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Ere yet my shame, wide-circling through the town,
Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown,
Oh! be it mine, unknowing and unknown,
* With deans deceased, to sleep beneath the stone."
As tearful thus, and half convulsed with spite,
He lengthen'd out with plaints the livelong night,
At that still hour of night, when dreams are oft'nest true,
A well-known spectre rose before his view,
As in some lake, when hush'd in every breeze,
The bending ape his form reflected sees,
Such and so like the Doctor's angel shone,
And by his gait the guardian sprite was known,
Benignly bending o'er his aching head-

Sleep, Henry, sleep, my best beloved,” he said,
“ Soft dreams of bliss shall soothe thy midnight hour;
Connubial transport and collegiate power.
Fly fast, ye months, till Henry shall receive
The joys a bride and benefice can give.
But first to sanction thy prophetic name,
In yon tall pile a doctor's honours claim ; &
E'en now diethinks the awe-struck crowd behold
Thy powder'd caxon and thy cane of gold.
E'en now---but hark! the chimney sparrows sing,
St Mary's chimes their early matins ring-
I go--but thou-through many a festive night
Collegiate bards shall chant thy luckless fight
Though many a jest shall spread the tablo round,
And many a bowl to B-r-d's health be crown'd
O’er juniors still maintain thy dread command,
Still boast, my son, thy cross-compelling hand.||
Adieu!"_His shadowy robes the phantom spread,
And o'er the Doctor drowsy influence shed;
Scared at the sound, far off his terrors few,
And love and hope once more his curtains drew.


Dead deans, broken bottles, dilapidated lantherns, under-graduated ladders, and other lumber, have generally found their level under the pavement of Brazenose cloisters. † Like Virgil's nightingale or owl-

« Ferali carmine bubo Flet noctem.” “ Post mediam visus noctem cum somnia vera.” § We have heard it whispered, but cannot undertake to vouch for the truth of the rumour, that a considerable wager now depends upon the accomplishment of this prophecy within nine calendar months after the Doctor has obtained a bona fide degree.

|| Alluding to the collegiate punishment before explained.


ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN. Take away that star and garter-hide them from my loathing sight, Neither king nor prince shall tempt me from my lonely room this night; Fitting for the throneless exile is the atmosphere of pall, And the gusty winds that shiver 'neath the tapestry on the wall. When the taper faintly dwindles like the pulse within the vein, That to gay and merry measure ne'er may hope to bound again, Let the shadows gather round me while I sit in silence here, Broken-hearted, as an orphan watching by his father's bier. Let me hold my still communion far from every earthly soundDay of penance-day of passion-ever, as the year comes round. Fatal day, whereon the latest die was cast for me and mineCruel day, that quell'd the fortunes of the hapless Stuart line! Phantom-like, as in a mirror, rise the griesly scenes of deathThere before me, in its wildness, stretches bare Culloden's heath There the broken clans are scatter'd, gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyedHunger gnawing at their vitals-hope abandon'd-all but pridem Pride--and that supreme devotion which the Southron never knew, And the hatred, deeply rankling, 'gainst the Hanoverian crew. Oh, my God! are these the remnants-these the wrecks of the array, That around the royal standard gather'd on the glorious day, When, in deep Glenfinnart's valley, thousands, on their bended knees, Saw once more that stately banner waving in the northern breeze, When the noble Tullibardine stood beneath its weitering fold, With the ruddy lion ramping in the field of tressured gold ! When the mighty heart of Scotland, all too big to slumber more, Burst in wrath and exultation, like a huge volcano's roar! There they stand, the batter'd columns, underneath the murky sky, In the hush of desperation, not to conquer but to die. Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing-not the pibroch loud and shrill, That, with hope of bloody banquet, lured the ravens from the hillBut a dirge both low and solemn, fit for ears of dying men, Marshall'd for their latest battle, never more to fight again. Madness—madness! Why this shrinking? Were we less inured to war When our reapers swept the harvest from the field of red Dunbar : Fetch my horse, and blow the trumpet !-Call the riders of Fitz-James, Let Lord Lewis bring the muster I–Valiant chiefs of mighty names Trusty Keppoch! stout Glengarry! gallant Gordon! wise Lochiel! Bid the clansmen charge together, fast, and fell, and firm as steel. Elcho, never look so gloomy! What avails a sadden'd brow ? Heart, man-heart! we need it sorely--never half so much as now. Had we but a thousand troopers-had we but a thousand more !. Noble Perth, I hear them coming! -Hark! the English cannons' roar. God! how awful sounds that volley, bellowing through the mist and rain! Was not that the Highland slogan? Let me hear that shout again ! Oh, for prophet eyes to witness how the desperate battle goes ! Cumberland! I would not fear thee, could my Camerons see their foes. Sound, I say, the charge at venture—'tis not naked steel we fear; Better perish in the mêlée than be shot like driven deer! Hold! the mist begins to scatter. There in front 'tis rent asunder, And the cloudy battery crumbles underneath the deafening thunder ; There I see the scarlet gleaming! Now, Macdonald—now or never ! Woe is me, the clans are broken! Father, thou art lost for ever! Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman, there they lie in heaps together, Smitten by the deadly volley, roll'd in blood upon the heather, And the Hanoverian horsemen, fiercely riding to and fro, Deal their murderous strokes at random.

