Born: Feb­ru­ary 23, 1816, St. Pan­cras, Mid­dle­sex, Eng­land.

Died: Oc­to­ber 6, 1874, Cas­tle Camps, Cam­bridge­shire, Eng­land.

Buried: All Saints Church, Cas­tle Camps, Cam­bridge­shire, Eng­land.



John was the fa­ther of Al­ice Bode.

Bode at­tend­ed Eton, the Char­ter House, and Christ Church, Ox­ford, where he won the Hert­ford Schol­ar­ship in 1835, and gra­du­at­ed with his BA in 1837 (fol­lowed by his MA).

He took Ho­ly Or­ders in 1841. He be­came rec­tor of West­well, Ox­ford­shire, in 1847, and of Cast­le Camps, Cam­bridge­shire, in 1860.

He de­liv­ered his Bamp­ton Lec­tures in 1855, and was for a time tu­tor and Class­ic­al Exa­min­er at his col­lege.



A Wedding Ballad

Within the old cathedral walls a bridal train is met;
And many a mingled glance is there, of pleasure and regret;
While blushing at the altar stands, her chosen by her side,
To pledge th’irrevocable vow, that young and lovely bride.

Oh! gaze but for a moment, for, methinks, you soon may trace,
The pledge of future happy years in her soft yet thoughtful face;
And if a tear perchance may dim the brightness of her eye,
A tear for old familiar things—that tear will soon be dry!

And who unmoved could quit the scene of childhood’s joyous hours,
Where kindred hands have vied to strew her early path with flowers?
And her, beneath whose watchful love those happy years have flown,
And that fair sister bud; that now must bloom awhile alone?

Not hers the look that beauty wears of early conquest vain,
That loves to weave for every heart a momentary chain;
But true affection ’s glance that speaks, in tones devoid of art,
The gentle thoughts, and blissful hopes, of a young and happy heart.

And now the holy words are said, and pledged the solemn vow;
And she must quit her much-loved home—she is thine for ever now—
And she must know another name, and bless another hearth
With her gentle voice, and graceful mien, and her smile of quiet mirth.

But thou, on whom her willing hand her virgin heart bestows,
Who from its own familiar bower hast borne this budding rose,
Oh! guard it faithfully and well, nor e’er forget the hour
Which gave to grace thy favored home that bright and lovely flower!

Forget not, that for thee she leaves her childhood’s happy home,
Through many a new and chequered scene of life with thee to roam;
The haunts of youth’s unclouded hours, from every sorrow free,
And many a dear domestic tie—she has left them all for thee!

I need not speak—full well I know that thou wilt aye repay
The glance of fond confiding love that met thy gaze today;
That memory ’s voice will oft recall the sweet yet solemn tone
With which she spoke the blissful words that made her all thy own.

Yet, though the future seem of naught but joy and hope to tell,
We lingering still regret to speak that parting word Farewell,
And pray that, when again we meet, we may greet thee, e’en as now,
With the smile of happiness and love on thy fair and cloudless brow!

And thou, methinks, wilt not disdain, e’en on this happy day,
The gift that early friendship brings my tributary lay;
And though all unadorned the song, and harsh the notes may be,
They yet, perchance, may hope to win a favoring smile from thee.

John Ernest Bode
Short Occasional Po­ems, 1858



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