He sniffs a lively autumn breeze.
“Can this be Oxford? This the place?”
(He cries) “of which my father said
The tutoring was a damned disgrace,
The creed a mummery, stuffed and dead?