Ah my God! where am I now ? Will that baleful vision never vanish from my aching sight? Must those scenes and sounds of terror haunt me still by day and night? Yea, the earth hath no oblivion for the noblest chance it gave, None, save in its latest refuge-seek it only in the grave.


Love may die, and hatred slumber, and their memory will decay,
As the water'd garden recks not of the drought of yesterday;
But the dream of power once broken, what shall give repose again?
What shall charm the serpent-furies coil'd around the maddening brain?
What kind draught can nature offer strong enough to lull their sting?
Better to be born a peasant than to live an exiled king!
Oh, those years of bitter anguish !- What is life to such as me,
With my very heart as palsied as a wasted cripple's knee !
Suppliant-like for alms depending on a false and foreign court,
Jostled by the flouting nobles, half their pity, half their sport.
Forced to hold a place in pageant, like a royal prize of war
Walking with dejected features close behind his victor's car,
Styled an equal-deem'd a servant-fed with hopes of future gain-
Worse by far is fancied freedom than the captive's clanking chain !
Could I change this gilded bondage even for the massy tower
Whence King James beheld his lady sitting in the castle bower-
Birds around her sweetly singing, fluttering on the kindled spray,
And the comely garden glowing in the light of rosy May.
Love descended to the window-Love removed the bolt and bar-
Love was warder to the lovers from the dawn to even-star.
Wherefore, Love, didst thou betray me? Where is now the tender glance ?
Where the meaning looks once lavish'd by the dark-eyed Maid of France?
Where the words of hope she whisper'd, when around my neck she threw
That same scarf of broider'd tissue, bade me wear it and be true-
Bade me send it as a token when my banner waved once more
On the castled Keep of London, where my fathers' waved before?
And I went and did not conquer-but I brought it back again-
Brought it back from storm and battle-brought it back without stain;
And once more I knelt before her, and I laid it at her feet,
Saying, “ Wilt thou own it, Princess ? There at least is no defeat!"
Scornfully she look'd upon me with a measured eye and cold-
Scornfully she view'd the token, though her fingers wrought the gold,
And she answer'd, faintly flushing, “ Hast thou kept it, then, so long ?
Worthy matter for a minstrel to be told in knightly song!
Worthy of a bold Provençal, pacing through the peaceful plain,
Singing of his lady's favour, boasting of her silken chain,
Yet scarce worthy of a warrior sent to wrestle for a crown.
Is this all that thou hast brought me from thy field of high renown?
Is this all the trophy carried from the lands where thou hast been ?
It was broider'd by a Princess, can'st thou give it to a Queen ?"
Woman's love is writ in water! Woman's faith is traced in sand!
Backwards—backwards let me wander to the noble northern land;
Let me feel the breezes blowing fresh along the mountain side ;
Let me see the purple heather, let me hear the thundering tide,
Be it hoarse as Corrievreckan spouting when the storm is high-
Give me but one hour of Scotland_let me see it ere I die!
Oh, my heart is sick and heavy-southern gales are not for me ;
Though the glens are white with winter, place me there, and set me free;
Give me back my trusty comrades--give me back my Highland maid-
Nowhere beats the heart so kindly as beneath the tartan plaid !
Flora! when thou wert beside me, in the wilds of far Kintail-
When the cavern gave us shelter from the blinding sleet and hail-
When we lurk'd within the thicket, and, beneath the waning moon,
Saw the sentry's bayonet glimmer, heard him chant his listless tune-
When the howling storm o'ertook us drifting down the island's lee,
And our crazy bark was whirling like a nutshell on the sea
When the nights were dark and dreary, and amidst the fern we lay
Faint and foodless, sore with travel, longing for the streaks of day;
When thou wert an angel to me, watching my exhausted sleep-
Never didst thou hear me murmur-couldst thou see how now I weep!
Bitter tears and sobs of anguish, unavailing though they be.
Oh the brave-the brave and noble-who have died in vain for me!

