THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 a>d>lB^IB^r 
 
 OF 
 
 Efte College iWaga)ine* 
 
 <e 
 
 N'on reoito cuiquam, nisi amicis. iclque coactus, 
 
 Non ubiTis, coranive quibuslibet." Ho* 
 
 - RTN TED BY KNIGHT AND SON 
 
 I8l!>.
 
 -pi-'. 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 As it is not impossible that this Volume may 
 fall into the hands of persons unacquainted 
 with the nature and design of the present 
 publication, it may be proper to state, that 
 the following Pieces are a selection from The 
 College Magazine, a periodical miscellany in 
 manuscript, which commenced in February 
 1818, and, after the publication of eighteen 
 numbers, was finally discontinued in March 
 1819. 
 
 In the early stages of the Magazine, its 
 circulation was confined to the walls of the 
 College, but, as it proceeded, it became an 
 object of more general interest; and since tiie 
 close of its career, the applications for the 
 several Numbers have been so numerous, that 
 the Editor, unwilling to withhold from some 
 what he imparts to others, and being well 
 aware that most of the communications in 
 prose are only partially interesting, has re- 
 solved to print a Private Edition of the Poetry 
 alone, which, whilst it remedies the inconve- 
 nience of transcribing so many manuscript 
 copies, enables him not only to accommodate 
 his friends, but may also serve, in some mea- 
 sure, to perpetuate the memory of ' The Coi- 
 leee Magazine.' 
 
 &' 

 
 PREFACE. 
 
 As the insertion of ' Apollo's Visit to Eton,' 
 and ' The Eton Post-Bag,' may appear incon- 
 sistent with his intention of excluding all pieces 
 of mere local interest, it is right to state, that 
 these poems were in such general request, and 
 were received with so much good humour, 
 that he has thought himself justified in making 
 an exception in their favour. 
 
 It may also be deemed requisite to state, 
 that two pieces in this collection appeared in 
 ' The Horse Otiosse,' a competitor of ' The 
 College Magazine ;' and it is almost needless 
 to add, that the whole of them are the exclu- 
 sive production of Etonians. 
 
 Although the present publication has already 
 been conducted on a more extensive scale than 
 was originally intended, the Editor cannot help 
 expressing his regret that several Poems, writ- 
 ten for the Magazine by non-resident Cor- 
 respondents, were excluded in consequence of 
 the above-mentioned regulation ; and also that 
 lie has been unable, for several reasons, to 
 insert many other Pieces, whose merit would 
 have entitled them to a place in the present 
 selection. 
 
 In conclusion, the Editor cannot refrain 
 from publicly repeating his acknowledgments 
 to his several friends for the countenance and 
 ipport he has uniformly experienced: more 
 (specially to those gentlemen by whose kind 
 permission he has be< n enabled to present the 
 following Pieces, which, he trusts, will sustain 
 iii public the reputation they have acquired in 
 private. 
 
 W. B. 
 
 Eton College, May 28, 1 8! 9.
 
 Cfj* &viot of tfie iffabe.* 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 < 4 
 
 lis low the cliff, below the ware, 
 
 The golden sun is set, 
 But a purple flush from its sinking orb 
 
 Gleams over the ocean jet. 
 
 No clou J is moving in the sky, 
 
 No ripple curls the sea; 
 The quiet tide appears to sleep, 
 
 Ebbing back silently. 
 
 Look at yon speck, hark to yon sound, 
 Nearing the rocky shore ; 
 
 'Tis the fisher in his lonely boat, 
 'Tis the dashing of his oar. 
 
 That sparkle glimmering as it comes, 
 Those notes the waves along, 
 
 Is that the fisher's evening lamp ? 
 Arc those his evening sonc : 
 
 * For the story on which this Ballad is founded, < Mari.vkk'j 
 Account of the Tonga Islands.
 
 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 Swift as a shaft from Tartar string 
 
 The gilt skiff cuts the sea : 
 Who bends him o'er the bending oar ? 
 
 And who is that fair She ? 
 
 On his young head a feath'ry plume 
 
 Its changing radiance beam'd, 
 And the golden sheath of his jewell'd dirk 
 
 A yellow lustre gleam'd ; 
 
 His cheeks were tinted with the rose, 
 
 His snowy arms were bare; 
 His locks escap'd the light cap's fold, 
 
 And wanton'd on the air : 
 
 There was a lustre darkly pure, 
 
 A lightning in his eye, 
 Which, 'midst his toil and varying song, 
 
 Was glancing momently. 
 
 But she, the partner of his way 
 
 Over the ocean tide, 
 Why strives she from the youth's wild gaze 
 
 Her unveil'd face to hide ? 
 
 Her long dark locks were wreath'd with gold. 
 And jasmine flowers between ; 
 
 A silver zone inclos'd her waist, 
 And silken vest of green : 
 
 There is a languish in her eye, 
 
 The mute gaze of despair; 
 Her dress bespeaks a chieftain's bride . 
 
 What then does sorrow there :
 
 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 The skiff shot on across the wave, 
 
 Close to the rocky shore, 
 And aye the boatman sung his song, 
 
 Aye bent his gilded oar. 
 
 The skiff shot on, with youth and maid, 
 
 Over the dark blue sea ; 
 The boatman pull'd, but the song is hush'd 
 
 Sadly and silently. 
 
 The skiff shot on, and the wind arose, 
 
 Under the black rock's brow, 
 And the calm is gone, and the breakers white- 
 
 Jesu ! where are they now r 
 
 The boat is moor'd beneath the rock, 
 Though the wave is swelling high, 
 
 And the youth has seiz'd the maiden's hand, 
 And fix r d his clear dark eye : 
 
 " Hilla, now the time is come, 
 
 And now thou must go on ; 
 Thy sire in chains thy brother slain 
 
 Thy very name is gone. 
 
 " Hilla, by this the murd'rer's ire 
 
 Has found that thou hast fled, 
 And he has sworn a cursed oath 
 
 That he will see thee dead. 
 
 " Hilla, my soul is bound to thine ; 
 
 It never can be free, 
 'Till it shall be for ever thine, 
 
 And thou be one with me. 
 b 2
 
 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 " Hilla, below the ocean's tide 
 
 A bower is made for thee ; 
 Now, Hilla, follow through the wave 
 
 Now, Hilla, come with me." 
 
 He spoke ; and turning from the maid 
 
 Quick dash'd his cay6 away, 
 Then plung'd into the fashing foam 
 
 Like sea-bird on its prey. 
 
 The maiden stood one moment there, 
 
 Then div'd into the wave, 
 Shooting, beneath the wat'ry depth, 
 
 Like mermaid to her cave. 
 
 The sea clos'd o'er the maiden's head, 
 And night came dark and drear ; 
 
 But under the wave they sat at rest, 
 In light as the noon-day clear : 
 
 'Twas in a cave beneath the base 
 
 Of a rock upon the shore, 
 Which had for ages gone and past 
 
 Frown'd o'er the ocean's roar. 
 
 The wreath'd sea-weed, and pendant crag 
 
 Across the entrance small, 
 Kept back the wild waves' rushing force 
 
 From this bright faerie hall : 
 
 For there, perchance, when the storm was up, 
 And the curl'd foam flashing nigh, 
 
 And long dark clouds had shrouded o'er 
 The noon-tide blue of sky,
 
 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 A green-hair' d nymph might shelter seek, 
 
 And love for aye to dwell, 
 Where silent and safe she heard afar 
 
 The dark surge rise and swell : 
 
 The glassy crystal sparkled clear 
 
 The cavern walls around, 
 And there was crystal on the roof, 
 
 And crystal on the ground : 
 
 That wild and tender light was shed 
 Where, when it loveliest seems, 
 
 Bright beauty's eye with languid glance 
 A breathing softness beams. 
 
 And thus, as in that simple dress, 
 
 With face so wan, so fair, 
 And eyes half clos'd, and breast of snow, 
 
 That maid stood silent there. 
 
 Oh ! she was dearer to the heart, 
 More heavenly to the view, 
 
 Than when from her, "midst feast and joy, 
 The magic love-glance flew. 
 
 Tlatzeca gazed in rapture deep ; 
 
 His trembling hand he laid 
 I pon his beating heart, and down 
 
 He knelt before that maid : 
 
 " Thus, maiden, to this holy shrine 
 
 Tlatzeca bows the knee ; 
 He hopes no heaven but in thy love 
 
 He knows no god but thee :
 
 10 . THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 " I lov'd thee, when two infants we 
 
 Sported the livelong day ; 
 I lov'd thee, when to boyhood grown 
 
 I spurn'd the infant's play: 
 
 " I've lov'd thee since I love thee now ; 
 
 E'en death can never part 
 The love which trembles on my tongue, 
 
 Which burns within my heart. 
 
 " But. other arms than these will clasp 
 
 That angel form of thine, 
 Which it were worth all Paradise 
 
 To call one moment mine. 
 
 " Nay, frown not, turn not thus away ; 
 
 1 am so bound to thee, 
 Thy anger ne'er can loose the chain, 
 
 Thy frown ne'er make me free. 
 
 u For mercy here Tlatzeca kneels, 
 
 For mercy bid depart 
 This burning frenzy of his soul, 
 
 This bursting of his heart : 
 
 " Sat/ that thou lov'st me ; it will drive 
 
 This silent dark despair 
 From my lone soul, and bid a ray 
 
 Of blessed hope shine there. 
 
 li Thou canst not ? I am gone, proud maid 8 
 Live here from danger free. 
 
 Angel of deatn, I'm ready now 
 Haste, Dark One, haste to me !"
 
 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE, 11 
 
 lie turn'd in agony away ; 
 
 One moment, and she came, 
 That dark-ey'd maid, and clasp'd his hand, 
 
 And called upon his name : 
 
 " Hear me, Tlatzeca, hear me now 
 
 Each word that thou hast said 
 Hath been an arrow tipt with fire,] 
 
 An omen from the dead. 
 
 li Why did'st thou fight my father's fight ? 
 
 Why did'st thou save my life ? 
 Why burst my tyrant's iron chain, 
 
 And brave the murd'rer's knife ? 
 
 " Thou knew'st I could not, dar'd not love 
 
 Him, whom my sire had curs'd, 
 For he forbade to raise the flame 
 
 Our infancy had nurs'd : 
 
 ' For this poor heart had ne'er forgot 
 
 Those hours of childhood's day, 
 When sorrow and grief were never known, 
 
 And all was bright and gay ; 
 
 " When ev'ry moment wing'd with joy 
 
 To ecstasy was given, 
 And we liv'd on in love of Earth, 
 
 And purity of Heaven: 
 
 ' ; But whisp'ring tongues, and envy's blight, 
 
 Madden'd my aged sire, 
 And then he snatch'd me from thy love, 
 
 And curs'd thee in his ire.
 
 12 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE, 
 
 " He gave me to another chief; 
 
 This morn the pomp I led ; 
 Thou know'st the dreadful hour that came, 
 
 And left a nation dead. 
 
 " Th' unfinish'd rites were stain'd with blood ; 
 
 My sire gasp'd on the ground ; 
 Brethren and friends all struggling died, 
 
 And I was seiz'd and bound. 
 
 " Thou cam'st, an angel from above, 
 Youth, innocence, to save ; 
 
 A moment of forgetfulness, 
 
 And we were on the wave. 
 
 " Thou only now art left on earth 
 
 Of all who once were mine ; 
 All ties are broken now, which ODce 
 
 Forbade me to be thine. 
 
 " Take then, dear youth, that heart again 
 Which ne'er from thee has rang'd, 
 
 "Which, bending to a father's voice, 
 Was ne'er a moment chang'd." 
 
 Tlatzeca stood a moment's space 
 
 In mute and vacant gaze, 
 And sense and reason all were lost 
 
 In dark delirious maze. 
 
 At length, across his deep-flush'd cheek, 
 
 Glances shot from his eye, 
 Like ev'ning lightning flashing fast 
 
 On autumn's dark'ning sky.
 
