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My school-friendships were with pastions (for I was always violent), but I do not know that there is one which has endured (to be sure, some have been cut short by death) till now. Letters, 1801, v. 455.)

A tomb in the churchyard at Harrow was so well known to be his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it "Byron's Tomb": and here, they say, he used to sit for hours, wrapt up in thought.-Life, p. 26. Vide P. p. 71.1

[Henry Mossop, who performed Zanga in Young's Revenge.]

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Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried,

Though little vers'd 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 pil'd the fields with dead,

When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,

Or Henry trampled on the crest of France:

Though marvelling 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 laid;

Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,

Of Avon's bard, rememb'ring scarce the

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The slightest motion would displease the Dean;

Whilst every staring Graduate would prate, Against what - he could never imitate.

The man, who hopes t'obtain the promis'd cup,

Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up;

Nor stop, but rattle over every word
No matter what, so it can not be heard:
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the fastest's sure to speak
the best;

Who utters most within the shortest

space,

May, safely, hope to win the wordy race.

The Sons of Science these, who, thus repaid,

Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade;

Where on Cam's sedgy banks, supine, they lie,

Unknown, unhonour'd live - unwept for die:

Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,

They think all learning fix'd within their walls:

In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,

All modern arts affecting to despise; Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's 2 note,

1 Demosthenes.

The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Cambridge; a man whose powers of mind and writings may, perhaps, justify their preference. [Richard Porson (1759-1808).)

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THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine, Than all th' unmeaning protestations Which swell with nonsense, love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it; Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it;

Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,

With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like Lydia
Languish,

And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene's a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
Since Juliet first declar'd her passion)
To form the place of assignation.

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Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;

Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He, surely, in commiseration,
Had chang'd the place of declaration.
In Italy, I've no objection,

Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
There, we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves,
That ever witness'd rural loves;
Then, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I'll be content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, for ever after.'

[First printed, December, 1806.] TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.2 SWEET girl! though only once we met, That meeting I shall ne'er forget;

In the above little piece the author has been 1 rused by some candid readers of introducing he name of a lady [Julia Leacroft] from whom was some hundred miles distant at the time was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept long in the tomb of all the Capulets," has een converted, with a trifling alteration of her time, into an English damsel, walking in a parden of their own creation during the month

December, in a village where the author never posed a winter. Such has been the candour

some ingenious critics. We would advise Itse liberal commentators on taste and arbiters et derorum to read Shakespeare.

Having heard that a very severe and intrate censure has been passed on the above prea, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, Carr's Stranger in France. Ed 1803, cap. xvi., p. 171.] "As we were templating a painting on a large scale, in , among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior. a prudish-looking Ay, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party that Lere was a great deal of indecorum in that ure. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in year that the indecorum was in the remark.'"'

Whom the author saw at Harrowgate." -MS. Note]

And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain;
I would not say, "I love," but still,
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What, though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels;
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers'd,
And all our bosoms felt rehears'd,
No spirit, from within, reprov'd us,
Say rather, "'twas the spirit mov'd us."
Though, what they utter'd, I repress,
Yet I conceive thou'lt partly guess;
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night,
through day;

Awake, with it my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne'er forget.

Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care:
"May Heaven so guard my lovely
quaker,

That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her, each hour, new joys discover,

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