ALMAE MATRES.

St. Andrews by the Northern sea,

A haunted town it is to me!

A little city, worn and grey,

The grey North Ocean girds it round.

And o'er the rocks, and up the bay,

The long sea-rollers surge and sound.

And still the thin and biting spray

Drives down the melancholy street,

And still endure, and still decay,

Towers that the salt winds vainly beat.

Ghost-like and shadowy they stand

Clear mirrored in the wet sea-sand.

O, ruined chapel, long ago

We loitered idly where the tall

Fresh budded mountain ashes blow

Within thy desecrated wall:

The tough roots broke the tomb below,

The April birds sang clamorous,

We did not dream, we could not know

How soon the Fates would sunder us!

O, broken minster, looking forth

Beyond the bay, above the town,

O,‘ winter of the kindly North,

O, college of the scarlet gown,

And shining sands beside the sea,

And stretch of links beyond the sand,

Once more I watch you, and to me

It is as if I touched his hand!

And therefore art thou yet more dear,

O, little city, grey and sere,

Though shrunken from thine ancient pride

And lonely by thy lonely sea,

Than these fair halls on Isis’ side,

Where Youth an hour came back to me

A land of waters green and clear,

Of willows and of poplars tall,

And, in the spring time of the year,

The white may breaking over all,

And Pleasure quick to come at call.

And summer rides by marsh and wold,

And Autumn with her crimson pall

About the towers of Magdalenrolled;

And strange enchantments from the past,

And memories of the friends of old,

And strong Tradition, binding fast

The “flying terms” with bands of gold,—

All these hath Oxford: all are dear,

But dearer far the little town,

The drifting surf, the wintry year,

The college of the scarlet gown,

St. Andrews by the Northern sea,

That is a haunted town to me!