He goes not forth at even,
He burns the midnight oil,
He feels that all his heaven
Depends on ceaseless toil;
Across his exercises
A dream of many prizes
Before his spirit rises,
And makes his raw blood boil.

II

Though he be green as grass is,
And fresh as new-mown hay
Before the first year passes
His verdure fades away.
His hopes now faintly glimmer,
Grow dim and ever dimmer,
And with a parting shimmer
Melt into 'common day.'

He cares no more for Liddell
Or Scott; and Smith, and White,
And Lewis, Short, and Riddle
Are 'emptied of delight.'
Todhunter and Colenso
(Alas, that friendships end so!)
He curses _in extenso_
Through morning, noon, and night.

No more with patient labour