FRIENDSHIP.

Friendship! if thou the higher, holier name
Of Love rejectest, gift most deeply prized
Of the All-Merciful, nor in men's hearts
Alone enthroned, for e'en our little world
Thy power, Goddess, owns, and grateful shares
Thy gifts, to wider spheres too oft denied.
What if e'en here Etona's sons may form
Bonds of a love as lasting, which the grave
Alone dissolves; nor differing walks of life,
Nor factious party-spirit, time, or space,
Those ties can sever, here too firmly joined?
Oft when at me with malice-darting eyes
The world looks scornful, or the cutting winds
Of poverty pierce through my anxious mind,
When fain the soul her earthly chain would burst
In age or sickness; as some bird, desiring
To moult her feathers, and take upward flight;
Do thou remain to soothe the bed of death-
Thou grateful beacon to the weary sailor
On life's rough sea-man's almost only joy-
Bearing with patience the contingencies
Of second childhood, murmurings, discontent,
And petulance: Come, Goddess, aye to men
Welcome! but then most welcome, when all else,
By this weak world engendered, sinks to nothing,
Before the approach of death and fearful Judgment.

3.

TRANSLATIONS.

FROM "LALLA ROOKH."

Who that feels what love is here,
All its falsehoods-all its pain-
Would, for e'en Elysium's sphere,
Risk the fatal dream again?

Who that midst a desert's heat
Sees the waters fade away,
Would not rather die, than meet

Streams again as false as they?

Τίς τὸν ἐρῶτα μαθὼν, οἷος θεός ἐστι βρότοισι,
Ψεύδεσιν ὡς δολόεις,ὡς ὀδύνησι βαρύς,
Αὖτέ κεν, εἰ μακάρων περ ἔχοι νήσοισιν ἀνάσσειν,
Τλαίη ἑκὼν θυμῷ κεῖν ̓ ἐχεπευκὲς ὄναρ ;
Τίς γὰρ ἐρημαίου ξηραινόμενος πεδίοιο

Καύματι, ναμ ̓ ὑδάτων ὡς ἴδ ̓ ἀποιχόμενον,
Οὐ μᾶλλον δίψῃ πονέειν τε θανεῖν τε προθύμοι,
Ἢ πάλιν ἐν ταύταις ἐμπεσέειν ἀπάταις;

E.

HORACE, LIB. I. CARM. 38.

"Persicos odi, puer, apparatus."

Away with this splendour and vanity,
Away with these wreaths of the linden-tree,
And seek not, fair boy, any more to disclose,
Where the last rose of summer, yet lingering, blows :
Bring the myrtle; its simple white blossoms entwine;
It will suit your young brows, it will also suit mine,
As I lie in the shade, quaffing cups of cool wine.

E. G. E.

Quid solidum crepet, et pictæ tectoria linguæ."

Discerning the devout, the Christian song,
From the fair tinsel of a wicked tongue.

PERSIUS.

MUCH has been said and written against the study of the Classics, on account of the unveiled immorality dispersed over them; and Horace, Juvenal, and Aristophanes are singled out as deserving exclusion from public schools: even Homer himself, say the objectors, is to a certain extent liable to this charge. Let such people look around them, let them but glance at the poetry of our own country, particularly that of the last generation, and what must be their opinion of those, who, with the light of Truth and Revelation,

E

have written poems containing more shocking, though less gross wickedness-more obscenity, sedition, and blasphemy, than ever was penned by heathen author? The most dangerous feature of these writings is the refined language which conceals vice, such as may shut the eyes of the reader to its inward pollution, while, at the same time, his admiration is excited by the lovely dress in which it appears. Any mind recoils naturally from the immorality of Horace or Aristophanes, because it is openly gross; while it doats on the refined amatory poem of modern days, and unwarily drinks in its insidious poison, a victim to its outward embellishments.

Against these productions no person, especially the young, can be too much on his guard; they are, indeed, dangerous, and the more so, because poetry has such an effect on the imagination, attracts our minds to itself by such an indescribable charm, that it must exercise an important influence, either for good or evil, on them.

But surely it is a sign of improvement in this generation, that such writings as those to which we have alluded have lost much of their fascination; undoubtedly, though people are fond of exclaiming against the age, it is a proof that religion is making greater progress in the minds of the generality at this time, than it did at the beginning of this century, when they were in great repute. It is a cheering fact, we repeat, that while the works of Lord Byron and his school begin to appear in their true colours, divested of the embellishments which were able at

once to captivate and corrupt, there is growing up amongst us a just appreciation of those works, which Byron brought into disrepute,-of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey, and what is called the Lake School. How much more generally are these praised now than they were twenty years ago! And why? Because the age is more fitted to appreciate their chaste simplicity and devotional spirit.

Besides the Lake School, there is another class of poets, equally elegant, equally religious, who have not attained the celebrity of the former writers: for instance, Milman-Bowles-Moultrie. Two of thesethe author of the "Fall of Jerusalem" and "Fazio," and he who at thirteen wrote "My Brother's Grave"— were Etonians; and to these we may proudly point as such all three are faithful priests at the altars of our Church, though one has long since passed the age allotted to man, and the miseries contingent on old age have long pressed on him, without his being able to enjoy its comforts and consolations.

And Alfred Tennyson, too, yet in his prime, promises to be a first-rate poet; and who does not admire the beauty and originality of his genius? who does not again and again take up and feast on his " MayQueen," his "Enone," and his "Lotos Eaters ?" We hope that he will not rest satisfied with the praises which he has already earned, nor make one of the

genus ignavum, quod lecto gaudet et umbrâ,"

which poets are said to be.

We hope we shall be pardoned for introducing the