 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE. 13 
 
 But nature and love the struggle sooth'd, 
 
 The choking of the breast, 
 And then gush'd forth delicious tears, 
 
 And brought repose and rest. 
 
 He clasp'd the maiden in his arms ; 
 
 And she in his embrace 
 Entranced lay ; then breath'd his name, 
 
 And gazed upon his face. 
 
 And they were silent ; while around 
 
 Loud echo'd the wild wave, 
 And the distant swell of the nightly tide 
 
 Resounded in the cave. 
 
 And they were silent : 'twas a bliss 
 
 That could no longer last, 
 Than just to feel it had been there, 
 
 And feel that it was past. 
 
 And he is gone, Tlatzeca now : 
 
 The deptli is pass'd again, 
 And the boatman is in his skiff once more, 
 
 And bounding o'er the main. 
 
 And Time roll'd on in ceaseless course, 
 
 But aye, at ev'ning tide, 
 A gilded skiff, with a plumed chief, 
 
 Was seen o'er the wave to glide : 
 
 And none could fell its dcstin'd port, 
 
 Or its path on the wat'ry way; 
 But ever at morn that chief return'd 
 
 Wet with the ocean spray.
 
 14 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 And Time roll'd on ; and Right had burst 
 
 The tyrant's hated chain, 
 And Victory shouted long and high, 
 
 And Freedom rose again. 
 
 Tlatzeca drew the first his sword, 
 
 First dealt the godlike blow 
 That loos' d the bonds of slavery. 
 
 And dash'd the murderer low. 
 
 And now a grateful nation brought 
 
 To him their love and fame, 
 And fondly called on Heaven to shed 
 
 Its blessings on his name. 
 
 And where is he? on the deck he stands 
 
 Of the gilded galley now, 
 And marks the green wave flashing fast 
 
 Before the coming prow. 
 
 On goes the galley before the galo. 
 
 And ocean foams behind, 
 And rattling cords, and streamers gay, 
 
 Are fluttering in the wind. 
 
 On goes the galley before the gale, 
 
 And the seaman's song is sung, 
 And friends and slaves, together met, 
 
 Around Tlatzeca hung. 
 
 On goes the galley before the gale, 
 
 And the dearest of them said 
 ** Why seeks not the youth, who is brave and young 
 
 The love of a lovely maid ?"
 
 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE. 13 
 
 On goes the galley before the gale, 
 
 'Till under the rock 'tis moor'd ; 
 " Now seek I my bride !" he said, and spuing 
 
 Like lightning overboard. 
 
 A space they stood, in fearful guise, 
 
 All gazing silently, 
 With beating hearts, and eager glance, 
 
 On the blue tumbling sea. 
 
 Mute gaze they, as each flashing wave- 
 Just bursts, and for aye is gone, 
 
 And broken flings back its rippling foam 
 On the wave that is coming on. 
 
 And now they despair for their drowned chief ; 
 
 But under the stern see ! see ! 
 Out of the surge comes their chief, and a maid 
 Beautiful exceedingly ! 
 
 Again he stands on the crowded deck, 
 
 With the maiden by his side, 
 Whose long loose locks, and garments green, 
 
 Bright sparkled from the tide. 
 
 And all fell down in a ring around 
 
 The youth and the maiden fair, 
 For she they thought was an ocean nymph, 
 
 Or angel sprung from air. 
 
 But none of the nymphs, on their sea-shells borne. 
 
 That boast of the ocean race, 
 Might vie by their hair, and their dark green eyes. 
 
 With the blush upon llilla's face.
 
 16 THE BRIDE OF THE CAVE. 
 
 And her smile around was a ray of Heaven, 
 As she hung" on Tlatzeca's arm ; 
 
 And the glance of her eye has fix'd them there, 
 As it were with an elfin charm. 
 
 " Rise, dear ones, rise," the chieftain cried, 
 " And up with the swelling sail, 
 
 And on with the galley to our home, 
 Before the rising gale. 
 
 " You bade me seek a lovely maid ; 
 
 I saw her beneath the waves; 
 And here is my bride that I have found 
 
 In the green ocean's caves." 
 
 And a chorus wild arose around 
 
 " Hail to the Maid of the Wave ! 
 
 Hail to her whom Tlatzeca loves 
 The Bride of the Ocean Cave !" 
 
 H. N. C.
 
 t)t lf?aU of my JFnttyr*. 1 
 
 (From the Hone Olioser.) 
 
 -+ " 
 
 " I went to tlie place of my birth, and I said--- The friends of my child- 
 hood, where are they ?---aud an echo answered, W here are they Y" 
 
 Arabic MS. froth Lord Byron. 
 
 " Seek we thy once loved home ? 
 The hand is gone that cropt its llowers! 
 Unheard their clock repeats its hour* ! 
 Cold is the hearth within their bowers .' 
 
 And, should we thither roam, 
 It's echoes, and it's empty tread, 
 "Would sound like voices from the dead." Campbt '.'. 
 
 I. 
 
 The spirit of my soul is chang'd, 
 
 My thoughts have ta'en a sadder hue, 
 Since last thy verdant lawns I rang'd, 
 
 And bade them, with a tear, adieu ! 
 And adverse fortune hath pursued 
 
 With gloomiest hatred thine and thee, 
 Forsaken mansion, since I stood 
 
 With tlicm, where thev no more shall be 
 
 * The subject of these lines is not a fictitious one. The Hall" wa 
 the residence of a relation, now dead , and inan\ oi my li;i]>|>iest imtn 
 weie spent under i'.j roui. M.
 
 18 THE HALL OF MY FATHERS. 
 
 And they who smiled have learnt to weep, 
 And they who loved are rent asunder : 
 
 Between them roars the angry deep 
 
 Above them fate is black with thunder : 
 
 And moss and weeds grow on thy wall : 
 
 Deserted is my Fathers' Hall. 
 
 II. 
 
 Oh ! my young heart danc'd to liveliest measures. 
 
 And my ardent pulse beat high ; 
 And boyish joys, and hopes, and pleasures, 
 
 Flash'd merrily in my eye : 
 And smiling faces beam'd around me, 
 
 And all was mirth and glee, 
 And friendship's golden fetters bound me, 
 
 When last I look'd on thee. 
 Cut the dream of bliss is for ever fled, 
 And the friends of my childhood are absent or dead, 
 
 in. 
 
 Yet oft, in solitary hours, 
 
 Thine image floats across mj brain, 
 And all thy beauteous woods and bowers 
 
 Rush on my soul again : 
 And I roam on the banks of thy old canal, 
 A nd I hear the roar of thy waterfall, 
 And well-known forms to my eyes appear, 
 And the voice of friends is in my ear; 
 And 1 view, by the light of the trembling moon, 
 The painted glass of thy old saloon,
 
 THE HALL OF MY FATHERS. 19 
 
 On which, in childhood's artless days, 
 
 My wond'ring eyes were wont to gaze ; 
 
 While oft, with fond and pious care, 
 
 My mother traced eacli semblance there, 
 
 And bade me mark the red drops flow, 
 
 In holy stains, on my Saviour's brow, 
 
 And the crown of thorns that encircled his head, 
 
 And the cross that bore the Deathless Dead. 
 
 Long shall those hours ray thoughts controul, 
 
 So deep they sunk into my soul. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And oft I roved, with ardour young, 
 Through gothic arch and gallery long ; 
 And viewed, emboss' d in panels high, 
 The scutcheons of my ancestry ; 
 And portraits, rang'd in order grave, 
 Of statesmen proud and warriors brave ; 
 And dames who graced the festive sport 
 Of good King Charles's gallant court.* 
 How reverend in my eyes appear'd 
 Each hoary head and flowing beard ! 
 And how would fancy frame a tale 
 For ev'ry antique coat of mail, 
 And ev'ry scarf of lady bright, 
 Guerdon most meet for gallant knight, 
 
 ' l do not wish to speak disrespectfully of my ancestors, but 1 must 
 frankly confess that I do not know that the paid portraits are thcir^ : in 
 fact, for great part of this stanza I am as much indebted to imagination 
 as to memory.
 
 20 THE^ HALL OF MY FATHERS. 
 
 Which painters' art had handed down 
 From distant ages of renown ! 
 
 v 
 
 But proudest was my bosom's swell, 
 
 And most my boyish soul was fir'd, 
 When gaily would my grandame tell, 
 
 How thither, with his court, retir'd 
 From realms by civil discord rent, 
 And fury of the Parliament, 
 That Prince of heart misled, but good, 
 Who stain'd the scaffold with his blood; 
 And how, from that old gothic door, 
 He heard the hostile cannon roar, 
 .And caught afar the foeman's tramp, 
 And view'd the smoke of the rebel camp, 
 And sigh'd at each cannon that threaten'd the town, 
 And wept for his people, though not for his crown. 
 How oft I gaz'd, with anxious care, 
 On good King Charles's oaken chair ; 
 And proudly laid my humble head 
 On good King Charles's royal bed ; 
 And joy'd to see the nook revealed, 
 Where good King Charles had lain concealed, 
 And tasted calm and safe repose 
 Surrounded by a thousand foes ! 
 Oh ! patriots will for freedom die, 
 But the mightiest spell is loyalty : 
 The saddest theme that bard can sing, 
 The troubles of a hapless king.
 
 THE HALL OF MY FATHERS. 21 
 
 VI. 
 
 It soothes me now to think on day9 
 
 When grief and I were strangers yet, 
 And feed, in thought, a frequent gaze 
 
 On scenes the heart can ne'er forget. 
 The friends who made those scenes so bright 
 Are torn for ever from my sight ; 
 Their halls are falling to decay, 
 Or own an unknown master's sway : 
 
 But still, upon my pensive soul, 
 The feelings of my younger day, 
 The hour of mirth, the party gay, 
 
 In blissful visions roll. 
 Oh ! welcome, then, was December's blast, 
 As it drove on the snow-storm thick and fast, 
 And welcome the gloom of December's sky, 
 For they told of approaching revelry ; 
 And gave the signal, old and sweet, 
 For dearest friends in one Hall to meet, 
 Where jest, and song, and gallant cheer, 
 Proclaim'd the Christmas of the year. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Oh ! then was many a mirthful scene, 
 
 And many a smiling face ; 
 And many a meeting glad was seen, 
 
 And many a warm embrace ; 
 And oft around the blazing hearth 
 Flew happy sounds of joy and mirth ; 
 And laughter loud, and sprightly joke 
 Shook fretted roof and wall of oak :
 
 THE HALL OF MY FATHERS, 
 
 And gaily flow'd each prattling tongue, 
 And all were merry old and young ; 
 And souls were knit in union blest, 
 And every bosom was at rest. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 I may not view that Hall again, 
 
 I may not hear those sounds of gladness. 
 But their echoes linger in my brain 
 
 A secret source of pleasing sadness. 
 Friends of my young and sinless years, 
 
 The long long ocean's waves divide us, 
 But memory still your names endears 
 
 Still glows, whatever ills betide us. 
 Oh J oft on India's burning shore, 
 Ye will think on the home ye shall see no more. 
 And wish your heated limbs were laid 
 Beneath your own dear forest shade, 
 Where murmurs, in it's cool retreat, 
 The well, at which we used to meet, 
 When the setting sun of autumn stood 
 On the verge of the hill of Robin Hood, 
 And shed the mellow tints of even 
 O'er the dewy earth and the silent Heaven. 
 Oh ! when shall eve return again, 
 So sweet as those, which blest us then ? 
 
 IX. 
 
 But I must wake from this sweet dream, 
 
 Whose spells, perchance, too long have bound 
 me ;
 
 THE FUNERAL OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 23 
 
 For manhood's prospects dimly gleam, 
 
 And manhood's cares are gathering round me. 
 
 I've made me new and cherish'd friends, 
 I've bound congenial bosoms to me; 
 
 But o'er the waves remembrance sends 
 
 A prayer for those who ne'er shall view me. 
 
