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I think I said, 'twould be your fate
To add one star to royal state,
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,
Where specious rivals glitter round,

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
From Truth's secure unerring way,
May no delights decoy;

O'er roses may your footsteps move,
Your smiles be ever smiles of love,
Your tears be tears of joy.

Oh! if you wish that happiness
Your coming days and years may bless,
And virtues crown your brow;

Be still, as you were wont to be,
Spotless as you've been known to me,-
Be still as you are now.

And though some trifling share of praise,
To cheer my last declining days,
To me were doubly dear:

Whilst blessing your beloved name,
I'd waive at one a Poet's fame,
To prove a Prophet here.


̓Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου καὶ πάντα Κρατήσεις.
OH! Could LE SAGE'S demon's gift
Be realized at my desire;

This night my trembling form he'd lift
To place it on St. Mary's spire.

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls
Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows, who dream on lawn, or stalls,
The price of venal votes to pay.
Then would I view each rival wight,
P-tty and P-lm-s-n survey;
Who canvas there, with all their might,
Against the next elective day.

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
But very seldom, now and then.

They know the chancellor has got
Some pretty livings in disposal;
Each hopes that one may be his lot,
And, therefore, smiles on his proposal.

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,
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;
Or agitates his anxious breast,
In solving problems mathematic:
Who reads false quantities in Sele,*
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal,
In barbarous Latint doomed to wrangle.
Renouncing every pleasing page,

From authors of historic use;
Preferring to the letter'd sage,

The square of the hypothenuse.+
Still harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student,
Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent,
Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine;
When drunkenness and dice invite,

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.

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+ 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.

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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 list'ning ear.

To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long,
Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would scarcely be excused,
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused

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,
Inspired by stratagem, or fear:

They might have set their hearts at ease,
The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.

But, if I scribble longer now,

The deuce a soul will stay to read;
My pen is blunt, my ink is low,
'Tis almost time to stop, indeed.
Therefore, farewell, old GRANTA's spires,
No more, like Cleofas, I fly,
No more thy theme my muse inspires,
The reader's tired, and so am I.


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,
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 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.

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