PHILIP BRACEBRIDGE HOMER

O town or city has ever claimed Shakespeare as a native but the Warwickshire Stratford. Seven cities of Greece contended for the honour of producing one Homer, but the little town of Birdingbury, whose name is enshrined in Domesday as Berdingerie, has given to the learned world a family of Homers, distinguished for their literary attainments! The subject of this sketch was the tenth son of the Rev. Henry Sacheverell Homer, M.A., rector of Birdingbury, and was born in 1765. He was educated at Rugby School and at Oxford, where he matriculated at University College in 1781, and in 1783 obtained a demyship at Magdalen. Two years later he returned to Rugby School as an assistant master; this office he held for thirtyseven years. He died in 1838, 26th April.

Colvile describes him as a refined and exact scholar, and a man of kind-hearted liberality and Christian humility," yet as a teacher he evidently was not much of a disciplinarian, as the following little scholastic episode will testify in his form there was an enormous boy, who took immense delight in teasing "Philly," for such was his nickname; on one occasion, the boy so irritated him that he sent him up to the headmaster with a "particular note " for a flogging, which was couched usually in this form: "Johnson-Mr Homer," but was altered to: "Mr Johnston-P. Homer." Dr Wool, on receiving it, said, "Which is to be flogged?

Philip Bracebridge Homer's brother Arthur held the mastership before him at Rugby, and was the greatest

friend of the celebrated Dr Parr, who respected and loved him on account of his piety and classical attainments. The learned Doctor describes Philip as " rather irascible, sincere, honourable, generous, learned, ingenious and truly pious." For some reason or other our poet showed his irascibility by writing a squib, on the model of Martial, a very animated one certainly, on the character of Dr Parr, who was so pleased with the cantankerous verses that he took effectual means for a reconciliation.

"To brutes humane, to kindred man a rod,
Proud to all mortals, humble to thy God,
In sects a bigot, and yet lik'd by none,

By those most fear'd, whom most you deem your own:
Lord o'er the greatest, to the least a slave,

Half weak, half strong, half timid, and half brave;
To take a compliment of too much pride,

And yet most hurt when praises are denied ;
In dress all negligence, or else all state,
In speech all gentleness, or yet all hate;
There, most a friend, where most you seem a foe,
So very knowing that you nothing know.
Thou art so deep discerning, yet so blind,
So learn'd, so ignorant, cruel, yet so kind,
So good, so bad, so foolish, and so wise,
By turns I love thee, and by turns despise."

Homer was a voluminous poet; his works have long ceased to attract the attention that they at first excited among the literati of his day as evinced by his frequent contributions to The Gentleman's Magazine. His poetical writings include The Garland, Anthologia, and Poems, translated from the Italian of Metastasio, who was imperial Court poet at Vienna and world-renowned for his melodramas, written in the eighteenth century.

C. H. POOLE.

LAURA

In this cool hour, while Reason sways the soul,
And Love's delusions creep not o'er the sense,
To steal away the judgment; whilst no fear
Thee to disgust, and no vain wish to please,
Prompts or retards the movement of this pen,
Let me describe thee, Laura, as thou art ;
Woman, not Angel; human, not divine;
In manners elegant, and, in approach,
Easy, but not familiar; in thy gait
Graceful and winning; in thy features fair,
But yet not beautiful; in form not fine;
And still most lovely; modest in thy speech,
In mind sagacious; cheerful in thy face,
And gay and smiling as the morn; in heart
Solid and serious; in thy friendship firm,
Cordial and true; in all thy dealings just.

THE ADIEU

From the Italian of Metastasio

O CRUEL hour that bids us part!
My Laura, and my life, adieu !
How shall I live so far from you,

Thou first and dearest treasure of my heart?

Oh! I shall live in ceaseless pain,

Nor hope for happiness again;

And thou, while cleaves this soul to thee,
Who knows if ever thou wilt think on me?

After that peace, no longer mine,

Which thou bear'st with thee on thy way,
Suffer at least fond thought to stray,

And, where thou tread'st, to follow on the line:
Where'er thou goest, sweet maid, must I
In still-pursuing thought be nigh ;

And thou, while cleaves this soul to thee,
Who knows if ever thou wilt think on me?

My steps on distant shores to rove,

I turn; all pensive and alone,

There will I make my plaintive moan;

And ask the rocks where dwells the maid I love. Still in the East while lights his flame

The Sun, I'll call upon thy name

From hour to hour; but ah! for thee,

Who knows if ever thou wilt think on me?

Oft shall I tread with footsteps due

Each pleasant field and fairy ground,
Where late such happiness I found;
For, loveliest Laura, there I stray'd with you.
A hundred ways this heart to sting,

How many thoughts shall Memory bring!
But, ah! while Memory dwells on thee,
Who knows if ever thou wilt think on me?

There shall I say, where lifts its wave
Yon fount, she kindled with disdain,
And there, to bid me live again,
In sign of peace her lily hand she gave.
On hope I fed one moment there,
The next I languish'd in despair;

Thus shall I say; but ah! for thee,
Who knows if ever thou wilt think on me?

Where now thou goest, fair nymph, to dwell,
How many an ardent, wily youth
Shall press around to proffer truth,
And tales of sweetest tenderest love to tell!
Oh! Gods! who knows, amid such feints,
Such gentle homage, soft complaints;
Oh! Gods! while cleaves his soul to thee,
Who knows if ever thou wilt think on me?

Think on the pleasing painful dart

Thou leav'st, my life, within this breast; Think, without prospect to be blest,

I lov'd thee, dearest virgin, from my heart; Think on that cruel, hard adieu,

Which tears me from my bliss and you! But, ah! why say I "think" to thee? Who knows if ever thou wilt think on me?