 And oft I breathe a silent sigh 
 
 For hours and pleasures long gone by ; 
 
 And each familiar face recall, 
 
 That smil'd within that ancient Hall. 
 
 M. 
 
 C&e ^Funeral of tfj* |>rin00 OTfjarlottf . 
 
 < # < 
 
 Heard ye yon knell of death, that slowly rose 
 In notes responsive to a nation's woes ? 
 Sullen and sad, along the midnight air, 
 It breathes the voice of mourning and despair. 
 
 Heard ye the tramp of horse, the lengthen'd wail 
 Of voices borne along the distant gale, 
 The muffled drum, the clarion's pausing breath, 
 While mourning nations swell the pomp of death ? 
 
 The nodding hearse, the torches' glimmering ray, 
 The slow procession, and the long array, 
 The swelling anthem, and the chaunting choir, 
 All that the living give the dead require ?
 
 24 THE FUNERAL OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 
 
 All these, blest shade ! and more than these are thine, 
 
 O fairest daughter of a Royal line ! 
 
 The love, the grief, the memory of thee, 
 
 That thou hast been that thou hast ceas'd to be : 
 
 These, these are thine ; for thee shall ever flow 
 
 The gushing torrent of a husband's woe, 
 
 A childless father drop the bitter tear, 
 
 Thy country weep despondent o'er thy bier 
 
 That country thou wert born ere long to sway : 
 She bask'd beneath thy virtue's opening ray, 
 She hail'd thy birth, she idolised thy name, 
 She view'd in thee her pride, her joy, her fame : 
 
 Glowing with health and youth, she saw thee led 
 With pomp and triumph to thy bridal bed ; 
 She liv'd to serve, she would have bled to save. 
 She mourns in fruitless anguish o'er thy grave : 
 
 Long, long to mourn ; oh ! not because you shone 
 First in the ring of Beauty's magic zone, 
 Shot through adoring crowds the playful glance, 
 Or led the mazes of the airy dance; 
 
 But, that with ev'ry grace and ev'ry charm, 
 As firm in friendship, and in love as warm, 
 Fair, blest and blessing, loving and belov'd, 
 Your life but follow'd what your heart approv'd. 
 
 Thou wert the patriot's trust, the poet's theme. 
 The fairest form in Hope's ecstatic dream : 
 With thee that trust is o'er, those hopes are fled;. 
 So fondly cherish'd, and so early dead !
 
 THE FUNERAL OF THF. PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 
 
 Vain is the pride of beauty, virtue vain 
 
 The promis'd glories of thy future reign ; 
 
 Let thine own Albion weep, for thou hadst been 
 
 Her proudest, loveliest boast her patriot Queen. 
 
 And he, yon Mourner mark his alter' d air, 
 The mute despondency of fixt despair, 
 The pale yet settled brow, the struggling sigh, 
 The fault 'ring step, the agonizing eye : 
 
 'Tis he that prest you to his longing arms, 
 In the meek beauties of your virgin charms, 
 Lull'd each fond doubt, each maiden fear to rest, 
 And bade you shelter there, and there be blest. 
 
 lie saw each beauty fade, yet gaz'd to see, 
 Reckless of all beside, but only thee 
 Still gaz'd, till feeling could no longer brook 
 The madd'ning agony of that last look. 
 
 O yet may'st thou, who gav'st, relieve the smart, 
 Breathe consolation to his bleeding heart, 
 And while o'er blighted hopes he heaves the sigh, 
 Teach him like her to live, like her to die. 
 
 And if, blest shade ! all heav'nly as thou art, 
 Still in thy thoughts thy country claims a part, 
 Iflbr thy country's woes thy patriot breast 
 Can shed one tear amid the realms of rest, 
 
 Though ever to her hopes, her prayers denied, 
 Watch o'er her safety, o'er her weal preside, 
 And, from her longing sight so soon remov'd, 
 Be still the safeguard of the land vou lov'd.
 
 Ctttimrp <a$tlf. 
 
 < - 
 
 The Ruins of this place are situated on an eminence near Burton-upon- 
 Trent ; dismantled towers and disjointed masses of walls are now all that 
 remain of these once superb buildings and strong fortifications. It wait 
 here that the unfortunate Mary Queen of Scots was confined for some 
 time. The feelings which the author experienced on visiting what was the 
 sitting room of this Princess, (whom he has always considered as ' one 
 more sinned against than sinning,') he has been able but feebly to pourtray 
 in the following lines, under the fictitious name of Harold. 
 
 v < ) 
 
 As Harold slowly mounts yon ancient Tower, 
 
 Whose roofless battlements, that scatheless stem 
 The whirlwind blast, majestically lour, 
 
 Like monarch's head shorn of its diadem ; 
 
 The stone steps slowly wind but what of them? 
 Why springs the tear-drop glistening in his eye 
 
 As mute he stopp'd to gaze and to condemn ? 
 For you might mark the hectic flush pass by 
 O'er the young stranger's cheek, pass tho' reluctantly. 
 
 11. 
 The doorless portal gives the view within, 
 
 Yet think not to advance, the rage of man 
 With bomb and bolt of fire the floor crush'd in, 
 
 And time has finish' d what that rage began. 
 
 Of yore this self-same room, this little span, 
 Was dungeon-house of woe for Scotia's Queen, 
 
 Here held in durance pale, forlorn and wan : 
 They hoped from regal thoughts her soul to wean, 
 Fit prelude to a play where murder closed the see""
 
 TUTBURY CASTLE. . 27 
 
 This very threshold injured Mary trod, 
 These very walls re-echoed to her cry 
 
 Her cry for vengeance, which arose to God : 
 And from that chasm, a window once, her eye 
 "Hail'd the first prospect of the distant sky : 
 
 She thought of Scotland: while below, each cot, 
 That buzz'd with happy peasants, woke the sigh, 
 
 By mournful contrast to her own sad lot : 
 
 Their humble tenants were all free: ah ! she was not. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Twas royalty in sorrow here abode, 
 
 And sacred be the ruins : hard and tame 
 
 The heart that shrinks from pity as a load 
 
 Of mind best shunn'd : yet marvel not there came 
 A burning blush for England's tarnish'd fame 
 
 O'er Harold, as in tears he scann'd the spot 
 
 Which bears sad witness to his country's shame; 
 
 And stains her history's fairest page with blot, 
 
 That glares too deeply criminal to be forgot. 
 
 v. 
 Heed well thy steps, where o'er the rampart's base 
 
 A footing lures, no battlements are there ; 
 The loose cement can scarce the structure brace, 
 
 And tott'ring stones hang threat'ning in the air, 
 
 But filmy moss connects them. Pity 'twere 
 Should this deter you from the rampart's height, 
 
 For sweetly smiles the lowland landscape fair, 
 Corn-fields and meadows with the sun-beams bright, 
 And the meand'ring Dove, now scen ; now hid from 
 sijrht.
 
 28 TUTBURY CASTLE. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Flow on, O streams ! for ye are still the same, 
 
 Old age affects ye not ; limpid as now 
 Ye once beheld these crags a solid frame, 
 
 Awfully frowning o'er the beetling brow : 
 
 Ye saw these turrets to destruction bow, 
 And blush'd with purple glow, and foam'd with ire, 
 
 To find your -waters hinder' d in their flow 
 By corses ; soon they rotted in the mire, 
 And the fell blood-stains in succeeding waves expire. 
 
 VII. 
 Wl^at means yon lone and solitary shell ? 
 
 Each blustering wind that sweeps along the sky 
 Shakes its worn flanks : that was the citadel : 
 
 'Tis there the owlet screams his midnight cry; 
 
 The bat too is its tenant ; and on high, 
 Where once hung musket, shield, and coat of mail, 
 
 Flashing dim radiance from the fire hard by, 
 Round which were crowded faces stern and pale 
 Now o'er those naked walls their webs the spiders trail. 
 
 x.
 
 IWp lfoott)er , t&be. 
 
 Beneath the chancel's hallow'd stone, 
 
 Expos'd to every rustic tread, 
 To few, save rustic mourners, known, 
 
 My brother, is thy lowly bed. 
 Few words, upon the rough stone graven, 
 
 Thy name thy birth thy youth declare 
 Thy innocence thy hopes of Heaven 
 
 In simplest phrase recorded there. 
 No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave, 
 In mockery o'er my brother's grave. 
 
 The place is silent rarely sound 
 Is heard those ancient walls around ; 
 Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet 
 Discoursing in the public street, 
 Nor hum of business dull and loud. 
 Nor murmur of the passing crowd, 
 Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell. 
 From neighb'ring fort or citadel ; 
 No sound of human toil or strife 
 To death's lone dwelling speaks of life. 
 Nor breaks the silence still and deep 
 
 Where thou, beneath thy burial stone, 
 Art laid in that unstartled sleep 
 
 The living eye hath never known.
 
 30 MY brother's crave. 
 
 The lonely sexton's footstep falls 
 
 In dismal echoes on the walls, 
 
 As, slowly pacing through the aisle, 
 
 He sweeps tlr unholy dust away, 
 And cobwebs, which must not defile 
 
 Those windows on the Sabbath-day j 
 And, passing through the central nave, 
 Treads lightly on my brother's grave. 
 
 But when the sweet-ton'd Sabbath-chime, 
 
 Pouring its music on the breeze, 
 Proclaims the well-known holy time 
 
 Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees; 
 When rustic crowds devoutly meet, 
 
 And lips and hearts to God are given, 
 And souls enjoy oblivion sweet 
 
 Of earthly ills, in thoughts of Heaven; 
 What voice of calm and solemn tone 
 Is heard above thy burial-stone ? 
 What form in priestly meek array 
 Beside the altar kneels to pray ? 
 What holy hands are lifted up 
 To bless the sacramental cup ? 
 Full well I know that rev'rend form, 
 
 And if a voice could reach the dead, 
 Those tones would reach thee, tho' the worm, 
 
 My brother, makes thy heart his bed ; 
 That Sire, who thy existence gave, 
 Now stands beside thy lowly grave.
 
 my brother's grave. 31 
 
 It is not long since thou wert wont 
 
 Within these sacred walls to kneel ; 
 This altar, that baptismal font, 
 
 These stones which now thy dust conceal, 
 The sweet tones of the Sabbath-bell, 
 
 Were holiest objects to thy soul ; 
 On these thy spirit lov'd to dwell, 
 
 Untainted by the world's controul. 
 My brother, those were happy days, 
 
 When thou and I were children yet; 
 How fondly memory still surveys 
 
 Those scenes, the heart can ne'er forget ! 
 My soul was then, as thine is now, 
 
 Unstain'd by sin, unstung by pain; 
 Peace smil'd on each unclouded brow 
 
 Mine ne'er will be so calm again. 
 How blithely then we hail'd the ray 
 Which usher'd in the Sabbath-day ! 
 How lightly then our footsteps trod 
 Yon pathway to the house of God ! 
 For souls, in which no dark offence 
 Hath sullied childhood's innocence, 
 Best meet the pure and hallow'd shrine, 
 Which guiltier bosoms own divine. 
 
 I feel not now as then I felt, 
 
 The sunshine of my heart is o'er; 
 The spirit now is chang'd which dwelt 
 
 Within me, in the days before.
 
 32 MY brother's grate. 
 
 But Thou wert snatch'd, my brother, hence, 
 In all thy guileless innocence ; 
 One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee, 
 In reverential piety 
 For childish faults forgiveness crave 
 The next beam'd brightly on thy grave. 
 The crowd, of which thou late wert one, 
 Now threng'd across thy burial-stone ; 
 Rude footsteps trampled on the spot, 
 Where thou lay'st mould'ring and forgot ; 
 And some few gentler bosoms wept, 
 In silence, where my brother slept. 
 
