A May Term Memory.

She wore a sweet pink bonnet,             The sweetest ever known:         And as I gazed upon it,             My heart was not my own.         For - I know not why or wherefore -             A pink bonnet put on well,         Tho' few other things I care for,             Acts upon me like a spell.         'Twas at the May Term Races             That first I met her eye:         Amid a thousand Graces             No form with her's could vie.         On Grassy's sward enamelled             She reigned fair Beauty's Queen;         And every heart entrammell'd             With the charms of sweet eighteen.         Once more I saw that Bonnet -             'Twas on the King's Parade -         Once more I gazed upon it,             And silent homage paid.         She knew not I was gazing;             She passed unheeding by;         While I, in trance amazing,             Stood staring at the sky.         The May Term now is over:             That Bonnet has 'gone down';         And I'm myself a rover,             Far from my Cap and Gown.         But I dread the Long Vacation,             And its work by night and day,         After all the dissipation             Energetic of the May.         For x and y will vanish,             When that Bonnet I recall;         And a vision fair will banish,             Newton, Euclid, and Snowball.         And a gleam of tresses golden,             And of eyes divinely blue,         Will interfere with Holden,             And my Verse and Prose imbue.                     *            *            *            *         These sweet girl graduate beauties,             With their bonnets and their roses,         Will mar ere long the duties             Which Granta wise imposes.         Who, when such eyes are shining,             Can quell his heart's sensations;         Or turn without repining             To Square Root and Equations?         And when conspicuous my name             By absence shall appear;         When I have lost all hopes of fame,             Which once I held so dear;         When 'plucked' I seek a vain relief             In plaintive dirge or sonnet;         Thou wilt have caused that bitter grief,             Thou beautiful Pink Bonnet!         (1866).