'EXAMINATION.

HIGH in the midst, surrounded by his peers, Magnus his ample front sublime uprears: Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god, While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod. As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom, His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome; Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools, Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little versed 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 piled 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 remembering scarce the name.
Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even perhaps the declamation prize,
If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope.
Not that our heads much eloquence require,
Th' Athenian's glowing style, or Tully's fire.
A manner clear or warm is useless, since
We do not try by speaking to convince.
Be other orators of pleasing proud,-

We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd:

Our gravity prefers the muttering tone:
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan:
No borrow'd grace of action must be seen;
The slightest motion would displease the Dean;
While every staring graduate would prate
Against what he could never imitate."

The man who hopes t'obtain the promised 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 note,

More than the verse on which the critic wrote:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel
When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal.

Whether 'tis Pitt or Petty rules the hour; To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,

While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. But should a storm o'erwhelm him with dis

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.
SWEET girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
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 conversed,
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, "twas the spirit moved 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:

Which stings the soul with vain regret Of him who never can forget!"

THE CORNELIAN.

No specious splendour of this stone
Endears it to my memory ever;
With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.
Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,
Have for my weakness oft reproved me;
Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure the giver loved me.
He offer'd it with downcast look,
As fearful that I might refuse it;
I told him, when the gift I took,

My only fear should be to lose it.
This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near,
Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,
And ever since I've loved a tear.
Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield;
But he who seeks the flowers of truth
Must quit the garden for the field.
"Tis not the plant uprear'd in sloth,

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume;
The flowers which yield the most of both
In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.
Had Fortune aided Nature's care,

For once forgetting to be blind,
His would have been an ample share,
If well proportioned to his mind.
But had the goddess clearly seen,

His form had fix'd her fickle breast;
Her countless hoards would his have been,
And none remain'd to give the rest.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF THE "WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.

SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect:
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;

No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new:
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly:
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your

praise;

But all our dramatis persona wait
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward.

545

For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind:
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive

ON THE DEATH OF MR FOX. THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER. "Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath: These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue, We give the palm where justice points it's due."

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY.

O FACTIOUS viper! whose envenom'd tooth Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth; What though our "nation's foes" lament the

fate,

With generous feeling, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame?
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead."
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;
He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state;
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruin'd fabric rear'd;
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let sense and truth un-

clue,

To give the palm where justice points it's due;" Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.

weep,

Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For Pitt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask.

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile,
To mask detestation or fear:

Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.
Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale,

Through billows Atlantic to steer,

As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave,

The green sparkles bright with a Tear. The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath In Glory's romantic career;

But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, And bathes every wound with a Tear.

If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride,

Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear,

For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,
They think all our homage a debt:
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.
Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,
And seem her hauteur to regret;

If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny
That yours is the rosy coquette.

If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride, This whimsical virgin forget:

Some other admire, who will melt with your fire,
And laugh at the little coquette.

For me, I adore some twenty or more,
And love them most dearly but yet,
Though my heart they enthral, I'd abandon
them all,

Did they act like your blooming coquette.
No longer repine, adopt this design,
And break through her slight-woven net;
Away with despair, no longer forbear
To fly from the captious coquette.

maid,

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear. Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more,

My Mary to love once so dear,

Ere quite with her snares you're beset: Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the smart, Should lead you to curse the coquette.

TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. YOUR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend, Your pardon, a thousand times o'er : From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, But I swear I will do so no more.

She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

By another possest, may she live ever blest! Her name still my heart must revere:

With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine,

And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near:
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight to the regions
of night,

And my corse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow the splendour of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear:
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask-all I wish-is a Tear.

No more I your folly regret ;

She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine
Of this quickly reform'd coquette.
Yet still, I must own, I should never have known
From your verses what else she deserved;
Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate,
As your fair was so devilish reserved.

Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss

Can such wonderful transports produce: Since the "world you forget, when your lips once have met,'

My counsel will get but abuse.

You say, when "I rove, I know nothing of love:" 'Tis true, I am given to range:

If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number,
Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.

I will not advance, by the rules of romance,
To humour a whimsical fair;

Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't

affright,

Or drive me to dreadful despair.

While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform,
To mix in the Platonist's school;

Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure,
And if I should shun every woman for one,
Thy mistress would think me a fool.

Whose image must fill my whole breast-
Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her-
What an insult 'twould be to the rest!
Now, Strephon, good-bye, I cannot deny
Your passion appears most absurd;
Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,
For it only consists in the word.

Instead of his houris, a flimsy pretence,

With women alone he had peopled his heaven. Yet still, to increase your calamities more,

Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit,

The pibroch resounds to the piper's loud num. ber,

Your deeds on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

four!

Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth-flowing 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 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.

Lachin y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na Garr, towers proudly preeminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but 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 these stanzas.

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 'tis hard to quit the dreams
Which haunt the unsuspicious soul,
Where every nymph a goddess seems,
Whose eyes through rays immortal roll;
While Fancy 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 fairy elves;
Confess that woman's false as fair,

And friends have feeling for-themselves!
With shame I own I've felt thy sway;
Repentant, now thy reign is o'er,
No more thy precepts I obey,

No more on fancied pinions soar.
Fond fool! to love a sparkling eye,
And think that eye to truth was dear :
To trust a passing wanton's sigh,

And melt beneath a wanton's tear!

*I allude here to my maternal ancestors, "the Gordons," many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender.

548

Romance! disgusted with deceit,
Far from thy motley court I fly,
Where Affectation holds her seat,
And sickly sensibility;
Whose silly tears 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, array'd in weeds, Who heaves with thee her simple sigh,

Whose breast for every bosom bleeds;
And call thy sylvan female choir,

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.
Adieu, fond race! a long adieu!

The hour of fate is hovering nigh;
E'en now the gulph 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 I must perish altogether.

friend.

power

Their censures on the hapless victim shower. Oh! how I hate the nerveless, frigid song, The ceaseless echo of the rhyming throng

Whose labour'd lines in chilling rumbers flow,
To paint a pang the author ne'er can know !
The artless Helicon I boast is youth;-
My lyre, the heart; my muse, the simple truth.
Far be't from me the "virgin's mind" to
"taint:'

Seduction's dread is here no slight restraint.
The maid whose virgin breast is void of guile,
Whose wishes dimple in a modest smile,
Whose downcast eye disdains the wanton leer
Firm in her virtue's strength, yet not severe -
She whom a conscious grace shall thus refine
Will ne'er be "tainted" by a strain of mine.
But for the nymph whose premature desires
Torment her bosom with unholy fires,
No net to snare her willing heart is spread;
She would have fallen, though she ne'er had
read.

For me, I fain would please the chosen few,
Whose souls, to feeling and to nature true,
Will spare the childish verse, and not destroy
The light effusions of a heedless boy.

I seek not glory from the senseless crowd:
Of fancied laurels I shall ne'er be proud:
Their warmest plaudits I would scarcely prize,
Their sneers or censures I alike despise.

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 blasts of fate. No mail-clad serfs, obedient to their lord,

In grim array the crimson cross 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. *Henry II. founded Newstead soon after the murder of Thomas à Becket.