My native soil! beloved before,
Now dearer, as my peaceful home,

EURIPIDES.

WHEN fierce conflicting passions urge
The breast, where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge,
Which rolls the tide of human woe?
The hope of praise, the dread of shame,
Can rouse the tortured breast no more;
The wild desire, the guilty flame,

Absorbs each wish it felt before.

But if affection gently thrills

The soul, by purer dreams possest, The pleasing balm of mortal ills,

In love can soothe the aching breast; If thus, thou com'st in gentle guise,

Fair Venus! from thy native heaven, What heart, unfeeling, would despise The sweetest boon the Gods have given?

But never from thy golden bow

May I beneath the shaft expire, Whose creeping venom, sure and slow,

A hapless, banish'd wretch to roam; This very day, this very hour,

May I resign this fleeting breath, Nor quit my silent, humble bower; A doom, to me, far worse than death.

Have I not heard the exile's sigh?

And seen the exile's silent tear? Through distant climes condemn'd to fly, A pensive, weary wanderer here; Ah! hapless dame! no sire bewails, No friend thy wretched fate deplores, No kindred voice with rapture hails Thy steps, within a stranger's doors.

Perish the fiend! whose iron heart,

To fair affection's truth unknown, Bids her he fondly loved depart,

Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne'er unlocks, with silver key,

The milder treasures of his soul;
May such a friend be far from me,
And Ocean's storms between us roll!

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COL

LEGE 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 dɔme,

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, marv'ling at the name of Magna Charta,

Yet, well he recollects the laws of Sparta; Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made,

laid; 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;

Whilst every staring Graduate would prate
Against what he could never imitate.

They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place.

Such are the men who learning's treasures guard,

Such is their practice, such is their reward; This much, at least, we may presume to say, The premium can't exceed the price they pay

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

When distant far from you; Though pain, 'tis 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, Tis yours to mix in polish'd courts,

And shine in Fashion's annals. "Tis 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.

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;

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.

Now-1 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 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state;

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.

And, though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear;
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd wave at once a Poet's fame,
To prove a Prophet here.

GRANTA, A MEDLEY.

Αργυρέαις λογχαισι μαχου και παντα Κρατησαις.

OH! 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,
Petty and Palmerston 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, smile 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 mathematie;

Who reads false quantities in Sele,
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal,
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle;

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 join'd 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,
'Tis 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.

LACHIN Y GAIR.

LACHIN Y GAIR, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, LOCH NA GARR, towers proudly pre eminent in the Northern Highlands, near la vercauld. 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 hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows: near Lachin y Gairl 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!

PARENT of golden dreams, Romance!
Auspicious Queen of childish joys!
Who leadst 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 feelings for-them-
selves?

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.

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 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 phrenzy 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; 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, andDames 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.