My native soil! beloved before, TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, EURIPIDES. WHEN fierce conflicting passions urge Absorbs each wish it felt before. But if affection gently thrills The soul, by purer dreams possest, The pleasing balm of mortal ills, In love can soothe the aching breast; If thus, thou com'st in gentle guise, Fair Venus! from thy native heaven, What heart, unfeeling, would despise The sweetest boon the Gods have given? But never from thy golden bow May I beneath the shaft expire, Whose creeping venom, sure and slow, A hapless, banish'd wretch to roam; This very day, this very hour, May I resign this fleeting breath, Nor quit my silent, humble bower; A doom, to me, far worse than death. Have I not heard the exile's sigh? And seen the exile's silent tear? Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, A pensive, weary wanderer here; Ah! hapless dame! no sire bewails, No friend thy wretched fate deplores, No kindred voice with rapture hails Thy steps, within a stranger's doors. Perish the fiend! whose iron heart, To fair affection's truth unknown, Bids her he fondly loved depart, Unpitied, helpless, and alone; The milder treasures of his soul; FUGITIVE PIECES. THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COL LEGE EXAMINATION. HIGH in the midst,surrounded by his peers, MAGNUS his ample front sublime uprears; Placed on his chair of state, he seems a God, While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod; As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dɔme, Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules. Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little versed in any art beside; Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen, Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken. What! though he knows not how his fathers bled, When civil discord piled the fields with dead; When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France; Though, marv'ling at the name of Magna Charta, Yet, well he recollects the laws of Sparta; Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made, While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected | To him, with suppliant smiles, "they bend the head, Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless While distant mitres to their eyes are spread: But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, laid; fame, Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. Such is the youth, whose scientific pate Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, Whilst every staring Graduate would prate They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. Such are the men who learning's treasures guard, Such is their practice, such is their reward; This much, at least, we may presume to say, The premium can't exceed the price they pay The recollection seems, alone, When distant far from you; Though pain, 'tis still a pleasing pain, To trace those days and hours again, And sigh again, adieu! My pensive memory lingers o'er Those scenes regretted ever; The measure of our youth is full, Life's evening-dream is dark and dull, And we may meet-ah! never! As when one parent-spring supplies Our vital streams of weal or woe, Nor mingle as before; Now flow in different channels; Disdaining humbler rural sports, Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts, And shine in Fashion's annals. "Tis mine to waste on love my time, Or vent my reveries in rhyme, Without the aid of Reason; For Sense and Reason (Critics know it) Have quitted every amorous Poet, Nor left a thought to seize on. Poor Little! sweet, melodious bard! Of late esteem'd it monstrous hard, That he, who sang before all, He who the love of love expanded, By dire Reviewers should be branded, As void of wit and moral. And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine, Repine not at thy lot; And Critics are forgot. Still, I must yield those worthies merit, Who chasten, with unsparing spirit, Bad rhymes, and those who write them; And though myself may be the next By critic sarcasm to be vext, I really will not fight them; Perhaps they would do quite as well, Now-1 must return to you, Accept then my concession; My muse admires digression. I think I said 'twould be your fate May regal smiles attend you; If worth can recommend you. Yet, since in danger courts abound, From snares may Saints preserve you; And grant your love or friendship ne'er From any claim a kindred care, But those who best deserve you. Not for a moment may you stray Your tears be tears of joy. Oh! if you wish that happiness And, though some trifling share of praise, GRANTA, A MEDLEY. Αργυρέαις λογχαισι μαχου και παντα Κρατησαις. OH! Could LE SAGE's demon's gift Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls The price of venal votes to pay. Then would I view each rival wight, 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 can occur But very seldom,-now and then They know the Chancellor has got 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 mathematie; Who reads false quantities in Sele, Renouncing every pleasing page The square of the hypothenuse. Still, harmless are these occupations, Which bring together the imprudent; Whose daring revels shock the sight, 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; 'Tis hush'd: What sounds are these I hear? The organ's soft celestial swell Rolls deeply on the listening ear. To this is join'd the sacred song, Our choir would scarcely be excused, To such a set of croaking sinners. If David, when his toils were ended, To us his psalms had ne'er descended, The luckless Israelites, when taken, 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, Therefore, farewell, old GRANTA's spires, LACHIN Y GAIR. LACHIN Y GAIR, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, LOCH NA GARR, towers proudly pre eminent in the Northern Highlands, near la vercauld. One of our modern Tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in GREAT BRITAIN; be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our "Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows: near Lachin y Gairl spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to the following Stanzas. AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! PARENT of golden dreams, Romance! Thy votive train of girls and boys; And, yet, 'tis hard to quit the dreams Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, Where every nymph a goddess seems, Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; While Fancy holds her boundless reign, And all assume a varied hue, "When Virgins seem no longer vain, And even Woman's smiles are true. And must we own thee but a name, A Pylades in every friend? With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway, No more on fancied pinions soar: Romance! disgusted with deceit, Whose silly tears can never flow To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine: With cypress crown'd, array'd in weeds; Who heaves with thee her simple sigh, Whose breast for every bosom bleeds; And call thy sylvan female quire, To mourn a swain for ever gone, Ye genial Nymphs, whose ready tears, Adieu! fond race, a long adieu ! The hour of fate is hovering nigh; Even now the gulf appears in view, Where unlamented you must lie: Oblivion's blackening lake is seen Convulsed by gales you cannot weather, Where you, and eke your gentle queen, Alas! must perish altogether. ELEGY ON NEWSTEAD ABBEY It is the voice of years that are gone! they roll before me with all their deeds. OSSIAN. NEWSTEAD! fast falling, once resplendent dome! Religion's shrine! repentant HENRY'S pride! Of Warriors, Monks, andDames the cloister'd tomb, Whose pensive shades around thy ruins glide: Hail! to thy pile! more honour'd in thy fall, Than modern mansions in their pillar'd state; Proudly majestic frowns thy vaulted hall Scowling defiance on the blasts of fate. |