GRANTA, A MEDLEY.

Αργυρίαις λογχαισι μαχε και παντα Κρατήσαις.

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.

'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 joined 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 asked 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.

On a Saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.

1806.

LACHIN Y. GAIR.

Lachin y. Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Gaelic, Loch na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. 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. Gair I 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!
In you let the minions of luxury rove;
Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.

Yet, Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war;
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 I 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.
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car;

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers,

They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.

This word is erroneously pronounced plad; the proper pronunciation, according to the Scotch, is shown by the orthography.

'Ill starr'd,* though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that Fate had forsaken your cause ?'
Ah! were you destin'd to die at Culloden,†

Victory crown'd not your fall with applause:
Still, were you happy, in death's earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar ;‡
The pibroch resounds, to the piper's loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr!

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse ere I tread you again;
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion's plain.
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic
To one who has roved on the mountains afar ;
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic—
The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!

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.

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. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the Stewarts. George, the second Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stewart, daughter of James I. of Scotland; by her he left four sons: the third, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.

Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not certain; but, as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, 'pars pro toto,'

A tract of the Highlands so called; there is also a castle of Braemar,
The bagpipe,