Cricket 1909

S e p t . 23, 1909. C R IC K E T : A WEEKLY RECORD OF THE GAME. 421 Think not his Composition Wood and Rags : Thus on our Lords, the marv’ling M illion gape, And fall to imitation, like an Ape. Learn, learn my Lords your Consequence to feel . . . Both, both born Guardians of the Public weal . . . The Guardians of a Realm that Earth defies . . . That lifts her head, like Atlas to the Skies . . . A Realm whose Splendour, envying Nations view (Such as immortal R om e, nor A th e n s knew) Where L ib e r t y long warr’d with Godlike Rage, And V ic t o r brought us back the Golden Age . . . A Realm of Greatnes3 and her Fame to crown On whose Domain the Sun goes never down. And shall this Realm sublime, whose Glory draws The Gaze of W o n d e r , and a W o r ld ’s a p p la u se ; The peerless Fabrick shake, that Seas of Blood To give it immortality, have flow’d; Whilst you the Guardians of this lofty Pile, Are joined with Mob, at Cricket all the while ? Should H is t ’r y deign to tell the tale with Sighs, Posterity would swear the Goddess lies. What tho’ it asks an Angel’s Pow’r at least, To make you ope your Mouths like Balaam ’s Beast ? What if you boast not Chatham ’ s Force and Fire, And Voice that seem'd the Sound of Pindar’s Lyre ? Must you for that in Senate disappear ? Suppose you can’t declaim, why go to hear. . . Grant that you cannot like that E ag le fly : Pray must you therefore keep Owls, company? Say not that J e a lo u sy my Verse inspires. . . That Foe to Greatness, E n vy’s Demon fires. . . No, by the Muse, (a Muse of humble Skill, Perhaps the meanest of th’ Aonian H ill, Scarce with the other Sisters to be nam’d, Of whom, like *Goldsmith, yet I ’m not asham 'd , Whose Smiles when C a re ’s dark Clouds around me lour, Break the deep Gloom, to give a golden H o u r: A Muse so gentle! born without a Gall. . . Who never thought as now on Lords to c a ll... In harmless Sonnet, pleas’d amid the Shade, To sing the Virtues of one fav’rite Maid, Whose Charms like Spring eternal, cheer the Groves, The Poet’s Pride, and Pride of all the Loves,) I swear, my E n vy points not to the Great . . . No, ’tis my P ity marks the Fools of State. Say Candour, what are Titles ?— empty things! Oft F o lly ' s, Roguery's Portion . . . Gifts of Kings . . . Poor C o in ! with W isdom that w ill never pass . . . H is Majesty may give ’em to an Ass. Caligula deem’d Titles of such Force, He fain would make a C on su l of his H o rs e : Yet somewhat still more stravge may strike our E a r , And H o lla n d ’s Cub, one Day he made a Peer : Who, had he N o r t h ’s high Trust, with Gamblers vile Would for the Treasury fling up Cross or Pile. * My Shame in crowds, my solitary Pride.—Dcs. Village. Who can one Atom of respect afford, To Title, whilst th at L . tt. . ton’s a Lord ? (h) Who would not rather be th’ untitled P itt* Content the Pagentry of Courts to quit, To share in Solitude, there blest to bless The suppliant, pale ey’d Children of Distress? P it t , whose fair Name (such rev’rence it inspires) The County’s proudest, mean born Fool adm ires. Who now, since C liv e was dubbed, would be a P e e r , Whose very Name’s a Wound to V ir t u e ’s E ar? When H o n ou r was commanded to invest W ith her chaste Robe this Tyrant of the E a s t; Blushing, as soon’s the dirty Work was done, She turn’d her Head . . . ashamed to see it on. . . . Yet tho’ Dame H o n o u r prov’d so wondrous coy, Grim M u r d e r clapp’d his bloody Hands for Joy : Charm’d with the News all H e l l was in a Glow, And made for Clive a Holyday below : C liv e , at whose Name indignant Asia burns, As o’er her butch’d Hecatombs she mourns : Clive, at whose name, as at the General Doom, The Dead with H o r r o r start amidst the Tomb ! But ah ! can Monarchs unto M an convey Fair Wisdom, Virtue, Sparks of heav’nlyRay? Fires that our mortal Mass of Earth refine, And give it Semblance