answer. The neighbourhood became alarmed; and several of his acquaintance searched in vain for him. He was not by the stream where he often sat in solitude till the noxious dew fell round him; nor in the grove, where he used to listen to the nightingales till fancy filled up the pauses in their songs; nor by the window where he would stand and gaze unconsciously till the sight of that dear face drove him from the scene of enchantment. At last they forced At last they forced open his door; I entered with them. The poor youth was sitting at his writing-table, in his old Patron's arm-chair; the pen seemed to have just fallen from his hand; the ink on its nib was hardly dry; but he was quite still, quite silent, quite cold.

His last thoughts seemed to have been spent upon the stanzas which were on the table before him. I will transcribe them, rather as an illustration of his story than as a specimen of his talents. Some of the lines rise to a conjecture that he had been the author of his own death, but nothing appeared to warrant the suspicion.

gave

"I have a devil in my brain !

He haunts me when I sleep,
And points his finger at my pain,
And will not let me weep:
And ever, as he hears me groan,
He says the cause is all my own.

I shall be calm anon!-I had
A pleasant dream of bliss ;
And now they tell me I am mad,—
Why should I mourn for this?
My good, kind Parents!-answer ye,
For what I am, and am to be.

Alas! I have forgotten, dear,

The pledging and the vow;
There is a falsehood in my tear,
I do not love thee now:
Or how could I endure to go,

And look, and laugh, and leave thee so?

Thou shalt not come to my caress,
Thou shalt not bear my name;
Nor sorrow in my wretchedness,
Nor wither in my shame;
Mine is the misery and the moan,
And I will die-but die alone!"

Him too I saw carried to his narrow dwelling-place. In his latter days he had been regarded by his companions with a kind of superstitious awe; and, as his coffin fell with its solemn, reverberating sound, into its allotted space, the bearers looked upon each other with an expression of conscious mystery, and many shook their heads in silence. I lingered round the spot when they departed, and planted a rose upon his humble mound.

I was to leave the village the next day in order to fix my abode among the haunts of busy men. In the evening, feeling a melancholy which I could not shake off, I took up my hat and wandered towards the churchyard. From a distance I perceived a bright and delicate figure hastily retiring from my approach. I leaned over the remains of the kind, the enthusiastic, the affectionate! The rose which I had planted there glistened beneath the moon: it was not the dew;-it was something more clear, more precious-it was one beautiful tear! I had rather have such a tear on my grave than a pyramid of marble. W. M. P.

STANZAS.

NAY, let us hope! it is not vain

Though many and many a joy be flown:
Sublimer blessings yet remain-

A few rich hearts are still our own;

A few, a very few, whose love

Nor fate nor years from us can sever;
And guiding light from Heaven above;

And Time, that smiles on firm endeavour.

There is a manliness in hope,

It sets the exorcis'd spirit free
To burst the present's cloudy cope,
And breathe in clear futurity.

There, pure from grief, and sin, and toil,
That shade the sky of passing time,
Lies a new world- an untrod soil-
A shadowy Eden, still in prime.
There, all we honour'd, all we lov'd,
More fair, more glorious still appears;
And hopes are crown'd; and faith approv'd;
And peace smiles calm on moonlight years.

And if, 'mid that delicious trance,

We waste one thought on present sorrow,
Its memory serves but to enhance
The blissful vision of to-morrow.

As when the shadowy Good repose,
Lapt on the green Elysian plain,
And dream awhile of earthly woes,
To wake in Heaven more blest again!

ON TRUE FRIENDSHIP.

"Infido scurræ distabit amicus.'

- HORACE.

G. M.

How very seldom do we find any one who has a relish for real Friendship-who can set a due value upon its approbation, and pay a due regard to its censures! Adulation lives, and pleases; Truth dies, and is forgotten. The flattery of the fool is always pungent and delicious; the rebuke of the wise is ever irksome and hateful. Wherefore, then, do we accuse the Fates when they withhold from us the blessings of friendship, if we ourselves have not the capacity for enjoying them?

Schah Sultan Hossein, says an old Persian fable, had two favourites. Mahamood was very designing and smooth-tongued; Selim was very open and plain-spoken. After a space, the intrigues of Mahamood had the upper hand, and Selim was banished from the court. Then Zobeide, the mother of the Sultan's mother, a wise woman, and one learned in all the learning of the Persians, stood before the throne, and spoke thus:

"When I was young I was said to be beautiful. Upon one occasion, a great fête was to be given. The handmaids dressed my hair in an inner apartment. 'Look,' said one, 'how bright are her eyes!' What a complexion,' said another, is upon her cheeks!' What sweetness,' cried a third, in her voice!' I grew sick of all this adulation. I sent my woman from me, and complained to myself bitterly. Why have I not,' I cried, 'some friend on whom I can rely; who will tell me with sincerity when the roses on my cheeks begin to fade, and the darkness of my eyebrows to want colouring? But alas! this is impossible."

6

"As I spoke, a beneficent Genius rose from the ground before me. 'I have brought thee,' he said, what thou didst require: thou shalt no longer have occasion to reproach the Prophet for denying thee that which, if granted, thou wouldst thyself destroy.' So saying, he held forth to me a small locket, and disappeared.

6

"I opened it impatiently. It contained a small plate, in shape like a horseman's shield, but so bright that the brightness of twenty shields would be dim before it: I looked, and beheld every charm upon which I valued myself reflected upon its surface. Delightful Monitor!" I exclaimed, thou shalt ever be my companion; in thee I may safely confide; thou art not mercenary, nor changeable; thou wilt always speak to me the truth-as thou dost now! and I kissed its polish exultingly, and hastened to the fête.

66

Something happened to ruffle my temper, and I returned to the palace out of humour with myself and the

world. I took up my treasure. Heavens! what a change was there! my eyes were red with weeping-my lips distorted with vexation. My beauty was changed into deformity-my dimples were converted into frowns.

Liar!' I cried, in a frenzy of passion, 'what meanest thou by this insolence? art thou not in my power, and dost thou provoke me to wrath?' I dashed my monitor to the earth, and went in search of the consolation of my flatterers!"

Zobeide here ceased. I know not whether the reader will comprehend the application of her narrative. The Sultan did, and Selim was recalled.

MY DEAR EDITOR, HERE I am, on my first introduction to Alma Mater, no longer the Eton Boy, but the Oxford Man. I shall not attempt to describe to you the various speculations which floated around me, as the Defiance bowled along the Henley road, or embody in words the agitating sensations which I felt on descending the heights in the neighbourhood of Oxford. They commanded a panoramic view of those turrets which were to be the future scene of all my hopes and fears; and, as I caught the first glance of Academus, peeping from between the elm groves in which she appears from this quarter to be embowered, it was but likely that certain suggestions of doubt and anxiety should intrude themselves into the company of those high aspirations in which I was in