W. E. A.


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It is not in Provence, (Provincia find on examination, that nearly all Romanorum,) as is commonly said those who in early times distinguished from the derivation of the name-nor themselves as writers of what are now yet in Spain, as many suppose, that called romances, were of oriental birth we are to look for the fatherland of or extraction. Clearchus, a pupil of those amusing compositions called Aristotle, and the first who attempted Romances, which are so eminently any thing of the sort in the Greek useful in these days as affording a re- language, was a native of Soli in source and occupation to ladies and Cilicia :-Jamblichus was a Syrian, gentlemen who have nothing to do. as were also Heliodorus and Lucian, It is in distant and far different climes the former being of Emessa, the latter to our own, and in the remote anti- of Samosata :-Achilles Tatius was quity of long vanished ages :-it is an Alexandrian; and the rule will be among the people of the East, the found to hold good in other instances, Arabs, the Egyptians, the Persians, with scarcely a single exception."

. and the Syrians, that the germ and Such is the doctrine laid down (at origin is to be found of this species of somewhat greater length than we fictitious narrative, for which the pe- have rendered it) by the learned culiar genius and poetical tempera- Huetius, in his treatise De Origine ment of those nations particularly Fabularum Romanensium; and from adapt them, and in which they delight the general principle therein proto a degree scarcely to be credited. pounded, we are certainly by no means For even their ordinary discourse is in- inclined to dissent. But while fully terspersed with figurative expressions; admitting that it is to the vivid fancy and their maxims of theology and and picturesque imagination of the philosophy, and above all, of morals Orientals that we owe the origin of all and political science, are invariably those popular legends which have couched under the guise of allegory penetrated, under various changes of or parable. I need not stay to en- costume, into every corner of Europe, t large upon the universal veneration as well as those more gorgeous creapaid throughout the East to the fables tions which appear, interwoven with of Bidpai or Pilpay, and to Lokman, the ruder creations of the northern who is (as may easily be shown) the nations, to have furnished the groundEsop of the Greeks :--and it is well work of the fabliaux and lais of the known that the story of Isfendiyar, chivalry of the middle ages :-we still and of the daring deeds of the Persian hold that the invention of the romance hero Rustan, in love and war,* are to of ordinary life, in which the interest this day more popular in those regions of the story depends upon occurrences than the tales of Hercules, Roland, in some measure within the bounds of or Amadis de Gaul, ever were with probability, and in which the heroes

And so decidedly is Asia the and heroines are neither invested with parent of these fictions, that we shall superhuman qualities, nor extricated


* The exploits of these and other paladins of the Kaianian dynasty, the heroic age of Persian history, are now known to us principally through the Shah-Nameh of Ferdousi, a poem bearing date only at the beginning of the eleventh century; but both this and its predecessor, the Bostan-Nameh, were founded on ballads and der woices of far distant ages, which had escaped the ravages of time and the Mohammedans, and some of which are even now preserved among the ancient tribes of pure Persian descent, in the S. W. provinces of the kingdom. Sir John Malcolm (History of Persia, ii. 444, ņote, 8vo. ed.,) gives an amusing ancedote of the effect produced among his escort by one of these popular chants.

