FRIEND of my youth! when young we roved, Like striplings mutually beloved,

With Friendship's purest glow;

The bliss which wing'd those rosy hours,
Was such as pleasure seldom showers
On mortals here below.

The recollection seems, alone,
Dearer than all the joys I 've known,

When distant far from you;

Though pain, 't is still a pleasing pain,
To trace those days and hours again,
And sigh again, Adieu!

My pensive memory lingers o'er
Those scenes to be enjoy'd no more,

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,
Two streams, which from one fountain rise,

Together join'd in vain;

How soon, diverging from their source,
Each murmuring seeks another course,

Till mingled in the main.

Our vital streams of weal or woe,
Though near, alas! distinctly flow,

Nor mingle as before;
Now swift or slow, now black or clear,
Till death's unfathom'd gulph appear,
And both shall quit the shore.

Our souls, my Friend! which once supplied
One wish, nor breathed a thought beside,
Now flow in different channels;
Disdaining humbler rural sports,
T is yours to mix in polish'd courts,
And shine in Fashion's annals.

T is 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.

subsequently (I had almost said CONSEQUENTLY) the honour of representing the University: a fact so glaring requires no comment.

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,
Harmonious favourite of the Nine!

Repine not at thy lot;

Thy soothing lays may still be read,
When Persecution's arm is dead,

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;2
Perhaps they would do quite as well,
To break the rudely sounding shell
Of such a young beginner;
He who offends at pert nineteen,
Ere thirty, may become, I ween,
A very harden'd sinner.

I must return to you, And sure apologies are due;

Accept then my concession;

In truth, dear,
-, in fancy's flight,

I soar along from left to right,
My muse admires digression.

I think I said 't would be
your
To add one star to royal state;

fate

May regal smiles attend you: And should a noble Monarch reign, You will not seek his smiles in vain,

If worth can recommend you. Yet, since in danger courts abound, Where specious rivals glitter round,

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
From Truth's secure unerring way,

May no delights decoy;
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy.

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow:
Be, still, as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you 've been known to me,
Be, still, as you are now.

These Stanzas were written soon after the appearance of a severe critique in a Northern review, on a new publication of the British Anacreon.

2 A Bard (horresco referens) defied his reviewer to mortal combat. If this example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipt in the river Styx, for what else can secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants?

On! Could LE SAGE'S' demon's gift

Be realized at my desire,

This night my trembling form he 'd lift,
To place it on St Mary's spire.

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls
Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn, or stalls,
The price of venal votes to pay.

Then would I view each rival wight,

P-tty and P-Im-st-n survey;

Who canvass there with all their might,
Against the next elective day.

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

Some pretty livings in disposal;
Each hopes that one may be his lot,

And, therefore, smiles on his proposal.

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 mathematic;

Who reads false quantities in Sele,

Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle,

Deprived of many a wholesome meal,

In barbarous Latin3 doom'd to wrangle;

↑ The Diable Boiteux of La S.an, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for his inspection.

* Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considera! le talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy.

Renouncing every pleasing page

From authors of historic use; Preferring to the letter'd sage

The square of the hypothenuse. Still, harmless are these occupations, That hurt none but the hapless student, Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent; Whose daring revels shock the sight,

When vice and infamy combine, When drunkenness and dice unite,

And every sense is steep'd in wine. 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 joined the sacred song,

The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long
Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would scarcely be excused,
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refused

To such a set of croaking sinners.

If David, when his toils were ended,

Had heard these blockheads sing before him,

To us his psalms had ne'er descended,

In furious mood he would have tore 'em.

The luckless Israelites, when taken

By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.
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,

The deuce a soul will stay to read;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low,

'T is almost time to stop indeed.
Therefore, farewell, old GRANTA's spires,
No more like Cleofas, I fly;
No more thy theme my Muse inspires,
The reader's tired, and so am I.

1806.

The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled tri

On a Saint day the students wear surplices in chapel.

LACHIN Y GAIR.

LACHINY GAIR, or, as it is pronoun ed in the Erse, Loon Na Gann, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. 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 bue, ut the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I 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!

