me My school-friendships were with pastions (for I was always violent), but I do not know that there is one which has endured (to be sure, some have been cut short by death) till now. Letters, 1801, v. 455.) A tomb in the churchyard at Harrow was so well known to be his favourite resting-place, that the boys called it "Byron's Tomb": and here, they say, he used to sit for hours, wrapt up in thought.-Life, p. 26. Vide P. p. 71.1 [Henry Mossop, who performed Zanga in Young's Revenge.] Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried, Though little vers'd 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 pil'd the fields with dead, When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France: Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta, Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta; Can tell, what edicts sage Lycurgus made, While Blackstone's on the shelf, neglected laid; Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame, Of Avon's bard, rememb'ring scarce the The slightest motion would displease the Dean; Whilst every staring Graduate would prate, Against what - he could never imitate. The man, who hopes t'obtain the promis'd cup, Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up; Nor stop, but rattle over every word Who utters most within the shortest space, May, safely, hope to win the wordy race. The Sons of Science these, who, thus repaid, Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade; Where on Cam's sedgy banks, supine, they lie, Unknown, unhonour'd live - unwept for die: Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix'd within their walls: In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, All modern arts affecting to despise; Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's 2 note, 1 Demosthenes. The present Greek professor at Trinity College, Cambridge; a man whose powers of mind and writings may, perhaps, justify their preference. [Richard Porson (1759-1808).) THESE locks, which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine, Than all th' unmeaning protestations Which swell with nonsense, love orations. Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it; Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it; Then wherefore should we sigh and whine, With groundless jealousy repine; And fret with self-created anguish? Oh! would some modern muse inspire, Or had the bard at Christmas written, Warm nights are proper for reflection; [First printed, December, 1806.] TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.2 SWEET girl! though only once we met, That meeting I shall ne'er forget; In the above little piece the author has been 1 rused by some candid readers of introducing he name of a lady [Julia Leacroft] from whom was some hundred miles distant at the time was written; and poor Juliet, who has slept long in the tomb of all the Capulets," has een converted, with a trifling alteration of her time, into an English damsel, walking in a parden of their own creation during the month December, in a village where the author never posed a winter. Such has been the candour some ingenious critics. We would advise Itse liberal commentators on taste and arbiters et derorum to read Shakespeare. Having heard that a very severe and intrate censure has been passed on the above prea, I beg leave to reply in a quotation from an admired work, Carr's Stranger in France. Ed 1803, cap. xvi., p. 171.] "As we were templating a painting on a large scale, in , among other figures, is the uncovered whole length of a warrior. a prudish-looking Ay, who seemed to have touched the age of desperation, after having attentively surveyed it through her glass, observed to her party that Lere was a great deal of indecorum in that ure. Madame S. shrewdly whispered in year that the indecorum was in the remark.'"' Whom the author saw at Harrowgate." -MS. Note] And though we ne'er may meet again, What, though we never silence broke, Awake, with it my fancy teems, Alas! again no more we meet, That anguish never can o'ertake her; |