"Stand, stragglers! stand! why early thus | He sobs, he dies,-the troop, in wild amaze, Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze; in arms? From whence? to whom?" He meets with no reply, Trusting the covert of the night, they fly; The thicket's depth, with hurried pace, they tread, While round the wood the hostile squadron spread. With brakes entangled, scarce a path between, Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene; Euryalus his heavy spoils impede, The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead; But Nisus scours along the forest's maze, To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze, Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend, On every side they seek his absent friend. "O God! my boy," he cries, "of me bereft, In what impending perils art thou left!" Listening he runs-above the waving trees, Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze; The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground; Again he turns of footsteps hears the noise, The sound elates the sight his hope destroys; The hapless boy a ruffian train surround, While lengthening shades his weary way confound; Him, with loud shouts, the furious knights pursue, Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew. What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers dare? Ah! must he rush,his comrade's fate to share! On Luna's orb he cast his phrenzied eye: While pale they stare, thro' Tagus' temples riven, A second shaft with equal force is driven; Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering He could not-durst not-lo! the guile confest! All, all was mine-his early fate suspend, He only loved too well his hapless friend; Spare, spare, ye chiefs! from him your rage remove, His fault was friendship, all his crime was love." He pray'd in vain, the dark assassin's sword Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored; Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest, And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast: As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air, Languid in death, expires beneath the share; Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower, Declining gently, falls a fading flower; Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head, And lingering Beauty hovers round the dead. But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide, Revenge his leader, and Despair his guide; Volscens he seeks,amidst the gathering host, Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost; Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe, Rage nerves his arm, Fate gleams in every blow; If e'er myself or sire have sought to grace ing crowd, To free my friend, and scatter far the proud." Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung; Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung; The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay, Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay: bleeds, Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds; In viewless circles wheel'd his falchion flies, Nor quits the Hero's grasp,till Volscens dies; Deep in his throat its end the weapon found, The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound. My native soil! beloved before, TRANSLATION FROM THE MEDEA OF Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore, EURIPIDES. WHEN fierce conflicting passions urge 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! FUGITIVE PIECES. 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 dome, 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 inade, While Blackstone's on the shelf neglected | To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless While distant mitres to their eyes are spread; But should a storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace, laid; fame, Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name. Such is the youth, whose scientific pate Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, Whilst every staring Graduate would prate The man, who hopes t' obtain the promised cup, Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up; Nor stop, but rattle over every word, No matter what, so it can not be heard: Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest; Who speaks the fastest 's sure to speak the best; 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, More than the verse on which the critic wrote; Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale, To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel, When Self and Church demand a bigotzeal. With eager haste they court the lord of power, Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour: 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, When distant far from you; My pensive memory lingers o'er Those scenes regretted ever; And we may meet-ah! never! As when one parent-spring supplies How soon, diverging from their source, Our vital streams of weal or woe, Nor mingle as before; 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, Repine not at thy lot; 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, Now-1 must return to you, Accept then my concession; My muse admires digression. I think I said 'twould be your fate 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, 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 Your tears be tears of joy. Oh! if you wish that happiness And, though some trifling share of praise, GRANTA, A MEDLEY. Αργυρεαις λογχαισι μαχου και παντα Κρατησαις. OH! Could LE SAGE's demon's gift This night my trembling form he'd lift, Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls The price of venal votes to pay. Then would I view each rival wight, 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, They know the Chancellor has got 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; Who reads false quantities in Sele, Renouncing every pleasing page The square of the hypothenuse. Still, harmless are these occupations, Which bring together the imprudent; Whose daring revels shock the sight, 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, Our choir would scarcely be excused, To such a set of croaking sinners. If David, when his toils were ended, To us his psalms had ne'er descended, The luckless Israelites, when taken, Oh! had they sung in notes like these, But, if I scribble longer now, Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires, No more thy theme my Muse inspires, LACHIN Y GAIR. LACHIN Y GAIR, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, LOCH NA GARR, towers proudly preeminent 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 I sought not my home till the day's dying glade; glory Gave place to the rays of the bright polarstar; 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; |