Thee, on whose head a few short years will shower One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
The gift of riches, and the pride of power

And callid, proud boast I the British drama forth, Een now a name illustrious is thine own,

Another view, not less renown'd for wit; Renown'd in rank, nor far beneath the throne. Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit; Yet, Dorset, let not this seduce thy soul

Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine; To shun fair science, or evade control,

In every splendid part ordain'd to shine: Though passive tutors, fearful to dispraise

Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng, The titled child, whose future breath may raise. The pride of princes, and the boast of song. View ducal errors with indulgent eyes,

Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their naine ; And wink at faults they tremble to chastise.

Not heir to titles only, but to fame.

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close, When youthful parasites, who bend the knee To me, this little scene of joys and woes; To wealth, their golden idol, not to thee-

Each knell of Time now warns ms to resign And even in simple boyhood's opening dawn

Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were Some slaves are found to fatter and to fawn

mine : When these declare, 'that pomp alone should wait Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue, On one by birth predestined to be great ;

And gild their pinions as the moments flew; That books were only meant for drudging fools, Peace, that reflection never frown d away, That gallant spirits scorn the common rules;'

By dreams of ill to cloud some future day : : Believe them not;—they point the path to shame, Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell; And seek to blast the honours of thy name.

Alas ! they love not long, who love so well. Turn to the few in Ida's early throng,

To these adieu ! nor let me linger o'er Whose souls disdain not to condemn the wrong;

Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore, Or if, amidst the comrades of thy youth,

Receding slowly through the dark blue deep, None dare to raise the sterner voice of truth,

Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep. Ask thine own heart; 'twill bid thee, boy, for

will bid thee. bov. for. Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part bear :

Of sad remembrance in so young a heart; For well I know that virtue lingers there.

The coming morrow from thy youthful mind

Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind. Yes! I have mark'd thee many a passing day, And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year, But now new scenes invite me far away;

Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Yes! I have mark d within that generous mind Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
A soul, if well matured, to bless mankind.

May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
Ah! though myself by nature haughty, wild, We hence may meet, and pass each other by,
Whom Indiscretion hail'd her favourite child : With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
Though every error stamps me for her own,
And dooms my fall, I fain would fall alone;

For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
Though my proud heart no precept now can tame, A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe,
I love the virtues which I cannot claim.

With thee no more again I hope to trace

The recollection of our early race; 'Tis not enough, with other sons of power,

No more, as once, in social hours rejoice, To gleam the lambent meteor of an hour ;

Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice: To swell some peerage page in feeble pride,

Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught With long-drawn names that grace no page beside;

To veil those feelings which perchance it ought, Then share with titled crowds the common lot

If these--but let me cease the lengthen'd strain In life just gazed at, in the grave forgot:

Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain, While nought divides thee from the vulgar dead,

The guardian seraph who directs thy fate Except the dull cold stone that hides thy head,

Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great. The mouldering 'scutcheon, or the herald's roll, That well-emblazon'd but neglected scroll, Where lords, unhonour'd, in the tomb may find One spot, to leave a worthless name behind.

FRAGMENT. There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults, WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,

MISS CHAWORTH. .. ., In records destined never to be read. Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,

HILLS of Annesley ! bleak and barren, Exalted more among the good and wise,

Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd, A glorious and a long career pursue,

How the northern tempests, warring,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:

Howl above thy tufted shade!
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.

Now no more, the hours beguiling,

Former favourite haunts I see ; Turn to the annals of a former day;

Now no more my Mary smiling Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display.

Makes ye seem a heaven to me.

GRANTA: A MEDLEY

Renouncing every pleasing page

From authors of historic use; 'Αργυρέαις λόγχαισιμάχου και πάντα Κρατήσεις. Preferring to the letter'd sage,

The square of the hypothenuse.
OH! could Le Sage's demon's gift*
Be realized at my desire,

Still, harmless are these occupations,
This night my trembling form he'd lift

That hurt none but the hapless student,
To place it on St. Mary's spire.

Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent.
Then would, unroofd, old Granta's halls
Pedantic inmates full display;

Whose daring revels shock the sight,
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,

When vice and infamy combine,
The price of venal votes to pay,

When drunkenness and dice invite,

As every sense is steep'd in wine.
Then would I view each rival wiglit,
Petty and Palmerston survey ;

Not so the methodistic crew,
Who canvass there with all their might,

Who plans of reformation lay:
Against the next elective day.

In humble attitude they sue,

And for the sins of others pray:
Lol candidates and voters lie
All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number:

Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
A race renown'd for piety,

Their exultation in their trial,
Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.

Detracts most largely from the merit

Of all their boasted self-denial.
Lord H , indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage reflecting inen:

'Tis morn from these I turn my sight. They know preferment can occur

What scene is this which meets the eye!
But very seldom-now and then,

A numerous crowd, array'd in white,

Across the green in numbers fly.
They know the Chancellor has got
Some pretty livings in disposal :

Loud rings in air the chapel bell ;
Each hopes that one inay be his lot,

'Tis hush'd-what sounds are these I hear? And therefore smiles on his proposal.

The organ's soft celestial swell

Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear.
Now from the soporific scene
I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later,

To this is join'd the sacred song,
To view, unheeded and unseen,

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
The studious sons of Alma Mater.

Though he who hears the music long

Will never wish to hear again.
There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes

Our choir would scarcely be excused,
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;

Even as a band of raw beginners;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.

All mercy now must be refused

To such a set of croaking sinners.
He surely well deserves to gain them,
With all the honours of his college,

If David, when his toils were ended,
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,

Had heard these blockheads sing before him, Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:

To us his psalms had ne'er descended

In furious mood he would have tore 'em.
Who sacrifices hours of rest

The luckless Israelites, when taken
To scan precisely metres Attic;

By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Or agitates his anxious breast

Were asked to sing, by joy forsaken,
In solving problems mathematic:

On Babylonian river's border

Who reads false quantities in Seale,t

Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;

Inspired by stratagem or fear,
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;

They might have set their hearts at ease,
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle:

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.

But if I scribble longer now, * The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus,

The deuce á soul will stay to read: the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situa My pen is blunt, my ink is low; tion, and unroofs the houses for inspection.

'Tis almost time to stop, indee + Seale's publication on Greek Metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy:

* The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of 1. The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other and is not very intelligible,

two sides of a right-angled triangle,

Therefore, farewe!l, old Granta's spires: I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elato No more, like Cleofas, I fly :

me, No more thy theme my muse inspires:

Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew I The reader's tired, and so am I.

Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,

She placed it, sad, with needless fear, When lo ! she changes in a day.

Lest time might shake my wavering soul, This record will for ever stand,

Unconscious that her image there
Woinan ! thy vows are traced in sand."*

Held every sense in fast control.
Through hours, through years, through time 'twül

cheer;
TO M. S. G.

My hope in gloomy moments raise;
WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely for.! In life's last conflict 'twill appear,
give :

And meet my fond expiring gaze.
Extend not your anger to sleep;
For in visions alone your affection can live-
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

TO LESBIA.

LESBIA! since far from you I've ranged, Then, Morpheus ! envelope my faculties fast,

Our souls with fond affection glow not ; Shed o'er me your languor benign;

You say 'tis I, not you, have changed, Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,

I'd tell you why-but yet I know not. What rapture celestial is mine!

Your polish'd brow no cares have crost; They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

And, Lesbia! we are not much older Mortality's emblem is given :

Since, trembling, first my heart I lost, To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,

Or told my love, with hope grown bolder. If this be a foretaste of heaven!

Sixteen was then our utmost age, Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,

Two years have lingering pass'd away, love! Nor deem me too happy in this;

And now new thoughts our minds engage, If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,

At least I feel disposed to stray, love! Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.

'Tis I that am alone to blame, Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may

I that am guilty of love's treason; smile,

Since your sweet breast is still the same, Oh! think not iny penance deficient !

Caprice must be my only reason. When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile,

I do not, love ! suspect your truth, To awake will be torture sufficient.

With jealous doubt my bosom heaves not;
Warm was the passion of my youth,

One trace of dark deceit it leaves not.
TO MARY,

No, no, my flame was not pretended;
ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE,

For, oh! I loved you most sincerely ;

And-though our dream at last is ended
This faint resemblance of thy charms,

My bosom still esteems you dearly.
Though strong as mortal art could give,
My constant heart of fear disarins,

No more we meet in yonder bowers;
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

Absence has made me prone to roving!

