And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,

To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at once a Poet's fame,
Το prove a Prophet here.

GRANTA, A MEDLEY.

Αργυεαις λογχαισι μαχου και παντα Κρατήσαις.

OH! Could LE SAGE'S1 demon's gift
Be realized at my desire,

'This night my trembling form he'd lift,

To place it on St. Mary's spire. Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls Pedantic inmates full display; Fellows who dream on lawn, or stalls, The price of venal votes to pay. Then would I view each rival wight,

P―tty and P―lm-st-n survey;

Who canvass there with all their might,
Against the next elective day.

Lo! candidates and voters lie,

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number!

A race renown'd for piety,

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.

Lord H, indeed, may not demur,

Fellows are sage, reflecting men!

They know preferment ca occur

But very seldom,—now and then.

They know the Chancellor has got

Some pretty livings in disposal; Each hopes that one may be his lot,

And, therefore, smiles on his proposal. Now, from the soporific scene

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later, To view, unheeded and unseen,

The studious sons of Alma Mater. There, in apartments small and damp, The candidate for college prizes Sits poring by the midnight lamp,

Goes late to bed, yet early rises. He, surely, well deserves to gain them,

With all the honours of his college, Who, striving hardly to obtain them,

Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge; Who sacrifices hours of rest,

To scan, precisely, metres Attic, Or agitates his anxious breast

In solving problems mathematic;

Who reads false quantities in Sele,2

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle, Deprived of many a wholesome meal,

In barbarous Latin3 doom'd to wrangle;

1 The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation and unroofs the houses for his inspection.

2 Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy

3 The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not very intelligible.

Renouncing every pleasing page

From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage

The square of the hypothenuse.1
Still, harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent;
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When drunkenness and dice unite,

And every sense is steep'd in wine. Not so the methodistic crew,

Who plans of reformation lay: In humble attitude they sue,

And for the sins of others pray. Forgetting that their pride of spirit, Their exultation in their trial, Detracts most largely from the merit Of all their boasted self-denial. 'Tis morn,-from these I turn my sight: What scene is this which meets the eye? A numerous crowd, array'd in white, Across the green in numbers fly.

Loud rings, in air, the chapel bell;

2

Rolls deeply on the listening ear.

To this is join'd the sacred song,

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long
Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would scarcely be excused,

Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refused,

To such a set of croaking sinners.

If David, when his toils were ended,

Had heard these blockheads sing before him, To us his psalms had ne'er descended,

In furious mood he would have torn 'em.

The luckless Israelites, when taken,

By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,

On Babylonian river's border.
Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
Inspired by stratagem or fear,
They might have set their hearts at ease-
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.

But, if I scribble longer now,

The deuce a soul will stay to read;

My pen is blunt, my ink is low,

'Tis almost time to stop indeed.

Therefore, farewell, old GRANTA's spires,
No more, like Cleofas, I fly; '
No more thy theme my Muse inspires
The reader's tired, and so am I.

1806.

1 The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled triangle.

2 On a Saint day, the students wear surplices in chapel.

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.
At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
Retire the clamour of the fight is o'er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,

And sable Horror guards the massy door.
Here Desolation holds her dreary court;

What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omen'd birds resort
To flit their vigils in the hoary fane.
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies;
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans,
Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones,
Loathing1 the offering of so dark a death.
The legal Ruler 2 now resumes the helm,
He guides through gentle seas the
Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm,
And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate.

prow

of state:

The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells,
Howling resign their violated nest;
Again the master on his tenure dwells,

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.

Vassals within thy hospitable pale,

;

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.
A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees;
And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note,

The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake: What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake,

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah! happy days! too happy to endure!

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed,

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart. Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine! Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay; The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway. Deserted now, he scans thy gray-worn towersThy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep—

1 This is a historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers; both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition, but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my pɔem. 2 Charles IL

Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers-
These, these he views, and views them but to weep
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret,

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow.
Yet, he prefers thee to the gilded domes,

Or gewgaw grottos of the vainly great;
Yet lingers 'mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate
Haply thy sun emerging yet, may shine,

Thee to irradiate with meridian ray;
Hours splendid as the past may still be thine.
And bless thy future as thy former day.

TO E. N. L. ESQ.

Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.
HOR. E

DEAR L, in this sequester'd scene,
While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye:
Thus, if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
Yon heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream;
I crush the fiend with malice fraught,

And still indulge my wonted theme;
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore, Nor, through the groves of IDA, chase Our raptured visions as before; Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion, And Manhood claims his stern dominion, Age will not every hope destroy, But yield some hours of sober joy. Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing Will shed around some dews of spring; But, if his scythe must sweep the flowers Which bloom among the fairy bowers, Where smiling Youth delights to dwell, And hearts with early rapture swell ; If frowning Age, with cold control, Confines the current of the soul, Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,

Or

checks the sympathetic sigh, Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan, And bids me feel for self alone Oh! may my bosom never learn,

To sooth its wonted heedless flow, Still, still, despise the censor stern, But ne'er forget another's woe. Yes, as you knew me in the days O'er which Remembrance yet delays,

Still may I rove untutor'd, wild, And even in age at heart a child. Though now on airy visions borne,

To you my soul is still the same, Oft has it been my fate to mourn,

And all my former joys are tame. But, hence! ye hours of sable hue, Your frowns are gone, my sorrow's o'er; By every bliss my childhood knew,

I'll think upon your shade no more. Thus, when the whirlwind's rage is past, And caves their sullen roar enclose, We heed no more the wintry blast,

When lull'd by zephyr to repose.
Full often has my infant Muse

Attuned to love her languid lyre;
But now, without a theme to choose,
The strains in stolen sighs expire;
My youthful nymphs, alas! are flown;
E is a wife, and C— a mother,
And Carolina sighs alone,

And Mary's given to another;
And Cora's eye, which roll'd on me,

Can now no more my love recall;

In truth, dear L- 't was time to flee,
For Cora's eye will shine on all.
And though the sun, with genial rays,
His beams alike to all displays,
And every lady's eye's a sun,
These last should be confined to one.
The soul's meridian don't become her
Whose sun displays a general summer.
Thus faint is every former flame,
And Passion's self is now a name:
As, when the ebbing flames are low,
The aid which once improved their light,
And bade them burn with fiercer glow,
Now quenches all their sparks in night;
Thus has it been with passion's fires,

As many a boy and girl remembers,
While all the force of love expires,

Extinguish'd with the dying embers.

But now, dear L-, 't is midnight's noon,
And clouds obscure the watery moon,
Whose beauties I shall not rehearse,
Described in every stripling's verse;
For why should I the path go o'er,
Which every bard has trod before?
Yet, ere yon silver lamp of night

Has thrice perform'd her stated round,
Has thrice retraced her path of light,

And chased away the gloom profound,

I trust that we, my gentle friend,
Shall see her rolling orbit wend
Above the dear-loved peaceful seat
Which once contain❜d our youth's retreat;
And then, with those our childhood knew,
We'll mingle with the festive crew;
While many a tale of former day
Shall wing the laughing hours away;
And all the flow of soul shall pour
The sacred intellectual shower,
Nor
cease, till Luna's waning horn

Scarce glimmers through the mist of Morn.

ΤΟ

OH! had my fate been join'd with thine,
As once this pledge appear'd a token,
These follies had not then been mine,
For then my peace had not been broken.
To thee these early faults I owe,

To thee, the wise and old reproving;
They know my sins, but do not know

'T was thine to break the bonds of loving. For once my soul, like thine, was pure,

And all its rising fires could smother;
But now thy vows no more endure,
Bestow'd by thee upon another.
Perhaps his peace I could destroy,
And spoil the blisses that await him;
Yet, let
rival smile in joy,
my
For thy dear sake I cannot hate him.
Ah! since thy angel form is gone,

My heart no more can rest with any;
But what it sought in thee alone,
Attempts, alas! to find in many.
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,

"T were vain and fruitless to regret thee;

Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,

But pride may teach me to forget thee, Yet all this giddy waste of years,

This tiresome round of palling pleasures.
These varied loves, these matron's fears,
These thoughtless strains to passion's measures

If thou wert mine, had all been hush'd;
This cheek, now pale from early riot,
With Passion's hectic ne'er had flush'd,
But bloom'd in calm domestic quiet.
Yes, once the rural scene was sweet,

For Nature seem'd to smile before thee
And once my breast abhorr'd deceit,

For then it beat but to adore thee.
But now I seek for other joys;

To think would drive my soul to madness •
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.
Yet, even in these a thought will steal,

In spite of every vain endeavour;
And fiends might pity what I feel,
To know that thou art lost for ever.

STANZAS.

I WOULD I were a careless child,
Still dwelling in my highland cave,
Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding o'er the dark-blue wave.
The cumbrous pomp of Saxon 1 pride

Accords not with the free-bern soul, Which loves the mountain's craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll. Fortune! take back these cultured lands, Take back this name of splendid sound!

I hate the touch of servile hands—

I hate the slaves that cringe around:

1 Sassenah, or Saxon, a Gaelic word signifying either Low land or English.

F