 I stood not by thy fev'rish bed, 
 
 I look'd not on thy glazing eye, 
 Nor gently lull'd thy aching head, 
 
 Nor view'd thy dying agony : 
 I felt not what my parents felt, 
 
 The doubt the terror the distress 
 Nor vainly for my brother knelt 
 
 My soul was spar'd that wretchedness. 
 One sentence told me, in a breath, 
 My brother's illness and his death ! 
 
 And days of mourning glided by, 
 And brought me back my gaiety ; 
 For soon in childhood's wayward heart 
 Doth crush'd affection cease to smart. 
 .Again I join'd the sportive crowd 
 Of boyish playmates, wild and loud;
 
 MY brother's grave, 33 
 
 I learnt to view with careless eye 
 My sable garb of misery ; 
 
 No more I wept my brother's lot, 
 
 I I is image was almost forgot ; 
 And ev'ry deeper shade of pain 
 Had vanish'd from my soul again. 
 
 The well-known morn, I used to greet 
 
 With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming, 
 And thoughts of home and raptures sweet 
 
 In ev'ry eye, but mine, were gleaming; 
 But T, amidst that youthful band 
 
 Of beating hearts and beaming eyes, 
 Nor smil'd nor spoke at joy's command, 
 
 Nor felt those wonted ecstasies : 
 I lov'd my home but trembled now 
 To view my father's alter'd brow ; 
 I fear'd to meet my mother's eye, 
 And hear her voice of agony ; 
 I fear'd to view my native spot, 
 Where he who lov'd it now was )io(. 
 The pleasures of my home were fled 
 My brother slumber'd with the dead. 
 
 1 drew near to my father's gate 
 
 No smiling faces met me now 
 1 enter'd all was desolate 
 
 Grief sat upon my mother's brow : 
 I heard her, as she kiss'd me, sigh , 
 A tear stood in my father's; eye ; t
 
 34 MY brother's grave. 
 
 My little brothers round me prest, 
 In gay unthinking childhood blest. 
 Long, long that hour has past, but when 
 Shall I forget its mournful scene ? 
 
 The Sabbath came with mournful pace 
 I sought my brother's burial place 
 That shrine, which when I last had view'd, 
 In vigour by my side he stood. 
 I gaz'd around with fearful eye- 
 All things reposed in sanctity. 
 1 reach'd the chancel nought was chang'd- 
 The altar decently arrang'd 
 The pure white cloth above the shrine 
 The consecrated bread and wine 
 All was the same I found no trace 
 Of sorrow in that holy place. 
 One hurried glance I downward gave 
 My foot was on my brother's grave ! 
 
 And years have past and thou art now 
 
 Forgotten in thy silent tomb 
 And cheerful is my mothers brow, 
 
 My father's eye has lost its gloom. 
 And years have past and death has laid 
 
 Another victim by thy side; 
 With thee he roams, an infant shade, 
 
 But not more pure than thee he died. 
 Blest are ye both ! your ashes rest 
 Beside the spot ye lov'd the best;
 
 MY urother's grave. 36 
 
 And that dear home, which saw your birth) 
 O'erlooks you in your bed of earth. 
 But who can tell what blissful shore 
 Your angel-spirits wander o'er ? 
 And who can tell what raptures high 
 Now bless your immortality ? 
 
 My boyish days are nearly gone, 
 
 My breast is not unsullied now ; 
 And worldly cares and woes will soon 
 
 Cut their deep furrows on my brow 
 And life will take a darker hue 
 From ills my Brother never knew. 
 And human passions o'er my soul 
 Now hold their dark and fell controul; 
 And hate and envy, fear and rage, 
 Proclaim approaching manhood's age ; 
 And 1 have made me bosom friends, 
 
 And lov'd and link'd my heart with others ; 
 But who with mine his bosom blends, 
 
 As mine was blended with my brother's! 
 When years of rapture glided by, 
 
 The spring of life's unclouded weather, 
 Our souls were knit, and thou and 1, 
 
 My brother, grew in love together. 
 The chain is broke which bound us then- 
 When shall I find it's like again i
 
 36 LOVE., LINES BENT TO A LADY. 
 
 ULobr, 
 
 Yon embers lie sleeping, 
 
 Those relics of flame, 
 Not a sparklet is peeping 
 
 Among them so tame. 
 
 But the lately bright flashes 
 
 A breath may recall ; 
 They sleep 'neath the ashes, 
 
 As under a pall. 
 
 Thus Love, when neglected, 
 
 May fade and decay ; 
 But the heart, deep affected, 
 
 Its flight will delay. 
 
 By whom 'twas forsaken 
 
 Should she a smile deign, 
 Then Love would awaken, 
 
 And kindle again. n. 
 
 fUiw* sent to a ftatrg, 
 
 On restoring to her a key, which she called ' The Key of the Heart. 
 m 
 
 ! deem not my soul could so easily part 
 With a charge which so precious was grown ; 
 
 But I found, that in keeping the Key of thy Hearty 
 I unguardedly opened my own. 
 
 When such magic undoubted I found was possess'd 
 By the wards of this wonderful key, 
 
 1 restor'd it in hopes it might work on thy breast 
 The same charm which it wrought upon me.
 
 Cfjc -JSeatttg, 
 
 A REPLY TO THE DAKDV OH! 
 
 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 I. 
 
 Since me you try to vex 
 
 With the follies of my sex, 
 To retort the attack is my duty oh ! 
 
 So the Dandy we'll dismiss, 
 
 And pray take it not amiss, 
 If I draw you a sketch of the Beauty oh ! 
 
 O Beauty's a theme, 
 
 Which, in poet's dream, 
 Has been call'd the child of Heaven (so civil oh!) 
 
 But those Beauties, who from earth 
 
 Draw their pedigree and birth, 
 Have sometimes a spice of the devil oh ! 
 
 II. 
 
 'Tis true they were design'd 
 
 For the blessing* of mankind, 
 And the world would be dull without 'em oh ! 
 
 Hut they qualify the blessing-, 
 
 By their pleasure in distressing 
 Whoever be distrest about 'em oh ' 
 
 D
 
 38 THE BEAUTY. 
 
 Such coquetry, and such pride, 
 
 And such vanity beside, 
 (Pray, Ladies, does the portrait suit ye oh ?) 
 
 And such mad caprices dwell 
 
 In the bosom of the belle, 
 That they spoil half the charms of her Beauty oh ! 
 
 III. 
 
 I seek not to disgrace 
 
 The attractions of her face, 
 For I own that I've felt them alluring oh ! 
 
 And she heightens the smart 
 
 Of their wounds by her art, 
 Till the pang becomes past enduring oh ! 
 
 To bid her lovers die, 
 
 She darts lightnings from her eye, 
 And those lightnings right well do their duty oh ! 
 
 For there's not a heart so tame, 
 
 But it kindles at the flame, 
 Which flashes from the bright eye of Beauty oh ! 
 
 IV. 
 O she's skill'd in ev'ry art 
 That may capture wooer's heart, 
 
 And those arts she employs so spiteful oh ! 
 That while she's taking pains 
 With her charms to turn your brains, 
 
 Affectation, in her, looks delightful oh ! 
 Her ogle and her leer, 
 Her simper and her tear, 
 
 Are but arrows of love to shoot ye-^oh !
 
 THE BEAUTY. 39 
 
 And she wears not a curl, 
 But is destin'd to hurl 
 The battery of Cupid and Beauty oh ! 
 
 V. 
 
 So delicate her nerves, 
 
 That when occasion serves, 
 She can faint at the sight of a donkey oh ! 
 
 Yet, recover'd from her fright, 
 
 She'll contrive to dance all night, 
 And flirt with a foppish monkey oh ! 
 
 Nay, I've really been told, 
 
 When her charms grow old, 
 (So much she still loves to command ye oh !) 
 
 O'er her sallow cheeks she'll spread 
 
 Artificial while and red. 
 Unknown to the cheeks of the Dandy oh ! 
 
 VI. 
 
 Such arts as these, I own, 
 
 Are at C unknown. 
 
 So be there no quarrel between us oh ! 
 
 For there the girls have faces 
 
 With the features of the Graces, 
 And their forms are as the form of V r enus oh ! 
 
 Then, Lady, art disdain, 
 
 And let nature ever reign, 
 Thus we'll honour the shade of thy shoe-tye oh ! 
 
 And still shalt thou be fair, 
 
 And the palm of beauty bear, 
 While simplicity's the essence of Beauty oh! 
 d 2
 
 fciefiectton* 
 
 ON THE 6tii NOVEMBER-im. 
 
 A year has roll'd its course : again that day, 
 The saddest in our country's annals deem'd 
 
 The day that tore the brightest flower away, 
 
 That fell'd the loveliest tree, has o'er us beam'd. 
 
 It comes not now with wailing, not with sighs, 
 
 Whose utterance chokes us, or with tears that melt, 
 
 Or the deep anguish, or the mute surprise, 
 That scarce believ'd the misery it felt ; 
 
 As when, to hearts with hope then fearless grown, 
 To ears that listen'd for the peal of joy, 
 
 It toll'd the knell whose deep and boding tone 
 At once that joy could check, that hope destroy. 
 
 Ay, then we deem'd the tear, that full and fast 
 
 Flow'd down the mourner's cheek, Mould still be wet; 
 
 That sighs, which heav'd so thick, were not the last; 
 That hearts so full might live but not forget. 
 
 Ay, so we deem'd, for thou wast all our own ; 
 
 And they that mourn'd thee, lov'd : but turn and see, 
 Look o'er the land the cottage and the Throne 
 
 No trace remains, no memory of thee !
 
 REFLECTIONS, &C. 41 
 
 Mute is the eloquence, that mourn'd thy fate, 
 Hush'd is the woe, that could not brook relief 
 
 The pageantry of death, the pomp of state, 
 The maiden's pity, and the patriot's grief. 
 
 E'en there, where thou wast proudly seen to shine, 
 Mirth rides the gale, and wakes the Regal Hall; 
 
 There dwell the feast, the song, the laugh, the wine, 
 Th' harmonious concert, and the sprightly ball.* 
 
 With eye still roving, and with cheek serene, 
 All in their giddy circle thoughtless fly ; 
 
 Forget thy fate, as if thou ne'er had'st been ; 
 Forget as if they ne'er had seen thee die. 
 
 One breast there is, whose pang shall never cease, 
 One eye, whose lid in joy shall never close ; 
 
 Oh ! break not on the widow'd mourner's peace, 
 Hush'd be his name, inviolate his woes. 
 
 Nor vain our prayer : yet shall he taste of rest, 
 E'en yet shall comfort to his grief be giv'n ; 
 
 Wrapt in thy love, in thy remembrance blest, 
 His only joy in thee his only hope in Heav'n. 
 
 u. 
 
 * This allusion referred to the state of the Court during the spring and 
 summer preceding the time when these lines were written.
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. 
 
 Sir, Parnassus, Jpril 19, 1818. 
 
 At a late literary meeting on this mountain, Apollo in the chair, I was 
 desired, by the unanimous vote of the whole assembly, to draw up the 
 following account of that God's late visit to Eton, together with his opi- 
 nions touching your great characters, literary, oratorical, &c. You will 
 oblige us all by inserting it as speedily as possible. I remain, 
 
 Sir, 
 Your obedient humble servant, 
 
 THALIA. 
 
 ^jpollo^ Visit to liton. 
 
 -++++*** 
 
 1 T'other night, as Apollo was quaffing a gill, 
 With his pupils, the Muses, from Helicon's rill, 
 (For all circles of rank in Parnassus agree 
 In preferring cold water to coffee or tea,) 
 The discourse turned as usual on critical matters, 
 And the last stirring news from the kingdom of letters. 
 But when poets and critics, and wits, and whatnot, 
 From Jeffrey and Byron, to Stoddart 2 and Stott, 3 
 
 (l)Thi.s poem, the reader will perceive, is an humble imitation of Leigh 
 Hunt's ' Feast of the Poets;' and the lines distinguished by asterisks are 
 borrowed or altered from the original. It is printed very much against the 
 inclination of the author, who, not having been allowed (except in a few 
 instances) to make such alterations as he thinks proper, begs that all the 
 sins of Thalia may be visited on the heads of the Editors of the Poetry of 
 the. College Magazine.'' 
 
