TO THE EARL OF

Tu semper amoris

Sis memor, et cari comitis ne abscedat Imago.' VALERIUS FLACCUS.

Disdaining humbler rural sports,
'Tis yours to mix in polished 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 esteemed it monstrous hard,

That he who sang before all;
He who the lore of love expanded,
By dire Reviewers should be branded,
As void of wit and moral.*

And yet, while Beauty's praise is thine,
Harmonious favorite 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 vexed,

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 hardened sinner.

• These stanzas were written soon after the 'appearance of a severe critique in a Northern Review on a new publication of the British Anacreon.

↑ A bard (Horresco referens,) defied his reviewer to mortal combat: if this example becomes prevalent, our periodical censors must be dipped in the River Styx, for what else can secure them from the numerous host of their enraged assailants?

Now, 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 '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 shares 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.

Αργυρίαις λογχαισι μαχε και παντα Κράτησαις,

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,

P-tty and P-lm- -s-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 wont 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.

The 'Diable Boiteux' of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for his inspection.

N

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;
Depriv'd 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 invite,
As 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.

Sele's publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy. + The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not very intelligible. The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the other two sides of a right-angled triangle.