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THE HERMIT IN OSCOTT.

NUMBER VII.

Accipite hæc animis, lætasque advertite mentes;
Nemo ex hoc numero milft non donatus abibit.

VIRGIL.

MR. EDITOR,

When you first commenced your literary career, amidst the applauding shouts of your eager companions; when emerging, like a newly rigged vessel from the harbour of security, you embarked -fearlessly embarked, on the uncertain, but more frequently tempestuous sea of public opinion, the eye of jealousy was opened on your exertions, and the Argus of Dissention arousing every sleeping energy within him, boldly started up to scrutinize each tittle of your conduct, and whelm, if possible, the whole of your fortunes beneath the waves on which they floated.

Simple as should be the language--and unstudied the effusion of an aged and decripid individual, still is it difficult, on some occasions to repress the enthusiasm throbbing within us, and the voice of mataphor will sometimes unavoidably break forth amidst the cheerless efforts of declining years, and the cold, insipid whisperings of hoary age. Such an occasion now presents itself; and if my accents fashion themselves into bolder speech and more animated harangue, it is to present to you, in a

more agreeable form, my small token of approval, and slender pittance of warm congratulation.

Á twelvemonth, with its smiles, its frowns,-its hopes, its disappointments, has found you, at its close, no less active, vigilant, and energetic, than at the commencement of its progress. May the omen be favourable;—may it promise that continuation of vigour and perseverance, which, whilst it entwines your brows with the verdant laurel of early improvement, may add another illustrious gem to the glittering coronal, which, like a halo of transcendent splendour, enwreathes the temples of Oscott's genius! Such is the anxious wish, and, let me add, the fondest anticipation of

Your faithful friend,.

THE HERMIT IN OSCOTT.

P. S.--In your last number appeared a few lines from the pen of the HERMIT IN OSCOTT; the unmerited kindness with which they were received, induces the author to give publication to a second copy, which was written about fifty years ago, whilst travelling in the north of Britain.. On one of those lovely mornings of hilarity and sunshine, which, in romantic countries, are calculated to impart a feeling of most exquisite delicacy to the poetic mind, the writer of the subjoined trifle found himself amongst the wildest, but most picturesque scenery of the highlands, bereaved of friends, hopeless of comfort, and in a vain search for ideal happiness..

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The charms of renascent verdure, which the surrounding country presented, formed so glaring a contrast to the barrenness and desolation which reigned within his soul, that he could not help giving utterance to the feelings of the moment, by which means, if the pangs of interior convulsion were not entirely smothered, the keenest sufferings of the heart were at least lulled into a temporary and refreshing slumber. The verses now remind him of times that are gone, and afford a pleasing retrospect to a bosom, which, at last, rejoices to find itself in a situation, where all its hopes are realized and all its wants contented.

THE sun is laughing in the sky,

And dancing o'er the swelling sea,

All nature brightens smilingly,

But not for me, but not for me.

The cuckoo's voice from yonder grove
Repeats its mellowed minstrelsy;

Warbles the lark its tale of love,
But not for me, but not for me.

The playful lamb skips o'er the green,
Twitters the wren from tree to tree,

Soft Echo flings its notes between,

e-but not for me.

But not for me—

The rosebud rising on its stem

Woos the caresses of the bee,

Whilst breezes waft their sweets to them,

e-but not for me.

But not for me—

No! not for me the landscape gleams,
Nor warblers pour their notes of glee,

And though the earth with joyaunce streams,
Tis not for me-tis not for me.

There is a sadness of the heart

When pines the soul in

agony,

Then minstrels may their strains impart,
But not for me-but not for me.

No! earth may bloom and Heaven may smile,
And brooklets ripple murmuringly,

And violets shed their scent the while,
But not for me, but not for me.

But let the streamlet murmur on,
Let Echo answer whisperingly,
Why break the chord-though not a tone
Is waked for me-is waked for me.

DE RESURRECTIONE CHRISTI.

Hoc die Christus tumulum reliquit ;
Contudit mortem, et superavit Orcum,

Ferreas portas Erebi resolvit,

Hoste triumphans.

Terruit Regis vigiles, et omne
Oppidum Jordanis aquis rigatum

Diruit, victisque dolis regit nunc
Sceptra tenetque.

Christiani nunc lacrymas tepentes
Comprimant, nam de tumulo resurgit
Christus in vitam, remanetque nobis
Tempus in ævum.

O fideles Christicolæ nefandis
Dicere extremum vale nunc volate;
Cum Deo nunc surgite, vincla mortis
Frangite tandem.

Præparate in cordibus absque mora
Astrium vestro Domino, et cavete
Ne malis unquam renovetis atris
Supplicia ejus.

O Deus cælos superos repente

Scandere, et nos linquere jam cruentis
Hostibus noli; maneas parumper

Pectora firmans.

Jam globum spissæ tenebræ aculare
Copiunt, fulvulsque leo recessus
Linquit, exquirens animas redemptas
Perdere nostras.

Da redemptis pellere robur ingens
Illius monstri exitialis, atque

Parvulam plebem tibi nunc reserva

Christe benigne.

GRANDPIETENSIS EQUES.

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