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What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)-—
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me, when that friend was near
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wand'rers pour along,
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,
And friendship's teelings triumph'd over love.

Yet, why should I alone with such delight,
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
Ah! sure come stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear,
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear Ida, have I found in thee-
A home, a world, a paradise to me.

Stern Death forbade my orphan youth to share
The tender guidance of a father's care.
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply
The love which glistens in a father's eye?
For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
Made, by a parent's early loss, my own?
What brother springs a brother's love to seek?
What sister's gentle kiss has press'd my cheek?
For me how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties !
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem ;
While still the visions to my heart are press'd,
The voice of love will murmur in my rest:
I hear-I wake-and in the sound rejoice;
I hear again, but ah! no brother's voice.
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
1 cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? In solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone.
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear than Ida's social band.

Alonzo best and dearest of my friends,
Thy na ennobles him who thus commends.
From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise:
The praise is his who now that tribute pays.
Oh! in the promise of thy early youth,
If hope anticipate the words of truth,
Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name,
To build his own upon thy deathless fame.
Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list

Of those with whom I lived supremely blest,
Oft have we drain'd the tont of ancient lore;
Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more.
Yet, when confinement's lingering hour was done,
Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one ⚫
Together we inpell'd the flying ball;
Together waited in our tutor's hall:
Together join'd in cricket's manly toil,
Or shared the produce of the river's spoil;
Or, plunging from the green declining shore,
Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore;
In every element, unchanged, the same,
All, all that brothers should be, but the name.

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy! Davus, the harbinger of childish joy; For ever foremost in the ranks of fun, The laughing herald of the harınless pun; Yet with a breast of such materials madeAnxious to please, of pleasing half afraid; Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel In danger's path, though not untaught to feel. Still I remember, in the factious strife, The rustic's musket aim'd against my life: High poised in air the massy weapon hung, A cry of horror burst from every tongue; Whilst I, in combat with another foe, Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow; Your arm, brave boy, arrested his careerForward you sprung, insensible to fear; Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand, The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand: An act like this, can simple thanks repay, Or all the labours of a grateful lay? Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed, That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed.

Lycus on me thy claims are justly great : Thy milder virtues could my muse relate, To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song. Well canst thou boast, to lead in senates fit, A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, Lycus! thy father's fame will soon be thine. Where learning nurtures the superior mind, What may we hope from genius thus refined! When time at length matures thy growing years, How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers! Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free, With honour's soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair Euryalus pass by unsung,
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung!

What though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart;
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound,
And palpitate, responsive to the sound.
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,-I'll think we are so still.
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould,
A heart untainted, we in thee behold:
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield,
Nor seek for glory in the tented field;
To minds of ruder texture these be given-
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply, in polish'd courts might be thy seat,
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit :
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast with indignation burn,
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spura.
Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy triends adore ;-
Ambition's slave alone would toil tor inore.

Now last, but nearest, of the social band,
See honest, open, generous Cleon stand;
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene,
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day our studious race begun,
On the same day our studious race was run;
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career,
Thus side by side we strove for many a year;
At last concluded our scholastic life,

We neither conquer'd in the classic strife:
As speakers each supports an equal name,
And crowds allow to both a partial fame:
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride,
Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide,
Yet candour's self compels me now to own,
Justice awards it to my friend alone.


Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear,
Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear
Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's un.
To trace the hours which never can return;
Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell,
And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell!
Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind,
As infant laurels round my head were twined;
When Piobus' praise repaid my lyric song,
Or placed me higher in the studious throng;
Or when my first harangue received applause,
His sage instruction the primeval cause,


This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author wha ducat. d.

What gratitude to him my soul possess'd,
While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast!
For all my humble fame, to him alone
The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my muse her noblest strain would give:
The song might perish, but the theme might live.
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honour'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful Ida blest,

It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,"
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.

Ida! not yet exhausted is the theme,
Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain!
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain !
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

Ida! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,

And proudly steer through time's eventful tide ;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear;-
That tear, perhaps, the fondest which will flow
O'er their last scene of happiness below.

Tell me, ye hoary few, who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,

Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempests whirl'd,
Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth;
Say if remembrance days like this endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say, can ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of woe?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys),
Recall one scene so much beloved to view
As those where Youth her garland twined for you!
Ah, no! amidst the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page;
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;

Still lingering pause above each chequer'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw.
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn;
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion, smiled on youth. *

MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot-

Some shall exist beyond the grave.
"Unknown the region of his birth,"

The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,

Which glares a meteor from afar.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame,
Yet nations now unborn will know

The record of his deathless name.
The patriot's and the poet's frame

Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;

That will arise, though empires fall
The lustre of a beauty's eye

Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,

And sink the yawning grave beneath.
Once more the speaking eye revives,

Still beaming through the lover's strain;
For Petrarch's Laura still survives:

She died, but ne'er will die again.
The rolling seasons pass away,

And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour's laurels ne'er decay,

But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the sileut tomb;

The old and young, with friends and foes,
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.

"L'amitié est l'amour sans ailes," is a French proverb.

Written by Jaines Montgomery, author of " The Wanderer in Switserland," &c.

No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nemnours, Edward the Black Prince, and in more modern times the fame of Marlborough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &c., are familiar to every historical reader, but the exact places of their birth are known to a very small proportion of their admirers.

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