 (?) Dr. Stoddart, editor of ' The New Times.' 
 
 (3) A writer in ' The Morning Pot,' mentioned by Lord Byron, in his 
 4 English Bards and Scotch Review ers.'
 
 APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON. 43 
 
 Had receiv'd their due portion of consideration, 
 Cried Apollo, ' Pray, ladies, how goes education ? 
 For I own my poor brain's been so muddled of late 
 In transacting - the greater affairs of the state, 
 And so long every day in the courts I've been stewing-, 
 I've had no time to think what the children were doing-. 
 There's my favourite Byron my presence inviting*, 
 And Milman, and Coleridge, and Moore, have been 
 
 writing ; 
 And my ears at this moment confoundedly tingle. 
 From the squabbling of Blackwood with Cleghorn and 
 
 Pringle. 
 But as all their disputes seem at length at an end, 
 And the poets my levee have ceas'd to attend ; 
 Since the weather's improving, and lengthen'd the days, 
 For a visit to Eton Fll order my chaise : 
 There's my sister Diana my day-coach to drive, 
 And I'll send the new canto to keep you alive. 
 So my business all settled, and absence supplied, 
 For an earthly excursion to-morrow I'll ride.' 
 
 Thus spoke king Apollo 4 ; the Muses assented ; 
 And the God went to bed most be-prais'd and contented. 
 'Twas on Saturday morning, near half past eleven, 
 When the God, like a devil 5 , camedriving from heaven, 
 And with postboys, and footmen, and liveries blazing, 
 Soon set half the country a gaping and gazing. 
 When the carriage drove into the Christopher yard, 
 How the waiters all bustled, and Garrawav star'd, 
 And the hostlers and boot-ketchers wonder'd, and swore, 
 * They'd ne'er seen such a start in their lifetime before!' 
 
 (_!) avaf; AiroXXav is a very frequent ii-ni;o with the Grecian poets. 
 (.">) AAIMON'I i<rof so rendered by a late celebrated Scholar.
 
 44 APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON. 
 
 I could tell how, as soon as his chariot drew nigh, 
 Every cloud disappear'd from the face of the sky ; 
 And the birds in the hedges more tunefully sung, 
 And the bells in St. George's spontaneously rung ; 
 And the people, all seiz'd with divine inspiration, 
 Could'nt talk without rhyming and versification. 
 But such matters, tho' vastly important, I ween, 
 Are too long for the limits of your Magazine. 
 
 Now it soon got abroad that Apollo was come, 
 And intended to be, for that evening, * at Home ;' 
 And that cards would be issued, and tickets be given, 
 To all scholars and wits, for a dinner at seven : 
 So he'd scarcely sat down, when a legion came pouring 
 Of would-be-thought scholars, his favour imploring. 
 First B-ll-r stept in, with a lengthy oration 
 About * scandalous usage' and ' hard situation,' 
 And such treatment as never, since Eton was started, 
 Had been shewn to a genius, like him, ' broken-hearted, .' 
 
 He'd i no doubt but his friends in Parnassus must know 
 How his fine declamation was laugh'd at below ; 
 
 And how , like a blockhead ungifted with brains, 
 
 Had neglected to grant him a prize for his pains : 
 He was sure, if such conduct continued much longer, 
 The school must grow weaker, and indolence stronger: 
 That the rights of sixth-form would be laid in the dust, 
 And the school after thai, he thought, tumble it must. 
 But he knew that Apollo was learned and wise, 
 And he hoped that hisGodship would give him a prize; 
 Or, at least, to make up for his mortification, 
 Would invite him to dinner without hesitation.' 
 
 Now Apollo, it seems, had some little pretence 
 To a trilling proportion of wisdom and sense j
 
 APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON. 45 
 
 So without even asking the spark to be seated, 
 lie thus cut short his hopes, and his projects defeated : 
 ' After all, Mr B-ll-r, you've deign'd to repeat, 
 
 Tin afraid that you'll think me more stupid than ; 
 
 But to wave all disputes on your talents and knowledge, 
 Pray what have you done as the Captain of College ? 
 Have you patroniz'd learning, or sapping commended ? 
 Have you e'er to your fags or their studies attended? 
 To the school have you given of merit a sample, 
 
 And directed by precept, or led by example V 
 
 ****** 
 
 What Apollo said more I'm forbidden to say, 
 But B-ll-r din'd not at his table that day. 
 
 Next a smart little gentleman march' d with a stare up, 
 *A smoothing his neckcloth, and patting his hair up ; 
 And with bows and grimaces quadrillers might follow, 
 Said ' he own'd that his face was unknown to Apollo ; 
 But ho held in his hand what must be his apology, 
 A short treatise he'd written on British geology ; 
 xVnd this journal, he hoped, of his studies, last week, 
 In philosophy, chemistry, logic, and Greek, 
 Might appear on perusal : but not to go far 
 In proclaiming his merits his name was *** **** 
 And for proofs of his talents, deserts, and what not, 
 lie appeal' d to Miss Baillie, Lord Byron, and Scott.' 
 
 Here his speech was cut short by a hubbub below, 
 And in walk'd Messrs. M-t-r-n, C-k-slv, and Co., 
 And begged leave to present to his Majesty's finger 
 If he'd please to accept No. V. of the Linger. 
 Mr. M-t-r-n ' hoped he the columns would view 
 With unprejudie'd judgment, and give them their 
 due,
 
 46 APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON. 
 
 Nor believe all the lies, which perhaps he had seen, 
 In that vile publication, that base Magazine, 
 Which had dar'd to impeach his most chaste lucubrations 
 Of obscenity, nonsense, and such accusations : 
 Nay, that impudent work had asserted downright, 
 That chalk differ' d from cheese, and that black was'nt 
 
 white : 
 But he hoped he might meet with his Majesty's favour;' 
 And thus, hemming and hawing, he clos'd his palaver. 
 
 Now the God condescended to look at the papers, 
 But the first word he found in them gave him the 
 
 vapours : 
 For the eyes of Apollo, ye Gods ! 'twas a word 
 Quite unfit to be written, much more to be heard ; 
 'Twas a word which a bargeman would tremble to 
 
 utter, 
 And it put his poor Majesty all in a flutter : 
 But collecting his courage, his laurels he shook, 
 And around on the company cast such a look, 
 That e'en T-r-n and Dumpling slunk off to the door, 
 And the Lion was far too much frighten 'd to roar; 
 While poor **** Mas attacked with such qualms at the 
 
 breast, 
 That he took up his journal, and fled with the rest. 
 
 When the tumult subsided, and peace 'gan to follow, 
 Goddard enter'd the room with three cards for Apollo, 
 And some papers which, hardly five minutes before, 
 Three respectable gownsmen had left at the door. 
 With a smile of good humour the God looked at each, 
 For he found that they came from Bl-nt, Ch-pni-n, and 
 
 N-ch.
 
 APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON. 47 
 
 Bl-nt sent him a treatise of science profound, 
 Shewing how rotten eggs were distinguish' d from sound; 
 Some i Remarks on Debates ;.' and some long-winded 
 
 stories 
 Of Society Whigs and Society Tories ; 
 And six sheets and a half of a sage dissertation 
 On the present most wicked and dull generation. 
 From Ch-pm-n came lectures on Monk, and on piety, 
 On Simeon, and learning, and plays, and sobriety ; 
 With most clear illustrations, and critical notes, 
 On his own right exclusive of canvassing votes. 
 From N-ch came a medley of prose and of rhyme, 
 Satires, epigrams, sonnets, and sermons sublime ; 
 But he'd chosen all customs and rules to reverse, 
 For his satires were prose y and his sermons were verse. 
 * Phoebus look'd at the papers, commended all three, 
 *And sent word he'd be happy to see them to tea. 
 
 The affairs of the morning thus happily o'er, 
 Phoebus pull'd from his pocket twelve tickets or more, 
 Which the waiters were ordered forthwith to disperse 
 'Mongst the most approved scribblers in prose and in 
 
 verse. 
 'Mongst the gentlemen honour' d with cards, let me see, 
 There was H-w-rd, and C-1-r-dge, and W d, and 
 
 L-v-e ; 
 The Society's props, C-rz-n, major and minor, 
 B-w-n, ll-nn-k-r, W-bbe, were invited to dinner; 
 The Theologist B-xt-n, and P-t-t, were seen, 
 And Philosopher J-n-ns, and D-n-ld M-cl-n; 
 B-lt-1 too, and D-k-s ; but it happened (oh ! shame !) 
 That, though many were ask'd, very few of them came.
 
 48 apollo's visit to eton. 
 
 As for C-1-r-dge, he ' knew not what right Phoebus 
 had, d-m me, 
 To set up for a judge in a Christian Academy ; 
 And he'd not condescend to submit his Latinitv 
 Nor his verses nor Greek to a Heathen Divinity : 
 For his part, he should think his advice an affront, 
 Full as bad as the libels of Ch-pm-n and Bl-nt : 
 He'd no doubt that his dinner might be very good, 
 But he'd not go and taste it be d d if he would,' 
 D n fear'd that his pupils their minds should defile, 
 And M-cl-n was engag'd to the Duke of Argyle ; 
 In a deep fit of lethargy P-t-t had sunk, 
 And Theologist B-xt-n with Bishop was drunk ; 
 B-lt-1 too, and D-k-s, much against their own will, 
 Had been both pre-engaged to a party to mill ; 
 And Philosopher J-n-ns was bent on his knees, 
 To electrify spiders, and galvanize fleas. 
 But the rest all accepted the God's invitation, 
 And made haste to prepare for this jollification. 
 
 Now the dinner was handsome as dinner could be, 
 But to tell every dish is too tedious for me ; 
 Such a task, at the best, would be irksome and long, 
 And besides, I must haste to the end of my song. 
 *Tis enough to relate, that, the better to dine, 
 Jove sent them some nectar, and Bacchus some wine, 
 From Minerva came olives to crown the dessert, 
 And from Helicon water was sent most alert, 
 Of which Tl-w-rd, 'tis said, drank so long and so deep, 
 That he almost fell into poetical sleep. 6 
 
 ({>) Nee fonte labia prolui Caballino, 
 
 Nee in bicipiti somniasse l'arnasso. Persils.
 
 APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON. 49 
 
 When the cloth was remov'd, and the bottle went 
 
 round, 
 Wit, glee, and good humour, began to abound, 
 Though Lord Chesterfield would not have called them 
 
 polite, 
 
 For they all often burst into laughter outright. 
 
 ****** 
 
 But swift flew the moments of rapture and glee, 
 And too early, alas ! they were summon'd to tea. 
 
 With looks most demure, eacli prepar'd with a speech, 
 At the table were seated I31-nt, Ch-pm-n, and N-ch. 
 Phoebus stopt their orations, with dignity free, 
 And, with easy politeness, shook hands with all three ; 
 And the party proceeded, increas'd to a host, 
 To discuss bread and butter, tea, coffee, and toast. 
 As their numbers grew larger, more loud grew their 
 
 mirth, 
 And Apollo from Ileav'n drew its raptures to Earth: 
 With divine inspiration he kindled each mind, 
 Till their wit, like their sugar, grew double refin'd ; 
 And an evening, enliven'd by conviviality, 
 Proved how much they were pleas'd by the God's hos- 
 pitality. 
 
 THALIA. 
 
 Now at length to Apollo and rhyming adieu ! 
 And the next time he comes may I dine with him too ! 
 
 printer's devil.
 
 ttnir$ot clastic. 
 
 Oft have I gaz'd upon yon castled height, 
 
 Those turrets gleaming o'er the steep hill's brow; 
 
 Oft have I mark'd the morning beams of light 
 In rainbow hues upon the casements glow, 
 And felt my soul with raptures overflow. 
 