† The prototype of the well-known Welsh legend of Beth-Gelert, for instance, is found in the Sanscrit Hitopadosa, as translated by Sir William Jones, with a mere change in the dramatis personce—the faithful hound Gelert becoming a tame mungoos or ichneumon, the wolf a cabra-capello, and the young heir of the Welsh prince an infant rajah.

from their difficulties by supernatural “Ethiopics," the last-named has again means, must be ascribed to a more had his copyists in the “ Hysminias European state of society than that and Hysmine" of Eustathius or Eu. which produced those tales of wonder, mathius, and the “ Dosicles and Rhodwhich are commonly considered as anthe” of Theodorus Prodromus, the characteristic of the climes of the latter of whom was a monk of the East. Even the authors enumerated twelfth century. In these producby the learned bishop of Avranches tions of the lower empire, the extrava. himself, in the passage above quoted, gance of the language, the improbawere all denizens of the Greek cities bility of the plot, and the wearisome of Asia Minor, Syria, and Egypt, dullness of the details, are worthy of and consequently, in all probability, each other; and are only varied occaGreeks by descent; and though the sionally by a little gross indelicacy, scene of their works is frequently laid from which, indeed, none but Helioin Asia, the costumes and characters dorus is wholly exempt. Yet, "as introduced are almost invariably on in the lowest deep there is a lower the Greek model. These writers, still,” so even Theodorus Prodromus therefore, may fairly be considered as has found an humble imitator in Nice. constituting a distinct clase from those tas Eugenianus, than whose romance more strictly Oriental, not only in of " Charicles and Drosilla" it must birth, but in language and ideas; and be allowed that the force of nonsense as being, in fact, the legitimate fore- “can no further go." Besides this runners of that portentous crowd of descending scale of plagiarism, which modern novelists, whose myriad pro- we have followed down to its lowest ductions seem destined (as the Per- anti-climax, we should mention, for sians believe of the misshapen pro- the sake of making our catalogue com. geny of Gog and Magog, confined plete, the “ Pastorals, or Daphnis and within the brazen wall of Iskender) Chloe" of Longus-a work in itself of to over-run the world of literature in no particular merits or demerits as a these latter days.

literary composition, but noted for At the head of this early school of its unparalleled depravity, and further romantic writers, in point of merit as remarkable as the first of the class of of time, (for the writings of Lucian pastoral romances, which were almost can scarcely be considered as regular as rife in Europe during the middle romances ; and the “ Babylonica" of ages as novels of fashionable life are, Jamblichus, and the “ Dinias and Der- for the sins of this generation, at the cyllis ” of Antonius Diogenes, are present day. There only remain to known to us only by the abstract of be enumerated the three precious farthem preserved in Photius,) we may, ragos entitled “ The Ephesiacs, or without hesitation, place Heliodorus, Habrocomas and Anthia"_" the Ba. the author of the “ Eihiopics," " whose bylonics”-and "the Cypriacs”-said writings"-says Huetius— the sub- to be from the pen of three different sequent novelists of those ages con- Xenophons, of whose history nothing, stantly proposed to themselves as a not even the age in which any of them model for imitation, and as truly may lived, can be satisfactorily made out they all be said to have drunk of the -though the uniformity of stupid exwaters of this fountain, as all the poets travagance, not less than the similarity did of the Homeric spring.” To so of name, would lead à priori to the servile an extent, indeed, was this conclusion that one luckless wight imitation carried, that while both the must have been the author of all incidents and characters in the “ Cli- three. From this list of the Byzantophon and Leucippe” of Achilles tine romances, (in which we are not Tatius, a work which, in point of sure that one or two may not after all literary merit, stands next to that of have been omitted,) it will be seen Helivdorus, are, in many passages,

that Heliodorus bad a tolerably nu. almost a reproduction, with different merous progeny, even in his own lannames and localities,* of those in the guage, to answer for; though we

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The principal adventures of Clitophon and Leucippe consist in being twice taken by pirates on the banks of the Nile, as Theagenas and Chariclea are in the Ethiopics.


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