In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks where the snow-tlake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war, Though cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth-llowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd,

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid; '
On chieftains long perish'd my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade:
I sought not my home till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For Fancy was cheer'd by traditional story
Disclosed by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
« Shades of the dead! have I not heard
your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale ?»
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind o'er his own Highland vale: Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Wister presides in his cold icy car;

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr. Ill-starr'd, though brave, did no visions foreboding Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause?» Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden, 3

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause: Still were you happy, in deaths early slumber

You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar; The Pibroch resounds to the piper's loud number

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr. Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you; Years must clapse ere I tread you again;

you,

Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft
Yet, still, are you dearer than Albions plain,
England thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved on the mountains afar;
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!

This word is erroneously pronounced PLAD: the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shown by the orthography,

21 allude here to my maternal ancestors, th Gonposs, many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the STEWARTS. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annal ella Stewart, daughter of James the First of Scotland; by her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.

3 Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not certain; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, pars pro toto,"

A tract of the Highlands so called; there is also a Castle o Braemar.

5 The Lagpipe.

TO ROMANCE.

PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious queen of childish joys!
Who lead'st along, in airy dance,

Thy votive train of girls and boys:
At length, in spells no longer bound,
I break the fetters of my youth;
No more I tread thy mystic round,

But leave thy realms for those of Truth. And yet, 't is hard to quit the dreams Which haunt the unsuspicious soul, Where every nymph a goddess seems,

Whose eyes through rays immortal roll; While Faucy 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,

And from thy hall of clouds descend;
Nor find a sylph in every dame,
A Pylades in every
friend?
But leave, at once, thy realms of air,

To mingling bands of firy elves:
Confess that woman's false as fair,

And friends have feelings for-themselves.
With shame, I own, I've felt thy sway,
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er;

No more thy precepts 1 obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar:
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,

And think that eve to Truth was dear,
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear.
Romance! disgusted with deceit,

Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her scat,

And sickly Sensibility;
Whose silly te irs can never flow

For any pangs excepting thine;
Who turns aside from real woe,

To steep in dew thy gaudy shrine:
Now join with sable sympathy,

With cypress crown'd, arrayed 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,
Who once could glow with equal fire,

But bends not now before thy throne.
Ye genial nymphs, whose ready tears,
On all occasions, swiftly flow;
Whose bosoms heave with fancied fears,

With fancied flames and frenzy glow:
Say, will you mourn my absent name,
Apostate from your gentle train?
An infant Bard, at least, may claim
From you a sympathetic strain.

It is hardly necessary to add, that Pylades was the com; anion of Orestes, and a partner in one of those friendships which, with those of Achilles and Pa roz us, Visus and Euryalos, Damon and Pythias, have been handed down to posterity as remarkable instances of attachments which, in all ro ability, never existed, beyond the imagination of the poet, the page of an historian, or modern novelist.

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, and dames 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 blast of fate.

No mail-clad serfs,3 obedient to their lord,
In grim array, the crimson cross 4 demand,
Or gay assemble round the festive board,

Their chief's retainers, an immortal band.

Else might inspiring Fancy's magic eye
Retrace their progress, through the lapse of time;
Marking each ardent youth, ordain'd to die,
A votive pilgrim, in Judea's clime.

But not from thee, dark pile! departs the Chief,
His feudal realm in other regions lay;
In thee, the wounded conscience courts relief,
Retiring from the garish blaze of day.
Yes, in thy gloomy cells and shades profound,
The monk abjured a world he ne'er could view;
Or blood-stain'd Guilt repenting solace found,
Or Innocence from stern Oppression flew.

A monarch bade thee from that wild arise,
Where Sherwood's outlaws once were wont to prowl;
And Superstition's crimes, of various dyes,

Sought shelter in the priest's protecting cowl.
Where now the grass exhales a murky dew,
The humid pall of life-extinguish'd clay,
In sainted fame the sacred fathers grew,

Nor raised their pious voices, but to pray.
Where now the bats their wavering wings extend,
Soon as the gloaming spreads her waning shade,
The choir did oft their mingling vespers blend,
Or matin orisons to Mary paid.

↑ As one poem on this subject is printed in the beginning, the author bad originally no intention of inserting the following, it is now added at the particular request of some friends.

* Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas-aBeekert.

This word is used by Walter Scott, in his poem, The Wild Huntsman, as synonymous with Vassal.

• The Red Cross was the badge of the Crusaders.

* As Gloaming, the Scottish word for Twilight, is far more poetical, and has been recommended by many eminent literary men, particularly Dr Moore, in his Letters to Baras, I have ventured to use it on account of its harmony.

The Priory was dedicated to the Virgin.

Years roll on years-to ages, ages yield—
Abbots to abbots in a line succeed,
Religion's charter their protecting shield,

Till royal sacrilege their doom decreed,
One holy HENRY rear'd the Gothie walls,

And bade the pious inmates rest in peace;
Another HENRY' the kind gift recals,

And bids devotion's hallow'd echoes cease.
Vain is each threat, or supplicating prayer,
He drives them exiles from their blest abode,
To roam a dreary world, in deep despair,-

No friend, no home, no refuge but their God.
Hark! how the hall, resounding to the strain,
Shakes with the martial music's novel din !
The heralds of a warrior's haughty reign,
High-crested banners, wave thy walls within.

Of changing sentinels the distant hum,
The mirth of feasts, the clang of burnish'd arms,
The braying trumpet, and the hoarser drum,
Unite in concert with increased alarms.

An abbey once, a regal fortress 2 now,
Encircled by insulting rebel powers;

War's dread machines o'erhang thy threatening brow,
And dart destruction in sulphureous showers..

Ah! vain defence! the hostile traitor's siege,
Though oft repulsed, by guile o'ercomes the brave;
His thronging foes oppress the faithful liege,
Rebellion's reeking standards o'er him wave.
Not unavenged, the raging baron yields,

The blood of traitors smears the purple plain;
Unconquer'd still his faulchion there he wields,
And days of glory yet for him remain.
Still, in that hour the warrior wish'd to strew
Self-gather d laurels on a self-sought grave;
But Charles' protecting genius hither flew,

The monarch's friend, the monarch's hope, to save.
Trembling she snatch'd him3 from the unequal strife,
In other fields the torrent to repel,
For nobler combats here reserved his life,

To lead the band where godlike FALKLAND 4 fell. From thee, poor pile! to lawless plunder given, While dying groans their painful requiem sound, Far different incense now ascends to heavenSuch victims wallow on the gory ground. There, many a pale and ruthless robber's corse, Noisome and ghast, defiles thy sacred sod; O'er mingling man, and horse commix'd with horse, Corruption's heap, the savage spoilers trod. Graves, long with rank and sighing weeds o'erspread, Ransack'd, resign perforce their mortal mould; From ruffian fangs escape not e'en the dead, Raked from repose, in search of buried gold.

At the Dissolution of the Monasteries, Henry VIII. bestowed Newstead Abbey on Sir John Byron,

• Newstead sustained a considerable siege in the war between Charles I. and his Parliament.

Lord Byron and his brother Sir William held high commands in the royal army; the former was General in Chief in Ireland, Lieutenant of the Tower, and Governor to James Duke of York, afterwards the unhappy James II. The latter had a principal share in many actions. Vide Clarendon, Hume, etc.

Lucius Cary, Lord Viscount Falkland, the most accomplished man of his age, was killed at the battle of Newberry, charging in the ranks of Lord Byron's regiment of cavalry.

Hush'd is the harp, unstrung the warlike lyre,
The minstrel's palsied hand reclines in death;
No more he strikes the quivering chords with fire,
Or sings the glories of the martial wreath.
At length, the sated murderers, gorged with prey,
Retire the clamour of the fight is o'er;
Silence again resumes her awful sway,

And sable Horror guards the massy door.
Here Desolation holds her dreary court;

What satellites declare her dismal reign!
Shrieking their dirge, ill-omened birds resort
To flit their vigils in the hoary fane.
Soon a new morn's restoring beams dispel
The clouds of anarchy from Britain's skies
The fierce usurper seeks his native hell,

And Nature triumphs as the tyrant dies.
With storms she welcomes his expiring groans,
Whirlwinds responsive greet his labouring breath;
Earth shudders as her cave receives his bones,
Loathing' the offering of so dark a death.
The legal Ruler now resumes the helm,

He guides through gentle seas the prow of state Hope cheers with wonted smiles the peaceful realm, And heals the bleeding wounds of wearied Hate. The gloomy tenants, Newstead, of thy cells, Howling resign their violated nest; Again the master on his tenure dwells,

Enjoy'd, from absence, with enraptured zest.
Vassals within thy hospitable pale,

Loudly carousing, bless their lord's return;
Culture again adorns the gladdening vale,
And matrons, once lamenting, cease to mourn.