 And I have watch'd the distant sentinel 
 
 Pacing his measur'd rounds stately and slow, 
 
 While the sun's rays in fitful flashes fell 
 
 On his bright bayonet's blade, that had been bur- 
 nish'd well. 
 
 II. 
 
 'Twas mere romantic fancy ; but that scene, 
 
 From boyhood's earliest glow to youth's full prime, 
 Has had its charms for me ; for well, I ween, 
 
 Jt could recall tales of the olden time. 
 
 You domes have echoed to the merry rhyme 
 Of courtly minstrels ; and yon verdant glade 
 
 Has reek'd with gore, when foemen dar'd to climb 
 Along the pass their own good swords had made, 
 To mount the topmost walls in furious escalade.
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE. "A 
 
 III. 
 
 The lawn, that fronts the Castle's eastern side, 
 
 In undulating slopes of emerald green, 
 Once witness'd tournaments. 'Twas there the pride 
 Of England's chivalry in arms were seen, 
 And lovely eyes would glisten at the scene, 
 And lovely cheeks from fear grow deadly pale, 
 
 While fast the splinters Hew ; and some would screen 
 The tell-tale blush behind the friendly veil 
 Their own true knights there shone in panoply of mail. 
 
 IV. 
 O what a change a few short year* will cause ! 
 
 No voice awakes the deathlike solitude 
 On yonder terrac'd heights, save when the daws, 
 A noisy and a countless multitude, 
 Breaking the silence with their clamours rude, 
 Round their hereditary nest-holes throng ; 
 
 Yet more, the hum of sentry may intrude 
 Upon the ear, trolling some artless song 
 To cheat the lazy hours that slowly creep along. 
 
 V. 
 There was a time when on each Sabbath eve 
 These walks where now rank weeds and herbage 
 spring, 
 A dismal contrast, teaching us to grieve 
 
 For joy and splendour lost these walks would ring 
 With shouts that hail'dthe presence of our King; 
 And, loud above the happy people's hum, 
 Sweet music o'er the scenery would fling 
 Her dulcet influence ; bugle, flute, and drum, 
 Join'd in harmonic strains ; nor was the hauthoi* 
 dumb.
 
 52 WINDSOIt CASTLE. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Mark'd ye that venerable form, erect 
 
 In all the majesty of virtuous pride, 
 How, like a mirror, do his looks reflect 
 
 His subjects' love mild, but yet dignified, 
 
 Beaming on all around ; and, at his side, 
 The Queen leans on her royal Consort's arm : 
 
 See they approach ! the gazing crowds divide. 
 All eye to catch a smile, as 'twere some charm, 
 Or amulet of art, life's future storms to calm. 
 
 VII. 
 Ah ! where is now that Royal Pair ? Of late 
 
 A scene we witness'd, sad, yet passing fair : 
 The muffled bell that toll'd in sullen state 
 
 The mourning warrior train the flambeau's flare, 
 
 Which on the hearse's 'scutcheons cast a glare, 
 Pale, fitful, sickly, deepening the gloom, 
 
 That wrapt the hearse on every side but there, 
 And steeds that gayly shook their sable plume, 
 As if they grac'd some pomp, which led not to the 
 tomb. 
 
 VIII. 
 And we did hear and while we heard did feel 
 
 Those thrills of sorrow, deep, tho' not avow'd 
 The solemn dirge, the organ's varied peal 
 
 From yonder chapel sent, now swelling loud, 
 And now in tones, that sooth'd the sadden'd crowd. 
 
 The hearse has stopp'd nought but the steed's shrill 
 neigh 
 
 Or pawing hoof is heard ; the pageant proud 
 Proceeds along the aisles in dark array, 
 While o'er the fretted roof the flashing torches play.
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE. 53 
 
 IX. 
 
 The choral strain has clos'd the prayers are pray'd 
 While, slowly sinking 'neath the yawning stone, 
 
 The mortal relics of the Queen are laid 
 In Death's still sanctuary, where alone 
 Care ne'er intrudes, and grief is all unknown. 
 
 But there are eyes among those crowds which weep, 
 As pass that gorgeous train, and hearts that own 
 
 To Nature's voice, while pitying feelings creep 
 
 O'er the soft soul, which they in mellow'd sorrow steep. 
 
 x. 
 
 But where's her royal Consort? ('tis her Son 
 That slowly walks behind his Mother's bier,) 
 
 Has Death before seiz'd him ? Is he, too, gone? 
 Hush ! hush ! rude harp ! grief's sanctity revere, 
 Nor snatch aside the veil it fain would wear 
 
 Death has not clos'd his eyes, yet they are dim 
 He smiles no joyful tidings can he hear, 
 
 Nor sorrows interpose their shadows grim : 
 
 Alas ! thought is not thought life is not life to him. 
 
 xr. 
 
 Yet, tho' no rays of reason's sun illume 
 
 That mental darkness, and his smiles alone, 
 Like sunbeams gleaming on the cold cold tomb, 
 
 Hide but a ruin, which once proudly shone 
 
 In energy and wisdom, all now gone ; 
 Oh ! could he know 'twould soothe his lonely hours 
 
 How, tho' we stifle every useless moan, 
 England grieves for him, and on yonder towers 
 All hearts are fix'd, as spell-bound by some magic powers. 
 
 R
 
 54 WINDSOR CASTLE, 
 
 XII. 
 
 Turn we our eyes from thence to where, along 
 The hill's steep side, forming a dark arcade, 
 
 Pine trees, and larch, and beech, and chesnut, throng : 
 'Tis there the violet, underneath the shade, 
 Like beauteous, and yet overmodest, maid, 
 
 Conceals its vivid hues deep in the moss ; 
 There, while I gaze, scenes, which can never fade 
 
 From the mind's tablet, o'er my memory cross, 
 
 Of years when pleasure's ore was purified from dross. 
 
 XIII. 
 Yet memory's joys too often bring regret! 
 
 Fair Flora, those were happy hours when first 
 In earliest youth's fond innocence we met, 
 
 And boyhood's ardent spirits madly nurs'd 
 
 Vain hopes of bliss ; scarce yet the bud had burst 
 Thy perfect rose of beauty was unblown. 
 
 Frown if thou wilt, proud maid, I dare thy worst, 
 And will look back ; my memory is my own, 
 And time has prov'd your smiles more dangerous than 
 your frown. 
 
 XIV. 
 But while with hearts as lightsome and as free 
 
 As was the breeze, that mid your ringlets play'd, 
 And life was nought but gaiety and glee ; 
 
 While thro' those groves along the hill we stray'd 
 
 To cull sweet flowerets, which the spring display'd 
 Here in their fairest hues ; the sooth to tell 
 
 When I beheld thee with such grace array'd, 
 As gayly playful as the wild gazelle 
 Was it a crime to love to love thee but too well ?
 
 WINDSOR CASTLE. 65 
 
 XV. 
 Oh ! Love is like the false Suhrab,* which oft, 
 
 Amid the sands, the fainting Arab sees, 
 And feels vain hopes arise : how rich and soft 
 
 The distant landscape shines ! the cooling breeze 
 
 Seems just awoke among the calm date trees, 
 That bend with choicest fruit ; lakes, too, are there, 
 
 All fring'd with verdant moss sweet scene of ease! 
 He spurs his steed it vanishes in air : 
 Thus Love allures our youth, and leaves us to despair. 
 
 xvr. 
 The pleasing dream is o'er ; that chain, so strong, 
 
 Is broken by one effort boldly made. 
 By Heavens ! I'd rather sit my whole life long 
 
 Watch the dull changes of the light and shade 
 
 On yonder river as the sunbeams play'd, 
 Than live thy humour's slave, and weakly woo 
 
 Such fickle smiles. But there is One, proud maid, 
 Who boasts the diamond's beauty ; not like you, 
 The hardness of the heart that's in that diamond too. 
 
 XVII. 
 I've wander'd from my theme, yet scarce know why 
 
 Oh ! let a young Bard's weakness mercy find, 
 Nor clip the wing that just aspires to Hy. 
 
 All hail, ye Towers! for ever in my mind 
 
 Your much-lov'd image shall remain enshrin'd ; 
 Tho' seas divide, and mountains rise between, 
 
 With you my heart will linger still behind ; 
 And memory oft will set itself to glean 
 Fond thoughts of you, ye Vales, my happy boyhood's 
 scene. n. 
 
 * The Suhrab (the mirage of the French 9a van si is an illusive appear- 
 ance in the desert, ' originating;,' says l'ottinger, ' from tho solar rav* 
 causing the dust to ri5c and float through the air.' 
 
 i: 2
 
 invocation to &pollo 
 
 dedicatum poscit Apollinem 
 
 Vates.' 
 
 God of the silver bow ! who hurl'st afar 
 Thy winged arrows, and thy shafts of war, 
 On Lycia's rock who fix'd thy wooded throne, 
 Whom sea-girt Delos honours as her own : 
 
 If, in those isles which crown th' iEgaean deep, 
 
 In Tempe's vale, o'er Patarea's steep, 
 
 Or in the dews of Castalie you lave 
 
 Your tresses, want'ning o'er the azure wave : 
 
 Or yet, beneath your own Parnassian shades, 
 You wake, to rapture wake, th' Aonian maids, 
 Breathe the loud song, the glowing flame inspire, 
 And kindling sweep your own immortal lyre : 
 
 O come, great Deity ! unheard before 
 A trembling votary treads thy sacred shore ; 
 And while thy altars blaze with gifts divine, 
 O come propitious to thy votive shrine .' 
 
 Now sweep thechords nowswell the tideof song 
 Thou mighty Master of the tuneful throng, 
 A nd while the trembling strings my hand obey, 
 JJirect the poet, and approve the lay. 
 
 ii.
 
 A FRAGMENT OF THE MINSTREL'S VISION; 
 
 OR, 
 
 3 Cale of tCftriatma*. 
 
 HIO 4 
 
 Mirk and drear is the atmosphere, 
 
 December's blast is chill ; 
 And the demon form of cloud and storm 
 
 Frowns grimly o'er the hill. 
 There is no leaf upon the trees, 
 
 No ripple on the rill, 
 Through these, in silence, sweeps the breeze, 
 That the chill nights of winter freeze ; 
 
 With ice the stream is still. 
 
 ii. 
 
 Now haste ye, haste ye, trim the hearth, 
 
 Lay fuel on the fire, 
 Though the storm blows cold, our Christmas mirth 
 
 Shall summer's warmth inspire. 
 Though no minstrel old, with fingers bold, 
 
 For us awakes the lyre, 
 Yet sprightly jest, and tale, and song, 
 And roars of laughter, loud and long, 
 
 Are the music I admire.
 
 58 LINES TO AN ARTIST. 
 
 III. 
 
 And broach ye a pipe of Carbonell, 
 
 And crown the good wine-bowl, 
 'Twill make the tamest bosom swell, 
 
 And fire the coldest soul: 
 'Twill wake wit's bright and magic light 
 
 To jest and humour droll, 
 Till, spurning sorrow's feeble ties, 
 The spirit soars into the skies, 
 
 And laughs at care's controul. 
 IV. 
 And spread ye the feast, and summon the guest, 
 
 Hang banners on the wall ; 
 Let a pageant wide, of pomp and pride, 
 
 Shine o'er the festival : 
 And viands rare, with haste prepare 
 
 Both lord and peasant call ; 
 Be gallant knights and damsels there, 
 The gay, the noble, a.jd the fair; 
 While plumes that wave and float in air, 
 And jewels that shine in lady's hair, 
 
 Adorn the glittering hall. 
 
 Hines to an &rtt*t, 
 
 Who had undertaken to Paint a beautiful Child of six years eld. 
 