to the Hand divine ? No, no, for then our Princes, pitied Elves, Had kept a modest Portion for T h em selv es. When D ea th (for Lords must die) your Doom shall seal, What sculptur’d H on ors shall your Tomb reveal? Instead of G lo r y , with a weeping Eye, Instead of V ir tu e , pointing to the Sky, Let B ats and B a lls th’ affronted Stone disgrace, W hile F a rce stands leering by, with Satyr Face, Holding with forly Notches mark’d, a Board . . . The noble Triumph of a noble L o rd ! When to the Shades your Lordships shall descend, And court old Riiadam anthus for your Friend ; Soon as you tell the Judge your Names, your Birth, “ Welcome (he'll cry) ye noble Peer from Earth . . . Sons of that Isle, where heaven-born Freedom came, Whose Fires are worshipp'd like the Vestal’s Flame, Sprung from a Race, that erst with Lustre shone . . . What for Elysium, have your Lordships done ? From you , whose Sphere was wide, whose Pow’r was Great To guard the Honour of your Parent State ; A long, long Catalogue of Deeds I claim . . . Deeds of high worth, and sanctified by Fame.” What w ill you answer, by such Language struck ? I w ill not ask your Lordships how you’ll look. Thus if you speak the Truth shall you reply. “ W ith Uproar wild when Discord shook the Sky : * Of Boconnick, in Cornwall. (A) A reference to Thomas, Lord Lyttelton. When V u ltu re W ar, the Nation’s Bowels tore, And murdering Thousands, panted still for more: When swell’d with Mother’s Tears, and human Blood, And hapless Carnage, roar’d th’ Atlantic Flood, W hilst ev’ry Guardian of the trembling State, Beheld dismay’d the outstretch’d Arm of F a te , And fill’d with W isd om ’s Voice the Senate rung, And B e s o lc t io n ev’ry Sinew stung To dash the Dagger from F a te ’ s threatening Hand, And snatch from R c in ’s gaping Gulph the hand: We Truants midst th ’ Artillery Ground were straying W ith Shoeblacks, Barber’s Boys, at Cricket playing. D ’ye think that Rhadamanthus w ill not start, And cry like one that sees a Ghost, “ What art ? ” Soon as the Judge his frightened E ar believes, Guess at the Sentence, that his Justice gives . . . . That sentence, hear the Sybil Muse foretell, “ -----ye for Fools, my Lords, . . . . away t o ----- Your Songs, ye venal Bards, let C andour rule. . . Here point the galling Shaft of R id ic u le : At those who negligent of Birth and Fame, Give ev’n to F o l l y ’ s Cheek the Blush of Shame. Rend not the sacred Robe that V ir tu e wears. . . Dash not the Eye of In n o ce n ce with Tears... Form not a Scare-crow with your Motley Rags, And holding to the W orld the worst of Hags, Exclaim , “ Lo D e v o n s h ire ’ s D u t c h e s s !” to the Times, To gain a scoundrel Mob to buy your Rhimes. Dread Trade ! how like the Kentish Boors, who break The beauteous Ship, to live upon the W reck! In vain on C alum ny’s black W ing you rise To blot that lovely Planet from the Skies. . . Your Clouds a Moment, may obscure her beams. . . But soon her Orb with tenfold Lustre streams. . . The S ta r o f M orn in g, whose unsullied Ray Smiles the foul Daemons of the Dark, away! F I N IS . PUBLIC SCHOOL AVERAGES. (Continuedfrompage 1*02.) ST. E D W A R D ’S SCHOO L, OXFORD . BATTING AVERAGES. Times Most not in an Total Inns. out. inns. Runs. Aver. A. G. Sherwell... ... 13 4, 73* 439 48*77 R. G. B. Barrett .,. 14 1 121 410 31-53 J. S. Douglas ... ... 9 1 55 112 14-00 G. H. Bickley ... ... 10 0 29 109 10-90 C. L. Bleaden ... ... 11 2 28 92 10*22 C. E. Cleeve ... ... 13 0 24 119 9*15 C. E. E. Cockey .. 13 0 34 114 8*76 A. H. Hudson ... . G 2 11 32 8-00 J. P. Higgs .. 10 0 31 69 6-90 P. R. Goldingham ... 11 2 20* 58 6-44 E. F. Burn................ 9 2 15 45 6-42 * Signifies not out. BOWLING AVERAGES. Overs. Mdns. Runs Wkts. Aver. J. S. Douglas........... 104-3 24 292 36 8*11 A. G. Sherwell ... 116*4 23 326 30 10 86 E. F. Burn ............... 175 30 477 42 11*33 (To be continued.)