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I think I said, 'twould be your fate
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
O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Oh! if you wish that happiness
Be still, as you were wont to be,
And though some trifling share of praise,
Whilst blessing your beloved name,
GRANTA, A MEDLEY.
̓Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου καὶ πάντα Κρατήσεις.
This night my trembling form he'd lift
Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls
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,
Fellows are sage reflecting men;
They know preferment can occur
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.
The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the de mon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection.
There, in apartments small and damp,
To scan precisely metres attic;
From authors of historic use;
The square of the hypothenuse.+
Which bring together the imprudent,
As every sense is steep'd in wine.
*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 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 rightangled triangle.
Not so the methodistic crew,
And for the sins of others pray :
"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 list'ning ear.
To this is join'd the sacred song,
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's river's border.
On a saint's day, the students wear surplices in chapel.
Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
They might have set their hearts at ease,
But, if I scribble longer now,
The deuce a soul will stay to read;
LACHIN Y. GAIR.
Lachin y. Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, 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,
Round their white summits though elements war, Though cataracts foam 'stead of smooth flowing foun
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr. [tains, Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander'd, My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;* On chieftain's long perish'd my memory ponder'd, As daily I strode through the pine-cover'd glade;
This word is erroneously pronounced plad,the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is known by the orthography.