 When She, the laughter-loving dame, 
 Venu?, to heav'n-taught Zeuxis came, 
 
 She brought each i ymph of beauteous mien, 
 Each maid of Greece, whose sep'rate charms 
 Might each well set a world in arms, 
 * And look,' she cried ' now paint the Spartan Queen.'
 
 LINES TO AN ARTIST. 59 
 
 One lent her form's surpassing grace, 
 Or gave her symmetry of face, 
 
 Her ivory neck, or bosom bare; 
 One loos'd the ringlets from her head, 
 One bared her feet, her arms one spread ; 
 He saw, and kindled and produc'd the fair. 
 
 From thee, whom kindred taste inspires, 
 My Muse demands, my love requires, 
 
 A humbler, softer task than this; 
 No foreign art, no stolen grace, 
 No fancied form, no borrow'd face 
 I ask not these Oh ! paint her as she is. 
 
 Paint the fair locks that gently meet, 
 Light aa the Zephyr, and as sweet, 
 Upon her brow's transparent hue ; 
 The lip of red, the cheek of white, 
 The eye that glances soft, yet bright, 
 As Venus' laughing, as Minerva's blue.* 
 
 Paint too the form, which once of yore 
 Some infant Grace, or Dryad wore, 
 
 On holy mount, or haunted grove; 
 Now spreading in it's earliest bloom, 
 And breathing wide it's soft perfume, 
 A type of Innocence a dream of Love. 

 
 a (Fomjmtteon ficttomt ttotonta & iScrtija, 
 
 
 
 The following lines are an extract from a Poem on the Conversion of 
 England to Christianity. Rowena, daughter of Hengist, and, as is well 
 known, married to Vortigern, which led to the entire subjection of 
 England by the Saxons. Bertha, a French Princess, married to Ethel- 
 bert, whom she converted to Christianity, and consequently paved the 
 way for the conversion of the whole Island. 
 
 - + 
 
 From France's neighb'ring shore, a monarch's flame, 
 The Christian Princess, gentle Bertha, came. 
 Oh ! as she left the bark that bore her o'er, 
 And trod the margin of the sea-girt shore, 
 She seem'd an angel minister of light, 
 As mildly soft, as beautifully bright, 
 Sent to this woe-worn isle below to win 
 Her sunken sons from suff'ring and from sin. 
 It seem'd the pride of rank had been her lot, 
 By her own mildness temper'd and forgot : 
 Her's was the eloquent witchery of face, 
 The meek endurance, and persuasive grace, 
 The blush of womanhood, the glow of youth, 
 Angelic patience, purity, and truth. 
 
 Scarce had there roll'd an hundred years away, 
 Beneath the fierce Usurper's* sevenfold sway, 
 Since by the tide of that same heaving flood, 
 The Saxon maid, bright-hair' d Rowena stood. 
 
 * The Saxon Heptarchy.
 
 ROWENA AND BERTHA. 61 
 
 Her's was the beauty that not won but aw'd ; 
 Trembling all gaz'd, and tremblingly ador'd. 
 Mid' clustring armies rose her beauteous form, 
 As the true lightning flashes cross the storm ; 
 The fire of Love, and Passion's mad career, 
 Uncheck'd Ambition, and Revenge were there ; 
 Her step was dignity, her glance was pride, -v 
 
 She knew her power, and scorn'd the world beside, C 
 The Saxon's daughter, and the false King's bride. } 
 
 Equal, but yet oh! hdw unlike, their charms, 
 Each born to conquer, but with diff'rentarms: 
 One sought to save, one wish'd but to destroy, 
 One bore destruction, and one brought back joy. 
 With treach'rous lure and dark designing came, 
 And fatal beauty arm'd, the Saxon dame; 
 While born to bless, with love in ev'ry glance, 
 Trod on this favour' d isle the maid of France- 
 One, wanton pandar to her Father's ire, 
 With burning cities lit her nuptial fire, 
 Look'd from her bridal couch on smoking plains, 
 And heard the revelry of clanking chains : 
 One, with young Piety's aspiring glow, 
 Bade endless blessings round her altar flow, 
 And, for the Hymeneal song and band, 
 Drank the glad off'ring of a greeting land. 
 One earn'd the treach'ry of her plighted breath, 
 Fair as she was, with Slavery and Death; 
 One brought a pause to suff'ring, sin, and strife, 
 The bond of Union, and the Cross of Life. 
 
 H.
 
 iHqu $0*tHBag. 
 
 TO THE EDITOR OF THE COLLEGE MAGAZINE. 
 
 Having often read with great pleasure the lively and humourous work, 
 entitled, 'The Twopenny Post- Bag;' and, at the same time, having 
 often thought what a store of amusement and curiosity the contents of 
 an Eton Post-Rag would probably disclose, H was my good fortune, the 
 other day, to stumble on this identical treasure, which Mr. Strugnall 
 had dropped in his way up to Windsor, a piece of neglect from which 
 his advancing years may in some measure exculpate him : however that 
 may be, I fear my conduct on the occasion was far from being equally 
 justifiable I seized on it with avidity, and carried the valuable prize in 
 triumph away with me. I shall decline giving my own opinion on the 
 contents, but rather submit them to your arbitration, with the exception 
 of those which seemed least fitted to meet the gaze of curiosity, or the 
 inspection of criticism. I therefore now present you the first letter 
 which offers itself, hoping, as I have every reason to do, that if you 
 intend a continuation of your excellent publication, its columns will be 
 open for the remainder of the correspondence I have thus fortuitously 
 intercepted. H. 
 
 No. I. 
 FROM W. H. L-K-N, ESQ., ETON, TO LD. T-EL-M RE, BATH. 
 
 Eton Coll. Oct. 26, 1818. 
 
 My verses copied, and my labours o'er, 
 
 Now that the nights are long, and short the days, 
 What yet remains ? one line to T-ll-m re, 
 Guide of my life, and theme of ali my praise: 
 For know, my friend, thou art the star, 
 Whose brilliance leads me from afar; 
 With constant gaze to thee I look 
 By thee instructed, scorn the book,
 
 ETON POST-BA0. C3 
 
 Burn the dull gradus, throw the grammar down, 
 And morning, noon, and night, still walk up town ; 
 
 Still loll in Layton's blest retreat, 
 
 Explore thy fav'rite Peascod-street, 
 
 Tell thy light tale of scandal o'er, 
 
 By Hatton's shop, or 's door, 
 
 Of lovers screen'd by night's kind shade, 
 
 Of duels fought, or maids betray 'd ; 
 
 And, now and then, a little mix 
 
 Of my own fav'rite politics; 
 
 Practise thy starts, thy groans, thy sighs, 
 On boards where thou wert wont to move ; 
 
 Renew thy feats, repeat thy lies, 
 Or woo thy 's pliant soul to love. 
 
 Arts such as these to thee I owe, 
 Shall I deny it ? d m me, no ! 
 Sooner shouldst thou, dear Lord, forget 
 Betsy's plump arm and eye of jet, 
 Which e'en L-v-e could scarce obtain, 
 And JB-w-n sought, yet sought in vain ; 
 
 Sooner should relax his ire, 
 
 Or shine in gay attire ; 
 
 School, absence, flogging, all be o'er, 
 Than I forget my T-ll-m re. 
 
 Forget thee ? No ! while sense and reason 
 
 Dwell within thy L-k-n's brains, 
 In every place, and time, and season, 
 
 Thy dear image there remains. 
 
 (1) Ld. T-ll-m re himself might perhaps require a less questionable 
 
 condition.
 
 (54 ETON POST-BAG. 
 
 Forget thee $ No ! who could do that, 
 
 That e'er has mark'd thy matchless coat, 
 Thy all-surpassing- stiff cravat, 
 
 The rigid fence that guards thy throat ; 
 The studied fashion of thy dress, 
 
 Thy pliant smiles, and winning tongue, 
 And, more than all, the one priz'd tress, 
 
 That graceful on thy forehead hung ? 
 Who can forget, that e'er has seen 
 Thy matchless merit deck the scene 
 Or mark'd thy woes or heard thee singing 
 
 So sweet in Francis Osbaldiston 2 
 Or when, as Britain's amorous King, 3 
 
 You kist the cook, and woo'd, and kist on ? 
 But chief on that triumphant night, 
 
 When beneath the sable feather, 
 Fierce you display'd the murd'rous Knight, 4 
 
 And all the audience wept i together. 
 Forget thee? No ! ye Gods forbid it ! 
 
 Prince of Dandies, best of Actors, 
 Thy neckcloths still my neck shall fit, 
 
 And still I'll play thy characters ; 
 Till Eton's mourning sons no more 
 Shall weep their boasted T-ll-m re, 
 Cease to regret that loss, and see 
 Thy fame and genius live in Me. 
 
 (2) In the opera of Rob Roy, acted with boundless applause at the 
 Datchet-lane Theatre. 
 
 (3) Amoroso, King of Little Britain. 
 
 (4) Sir Philip Blandford. 
 
 ,(j) Fact. Sec notices of the acted drama, Coll. Mag. Vol. I. p. 00.
 
 ETON 1'OST-BAG. tf5 
 
 But hold ! I fear I don't amuse ; 
 Then, let me see what Eton News ? 
 The school is full not over clever 
 
 storms, and drinks for ever ; 
 
 Al-x-nd-r's fat and thriving, 
 J-nn-r thinks of nought but driving ; 
 P-lk with G-rd-n always quarrels, 
 Or with W-ls-n drains whole barrels ; 
 S-lw-y and H-w-rd read and write, 
 P-tt and his seminary fight : 
 All just the same things never vary : 
 
 B-w-n jokes and satirizes, 
 Il-re dresses a la mode de Paris, 
 
 And W-lk-r philosophizes. 
 One thing, my friend, 1 have forgot 
 To say perhaps I'd better not ; 
 For, though I fear 'twill move your breast 
 
 To sudden indignation, 
 Yet know, that begg'd and hardly prest 
 
 J3y long solicitation, 
 I, even /, intend to be 
 Propos'd in the Society : 
 You start ! but do not judge with rigour 
 
 They're all to ruin going, 
 And want a fellow of my figure, 
 
 To keep them from undoing. 
 Adieu ! my friend ! 'tis Windsor fair, 
 And J-nn-y P-lk will drag me there 
 To buy a pea-shooter or squirt, 
 
 Or on the lions just to look in, 
 Or with those little French girls flirt, 
 
 No matter what. Your's ever, 
 
 l-k-x.
 
 6f> ETON POST-BAG. 
 
 No. II. 
 FROM MISS , ETON, TO MISS , LONDON. 
 
 November 22, 1815. 
 
 My sweetest of friends so the poor Queen is dead. 
 J cried for so long, that my eyes are quite red ; 
 Poor thing ! but no matter, she's gone to her rest, 
 And at length I must think how I'm to be drest; 
 For, my dear, only think, Court mourning I've none, 
 Not a gown ! so what in the world's to be done ? 
 You know that when last I went shopping with you, 
 1 bought nothing but green, pink, orange, and blue ; 
 (Blue suits my complexion I like to be gay 
 1 wear pink in July, and green does for May. 
 By the bye, that last shawl made such an effect, 
 
 First awe-struck Miss \, d asked how to direct 
 
 To the shop whence it came, with an envying glance, 
 
 And W r was sure that I'd got it from France.) 
 
 But now to the mourning, for without it to go 
 I would not for millions it never would do : 
 
 How M iss L d would wink, Mrs. R *u fret, 
 
 And Mrs. G 1 herself fly off in a pet : 
 
 Why e'en the MissT rs have both got their black, 
 
 And shall 7 be the first of my duty to lack ? 
 
 "Who keep the best house, and have the best knowledge 
 
 Of parties and dress throughout the whole College 
 
 "Whom the admires that I should be seen 
 
 Out of mourning, when all else are in't, for the Queen !
 
