Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,

And gild their pinions as the moments flew; Peace, that reflection never frown'd away, By dreams of ill to cloud some future day; Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell,

Alas! they love not long, who love so well. To these adieu! nor let me linger o'er Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,

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Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep, Beheld by eyes that mourn yet cannot weep. Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part Of sad remembrance in so young a heart; The coming morrow from thy youthful mind

Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.

And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,

Since the same senate, nay, the same debate, May one day claim our suffrage for the state,

We hence may meet, and pass each other by,
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe, 101
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe,
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known
voice.

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught
To veil those feelings which perchance it
ought,

If these, but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,

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 Seale,
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle:
Renouncing every pleasing page
From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage,
The square of the hypothenuse.

30

40

What scene is this which meets the

60

ing;

But how much cursed by every lover
When hope is fled and passion's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth!
Fondly we hope 't will last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,
'Woman, thy vows are traced in sand.'

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;

Extend not your anger to sleep; For in visions alone your affection can live,

I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelope my faculties fast,

Shed o'er me your languor benign; Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,

What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

Mortality's emblem is given; To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,

If this be a foretaste of heaven!