When (like committed linnets) I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my KING;
When I shall voice aloud, how good
He is, how great should be;
Enlarged winds that curl the flood,
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free;
Angels alone that soar above
Enjoy such liberty.

I fear that my reader will long ago have thought that it was time to conclude. With the specimens here given I would advise my brother Carthusians to be content. I believe I have acted the part of Jack Horner without his selfishness, and picked out all the plums for their benefit as much as my own, and deserve to be cudized as "a good boy" for my trouble. Much that I have rejected is tasteless, and some would disgust. The very reprehensible license which marks the Caroline epoch is too universal to make us feel much surprise that Lovelace was not wholly free from its contamination. The companion of Goring and Davenant, and Suckling, and Jermyn could hardly be expected, notwithstanding his "innate modesty," to be wholly undefiled in that stream from which even the good Dr. Donne has not altogether escaped with clean hands. Lovelace however does not deserve to be confounded for a moment with the most licentious of his age. As times went, perhaps he is the purest specimen of the thorough-bred Cavalier, which we could point out. We have reason to be thankful that

at the present day both religion and loyalty are far better understood than they were then.

Such is the history of the man, the author of "the Scholar" and "the Soldier;" and though both these pieces have perished, he has left behind him in his life and writings sufficient to show that there were few who could have more authority on such subjects, and fewer still who united both characters so honourably in their own person.

Such too is the poetry of him, the only bard (the authors of the Prize poems will excuse me) that Charterhouse has yet produced; for Addison will claim his laurel for his prose. Whether among her present sons there are any youthful aspirants worthy of that name, and whether the CARTHUSIAN has tended to call forth their powers, I leave to others to determine. If, out of many very promising performances, one may be permitted, by their connection with the present subject, to select the verses which appeared in the last number on the monarch whom Lovelace served, as doing credit both to the taste and feelings of the author, it is not with any disparagement to the merits of the other compositions in a publication in which no one takes a more hearty interest than the writer of this paper.

SNOWDON.

HAIL, mighty monarch of the frowning brow,
Thou giant king! to whom their homage pay
The lesser mountains that seem humbled now
Before the throne of thy dread majesty.

Though all things round thee hasten to decay
Thou art unchang'd, nor with thy years wax'st old.
As proudly rise thy rocks-as proudly they

Fling to the tempest their defiance bold,

As when they first were cast in their primæval mould.

Thy beetling sides are by no forests graced,
Wave no green branches, grow no flow'rets fair;
No gentle verdure clothes thy rugged waist,
But all around is lonely, bleak and bare ;
Stern is thy grandeur tow'ring in the air,
And aye the loud winds howl-a dwelling rude
The prince of storm seems to have chosen, where
For him a fitting palace hath been hew'd
By Nature's hands, austere, sublime in solitude.

And I have stood upon thy loftiest peak,
Mantled by winter in a robe of snow;
Where, like to blushes on a maiden's cheek,
The setting sunbeams rosy radiance throw;
And I have watch'd the gath'ring storm below,
Until the clouds like frantic war-steeds meet,
And the pent lightnings red and vivid glow
Bursting their prison doors beneath my feet,
While loud the swelling crash the echoing rocks repeat.

O, sweet it is, when day gives place to night,
When fresh from ocean shines the evening star,
And Heav'n is spangled o'er with gems of light,
To view the haughty mountain from afar.
Meek Dian seems to check her silver car,
And on his head her weary course to stay;
In that pale light his terrors soften'd are,—
Sweet from that eminence to watch till day
Return to warm anew all life with healthy ray.

Slow from th' horizon have night's shadows roll'd,
When kiss'd by the awaking day-god's beams;

First softly blushing, soon like liquid gold,
The placid mirror of the ocean gleams;
There have I gaz'd in visionary dreams

On the dull lakes below that idly sleep,

And the loud dashings of the mountain streams,
Whose foaming waters down their channel steep,
Thund'ring from rock to rock, with savage music leap.

I DIDDLE, DIDDLE, THE CAT AND THE FIDDLE. THOSE of our readers who are acquainted with Mr. Bellenden Ker's curious researches into the origin of our Nursery Rhymes will be little surprised to find in any of them a philosophy beyond what the vulgar dream of. But that learned antiquary seems to have limited his investigations too exclusively to the Saxon sources. Yet, as the erudite editor of the Britannia Romana has shown, the influence of Latin customs and language pervaded the laws and poetry of Britain long after the retirement of the Romans from the island; and no one can doubt that in the following Elegiacs lies the original of the wellknown

I diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle.
Concinite o dociles Idyllia-dyllia Musæ,
Felem et felinas concelebrate fides.
Æthera nam saltu petiit Bos invida Lunæ,
Cornua quæ pedibus non sua subjiceret.

Ludicra quæ spectans nugasque Canicula risit,
Astraque ridenti confremuere Cani.

Protinus et Patinæ novus additur ardor eundi,
Atque fugæ Patinæ fit Cochleare comes.

EPIGRAMS FROM THE GREEK.

THE following translations, besides their own merit, have an hereditary claim on the lovers of the Greek Anthology; we have much pleasure in inserting them.

APOLLONIDAS, II. 118.

ὑπγώεις, ὦ ταῖρε, τὸ δὲ σκύφος αὐτὸ βοᾷ σε.
ἔγρεο· μὴ τέρπου μοιριδίῃ μελέτῃ ̇

μὴ φείσῃ, Διόδωρε λάβρος δ' εἰς βάκχον ὀλισθὼν
ἄχρις ἐπὶ σφαλέφου ζωροπότει γόνατος

ἔσσεθ', όθ' οὐ πιόμεσθα, πολὺς χρόνος· ἀλλ ̓ ἄγ ̓ ἐπείγον
ἡ συνετὴ κροτάφων ἅπτεται ἡμετέρων.

You are sleeping, my friend, but the bowl is calling-
Wake up, and shake off all troublesome cares;
No heel-taps, but drink, till in danger of falling,
Its tottering burden the knee scarcely bears.

Awake, Diodorus, the time will be long

In the realms where no liquor our clay ever wets: Lose no moments, but let our potations be strongOnly look at our bald philosophical pates!

κλείδουχοι νεκύων, πάσας 'Αϊδαο κελεύθους
φράγνυτε, καὶ στομίοις κλεῖθρα δέχεσθε πύλαι
αὐτὸς ἐγὼν ̓Αΐδας ἐνέπω· Γερμανικος ἄστρων
οὐκ ἐμός· οὐ χωρεῖ νῆα τόσην ̓Αχέρων.

Guards of the dead, close all the roads
And lock the gates of my abodes.
I Hades self command; the sky
May have Germanicus, not I :
For Acheron would try in vain
So large a vessel to contain.