But older, firmer hearts than ours
Here I can trace the locks of gold,

Have found monotony in loving.
Which round thy snowy forehead wave,

Your cheek's soft bloom is unimpair'd,
The cheeks which sprung from beauty's mould,
The lips which made me beauty's slave.

New beauties still are daily brightning ;

Your eye for conquest beams prepared,
Here I can trace-ah, no! that eye,

The forge of love's resistless lightning.
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,

Arm'd thus, to make their bosoms bleed,
Must all the painter's art defy,

Many will throng to sigh like me, love!
And bid hiin from the task retire.

More constant they may prove, indeed;

Fonder, alas ! they ne'er can be, love!
Here I behold its beauteous hue;

But where's the beam so sweetly straying,
Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Like Luna o'er the ocean playing?

LINES ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY, Sweet copy ! far more dear to me,

WHO HAD BEEN ALARMED BY A BULLET FIRED Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,

BY THE AUTHOR WHILE DISCHARGING HIS Than all the living fornis could be,

PISTOLS IN A GARDEN.
Save her who placed thee next my heart.

DOUBTLESS, sweet girl! the hissing lead,

Wafting destruction o'er thy charms, * This line is almost a literal translation from a

And hurtling o'er thy lovely head, Spanish proverb.

Has fill'd that breast with fond alarms.

Surely some envious demon's force,

Vex'd to behold such beauty here, Impellid the bullet's viewless course,

Diverted from its first career.

Yes! in that nearly fatal hour

The ball obey'd some hell-born guide ; But Heaven, with interposing power,

In pity turn'd the death aside.

Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear stea its way

Down a cheek which outrivals thy bosom in huc Yet why do I ask?-to distraction a prey.

Thy reason has perish'd with love's last adieu !
Oh! who is yon misanthrope, shunning mankind!

From cities to caves of the forest he few :
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;

The mountains reverberate love's last a dicu !
Now hate rules a heart which in love's easy chains

Once passion's tumultuous blandishments knew, Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins;

He ponders in frenzy on love's last adieu !

Yet, as perchance one trembling tear

Upon that thrilling bosom fell; Which I, th' unconscious cause of fear,

Extracted from its glistening cell:

Say, what dire penance can atone

For such an outrage done to thee? Arraign'd before thy beauty's throne,

What punishment wilt thou decree?

How he envies the wretch with a soul wrapt in steel !

His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few, Who laughs at the pang which he never can feel,

And dreads not the anguish of love's last adieu!

Choose then, relentless I and I swear
Nought shall thy dread decree prevent;

DAMÆTAS.
Yet hold-one little word forbear!

IN law an infant, and in ycars a boy,*
Let it be aught but banishment.

In mind a slave to every vicious joy ;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd;

In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
LOVE'S LAST ADIEU.

Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;

Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
'Act, 8' del je pevyel.-ANACREON. Woman his dupe, his heedless friend a tool ;

Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school; THE roses of love glad the garden of life,

Damätas ran through all the maze of sin, Though nurtured 'mid weeds dropping pestilent

And found the goal when others just begin ; dew,

Even still conflicting passions shake his soul, Till time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,

And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl ; Or prunes them for ever, in love's last adieu.

But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain, In vain with endearments we soothe the sad heart,

| And what was once his bliss appears his bane. In vain do we vow for an age to be true; The chance of an hour may command us to part, Or death disunite us in love's last adieu !

TO MARION.

MARION! why that pensive brow? Still Hope, breathing peace through the grief-swollen

What disgust to life hast thou ? breast,

Change that discontented air ; Will whisper, 'Our meeting we yet may renew :'

Frowns become not one so fair. With this dream of deceit half our sorrow's represt,

'Tis not love disturbs thy rest, Nor taste we the poison of love's last adieu !

Love's a stranger to thy breast; Oh ! mark you yon pair: in the sunshine of youth

He in dimpling smiles appears, Love twined round their childhood his flowers as

Or mourns in sweetly timid tears, they grew; They flourish awhile in the season of truth,