A thousand songs on tuneful echo float,

Unwonted foliage mantles o'er the trees; And, hark! the horns proclaim a mellow note, The hunter's cry hangs lengthening on the breeze. Beneath their coursers' hoofs the valleys shake: What fears, what anxious hopes attend the chase! The dying stag seeks refuge in the lake,

Exulting shouts announce the finish'd race. Ah! happy days! too happy to endure!

Such simple sports our plain forefathers knew: No splendid vices glitter'd to allure

Their joys were many, as their cares were few. From these descending, sons to sires succeed,

Time steals along, and Death uprears his dart; Another chief impels the foaming steed,

Another crowd pursue the panting hart.
Newstead! what saddening change of scene is thine!
Thy yawning arch betokens slow decay;
The last and youngest of a noble line

Now holds thy mouldering turrets in his sway.
Deserted now,
he scans thy gray-worn towers-
Thy vaults, where dead of feudal ages sleep-

This is an historical fact. A violent tempest occurred immediately subsequent to the death, or interment, of Cromwell, which occasioned many disputes between his partisans and the cavaliers; both interpreted the circumstance into divine interposition, but whether as approbation or condemnation, we leave to the casuists of that age to decide. I have made such use of the occurrence as suited the subject of my poem.

2 Charles II.

Thy cloisters, pervious to the wintry showers-
These, these he views, and views them but to weep.
Yet are his tears no emblem of regret,

Cherish'd affection only bids them flow;
Pride, Hope, and Love forbid him to forget,
But warm his bosom with impassion'd glow.
Yet, he prefers thee to the gilded domes,

Or gewgaw grottoes of the vainly great;
Yet lingers mid thy damp and mossy tombs,
Nor breathes a murmur 'gainst the will of fate.
Haply thy sun emerging yet may shine,

Thee to eradiate with meridian ray;
Ilours splendid as the past may still be thine,
And bless thy future as thy former day.

TO E. N. L. ESQ.

Nil ego contulerim jucundo sanus amico.

DEAR L——, in this sequester'd scene,

While all around in slumber lie,
The joyous days which ours have been
Come rolling fresh on Fancy's eye:
Thus, if amidst the gathering storm,
While clouds the darken'd noon deform,
You heaven assumes a varied glow,
I hail the sky's celestial bow,
Which spreads the sign of future peace,
And bids the war of tempests cease.
Ah! though the present brings but pain,
I think those days may come again;
Or if, in melancholy mood,
Some lurking envious fear intrude,
To check my bosom's fondest thought,
And interrupt the golden dream;

I crush the fiend with malice fraught,
And still indulge my wonted theme.
Although we ne'er again can trace,

In Granta's vale, the pedant's lore,
Nor, through the groves of IDA, chase
Our raptured visions as before;
Though Youth has flown on rosy pinion,
And Manhood claims his stern dominion,
Age will not every hope destroy,
But yield some hours of sober joy.

Yes, I will hope that Time's broad wing
Will shed around some dews of spring;
fut, if his scythe must sweep the flowers
Which bloom among the fairy bowers,
Where smiling Youth delights to dwell,
And hearts with early rapture swell;
If frowning Age, with cold control,
Confines the current of the soul,
Congeals the tear of Pity's eye,
Or checks the sympathetic sigh,
Or hears unmoved Misfortune's groan,
And bids me feel for self alone;
Oh! may my bosom never learn,

To sooth its wonted heedless flow,
Still, still, despise the censor stern,

But ne'er forget another's woe.
Yes, as you knew me in the days
Oer which Remembrance yet delays,

HOR. E.