 ETON POST-BAG. f.7 
 
 So hunt all the shops, run all over the town, 
 For the smartest and costliest ready-made gown ; 
 But mind, above all, it's short-waisted and full, 
 With a fringe of black roses, and border of tulle. 
 And send me a corset, my shoulders to brace, 
 Of sarsnet, or silk, trimm'd with Brussels point-lace; 
 A crape-bonnet, feathers, black gloves, and a fan, 
 Ebony, French, or, if you like it, Japan, 
 
 I'm writing, my love, in a terrible hurry, 
 And I've been, since we met, in such a sad flurry 
 So bilious, so nervous, so restless at night, 
 So full of the vapours, the head-ache, and fright, 
 Ever since we have had that late horrible riot 
 I wish that the boys would but remain quiet : 
 Then eight were expell'd think how shocking, my dear ! 
 I declare that it cost me full many a tear : 
 
 Then poor dear ! I was so alarm'd, 
 
 His nice little figure they might have so harmM, 
 What with their hooting, and pelting, and thrusting ; 
 Then they threw about eggs how very disgusting ! 
 
 But not here end my griefs I'm left quite alone, 
 For C-1-r-dge and Ev ns, ray fav'rites, are flown ; 
 Such elegant figures ! such charming young men ! 
 I never shall look on their equals again. 
 However, of late, my examining eve 
 lias fix'd upon one their loss to supply, 
 And that one is T-w-h-nd ; such ' douceur !'-- such 
 
 grace ! 
 So slender a waist, and so smiling a face !
 
 68 ETON POST-BAG. 
 
 His figure delights me he must be my beau 
 In short, 1 will have him to breakfast just so. 
 
 My Niece is now with me a sweet little thing 
 I think I must take her to town in the Spring; 
 The men are all dying but nothing done yet 
 I fear, too, she's growing a little coquette ; 
 Her contour is perfect she's just seventeen, 
 And has the prettiest ankle you ever have seen : 
 She'll be vastly admir'd, I clearly foresee : 
 Besides, too, they say that she's very like Me." 
 
 ~rf: ^fft ^ *^e Tfr life *3|c 
 
 VF ^T ^C 7TP ^k 3|f t(P 
 
 Adieu ! ' mon amie !' love to all friends in town ; 
 As you value my life remember the gown, 
 As well as the gloves, fans, feathers, and bonnets, 
 And try for my Album to pick up some sonnets. 
 But, hark I there is company waiting below, 
 I can't wait a moment. Your's, 
 
 M. A 
 
 (1) We have thought proper to omit some passages of this Lady's letter, 
 as relating entirely to the domestic history of the College, which would 
 ill calculate them for publicity.
 
 ETON POST-BAG. 69 
 
 No. III. 
 
 FROM , ETON, TO , OXFORD. 
 
 January 29, 1819. 
 
 FiioM these time-honour'd towers, and classic glades, 
 These cloister 1 d walls, and consecrated shades, 
 One line to Friendship and the Muse is due 
 That line the Muse and Friendship give to you. 
 
 To you, who, Isis' sister banks along, 
 Weave the light texture of the graceful song, 
 And pour the verse, harmonious, full, and clear, 
 Whose first faint trembling notes you waken'd here : 
 Yes ! here you woke them here you caught the fire 
 The Muses lent you with their classic lyre; 
 Here first they bade your ardent soul explore 
 The rich variety of ancient lore, 
 Pour'd forth the bright examples to your view, 
 Taught you to prize, encourag'd to pursue. 
 Then if each joy to memory allied, 
 Cherish'd in youth, by friendship ratified, 
 Can o'er your breast a short-liv'd int'rest claim 
 If still it answers to Etona's name 
 Oh ! turn awhile, and listen to a Hue, 
 Weak tho 1 it be, and impotent, as mine. 
 
 What tho' the dullness that infects the age 
 Breathe in my lines, and creep o'er all my page 
 

 
 70 ETON POST-BAG. 
 
 What tho' the failings I in others see, 
 
 And seeing disapprove, all meet in me 
 
 Yet still this breast can feel, and dares to feel, 
 
 A vital int'rest for Etona's weal ; 
 
 Can glow, whene'er it hears her honour'd name 
 
 For letter'd Learning, or Historic fame ; 
 
 Can grieve, revolted at her Sons' disgrace, 
 
 And all the fading glories of her race, 
 
 Her Warriors, Statesmen, Poets, all forgot, 
 
 And mourn for Virtues, though I have them not. 
 
 Yes ! I must mourn, to view her sons neglect 
 Each path to fame, each ray of intellect, 
 IS T o more with learning wage the useless war, 
 Nor blush to seem the dunces that they are. 
 Yes ! I must mourn to see, whome'er I meet, 
 The mingled mass oi" folly and conceit ; 
 Of all who mutely gape, or vainly talk 
 With wits like C-tt-11, or with tongue like P-lk ; 
 Who drive the tandem, or the coach-box sit, 
 From trifling J-nn-r, down to exil'd P-tt. 
 Yes! I must mourn, if higher yet I strike 
 The evil that now lights on all alike, 
 To see her offspring daily sacrifice 
 Health, virtue, morals, on the shrine of vice: 
 The ale-house orgy, and the mid-street fight, 
 Brawls by the day, the brothel by the night ; 
 These are the wreaths that now her sons adorn 
 These I behold, and 'tis for these I mourn. 
 
 Gods ! must our Eton's once-exalted fame, 
 Which, tarnish'd tho' it be, is still the same,
 
 ETON POST-BAC: 71 
 
 Now weep her laurels trampled in the dust, 
 
 Blighted by folly, ignorance, and lust? 
 
 Gods ! shall the shades, where ev'ry Muse once dwelt. 
 
 And ev'ry breast their inspiration felt, 
 
 Now nought for Eton's, or for England's praise, 
 
 But future Dandies, future Coachmen raise? 
 
 E'en Wellesley's self to these must leave the field, 
 
 To these her Foxes, Greys, and Cannings yield. 
 
 But Thou, who now in Academic bowers 
 To song and science giv'st the tranquil hours, 
 Go ! in the noble ardour of thy youth, 
 Go ! follow learning in the path of truth ; 
 Pursue the footsteps of inviting fame ; 
 All that the Muse can ask, be still the same. 
 Hush'd be the name to whom these lays belong- 
 Unknown the theme that animates my song : 
 But, oil ! my friend, if e'er in future days 
 Thy country's voice shall justify my praise 
 If e'er the hour shall come, as come it must, 
 When list'ning numbers speak my accents just, 
 When Britain hails you, at her peerless Bar, 
 First in the conflict of the wordy war 
 Or bids vou, yet with higher views elate, 
 Mid' wond'ring Senates raise the high debate 
 Then shall the Muse that now conceals thy name, 
 That knows thy worth, and prophecies thy fame, 
 Reveal th' inspirer of her earlier lays, 
 Bask in thy beam, and brighten in thy praise ; 
 As from the first, still constant to the end, 
 Own thee her Theme, and claim thee for her Friend.
 
 f)e ISIopeittcnt 
 
 ' I pedes quo te rapiant et aur, 
 
 ' Dum favet Nox et Venus, I Becundo 
 
 ' Omine.' 
 
 11 Come cheer thee, my Mary, come cheer up and smile, 
 Let Love's soothing accents thy terrors beguile ; 
 The Borders are near, and not long is the ride, 
 To-morrow's first dawning shall hail thee my bride. 
 
 What blanches thy cheek? and thy eyes are cast 
 
 down " 
 " Oh my mother will chide, and my father will frown; 
 His eye, too, spoke daggers, as, pale with affright, 
 I squeez'd his fond hand, and then murmur'd, * Good 
 
 Night.' 
 
 My aunt often said men are treacherous, child, 
 As false as the wisp, as it plays o'er the wild ; 
 As wav'ring and light as the fickle spring breeze, 
 That fitfully rustles our jessamine trees." 
 
 <c Nay, nay, love, say rather, as firm as the oak 
 Roots deeper, the fiercer the hurricane's stroke, 
 And true amid dangers : but if she said so, 
 Pray didn't your heart often whisper ' Oh, no ? ' 
 
 And what tho' your father and mother may chide, 
 The clouds will blow over, the storm must subside: 
 Then dry up the tear in that bonnie blue eye, 
 The love-knot when once tied, they cannot untye.' :
 
 THE ELOPLMENT. 7', 
 
 fl As I let down the ropes, and gaz'd wildly around, 
 The aspens were still, and old Tray slumber' d sound ; 
 I saw thee 'twas rash and, the first step I took, 
 Tray growl'd, and the ladder most fearfully shook. 
 
 The Moon too was bright, but I thought she grew pale, 
 And she soon hid her maiden face under a veil; 
 The owlets whoop'd loud from the shrubs in the dell, 
 While the toll of the clock seem'd a funeral knell." 
 
 u But thy lover was faithful, and, clasp'd in his arms, 
 lie swore with his life to preserve thee from harms; 
 He took thy soft hand, tho' it quiver'd with fear, 
 And he kiss'd thy soft cheek, tho' he kiss'd off a tear. 
 
 The owls would have whoop'd had you staid in your 
 
 bed, 
 And the clouds, that had darken'd the moon, quickly fled. 
 Away with ill omens nor talk about knells 
 Our wedding shall waken the chime's merry bells " 
 
 " But, my dear, as I clung to your arm o'er the wold, 
 The grass it was damp, and the night air was cold ; 
 One sandal was dropp'd, and my neck was all bare, 
 For the breeze swept my hood, and dishevell'd my hair. 
 
 Ha ! what is yon speck ? it is nearing us still " 
 " Oh, 'tis only a cloud that is swathing the hill : 
 Then fear not, my Mary, no harm can betide, 
 They must tread o'er my corse, ere they capture my 
 bride." 
 
 N.
 
 dialogue 
 
 Between the Editor of the College Magazine and an Oppidan Poet. 
 
 > 4 
 
 Poet. Press me no more I cannot will not write : 
 Ask others some in scribbling take delight : 
 Seek abler Bards, and loftier : 'tis not mine 
 To sweep the lyre, or breathe the living line. 
 Rest, rest, my quill, forbear t'inflict again 
 Thy untaught rhymes upon the Sons of Men : 
 Yes ! fear the worst ! from farther labours pause, 
 And shun contempt, unenvious of applause. 
 Fitter had C-1-r-dge, N ch, or M ltr-e been, 
 To grace the pages of your Magazine : 
 There's H-w-rd too, and C-rz-n these will spring 
 To glory's standard on a bolder wing. 
 Besides, a subject dare 1 travel o'er 
 The paths which nobler Bards have trod before ? 
 
 Editor. O publish nothing's easier if you choose, 
 First clip your pen, and then invoke your muse. 
 c Hear me, ye hallow' d Nine, who joy to lave 
 1 Your golden tresses in Castalia's wave, 
 ' Ye, who can strike the wildly thrilling lyre, 
 
 * With your own warmth a suppliant Bard inspire, 
 
 * God of the silver bow, whose twofold art 
 5 Hygeia's bloom, or Genius can impart,
 
 DIALOGUE. 75 
 
 * Before thy shrine a youthful poet stands, 
 
 * And clasps his new-strung harp with trembling hands ; 
 ' Grant he may dignify his noble theme, 
 
 * And catch thy raptures' in ecstatic dream.' 
 Such invocations, pour'd in strains like these, 
 The Muses hear, and Phoebus self must please. 
 
 Poet. I grant, my friend, your last advice is good, 
 But do you think they'd hear me if I should ? 
 So many Bards invoking at a time 
 Their heav'nly presence, or in blank, or rhyme, 
 Must surely deafen all the Ladies' ears, 
 And ten to one Apollo never hears. 
 But should I vainly dare to tune my lyre, 
 My strains would perish haply light your fire. 
 
 Editor. And, will you then, with suicidal rage, 
 Blast your own fame, and damn your modest page ? 
 O ! pass not judgment, with such bitter spleen, 
 On unborn strains, and lines that ne'er have been ; 
 Leave it to critics to condemn your lays, 
 For critics swarm in these degenerate days, 
 Nor fear Reviews, but own at once your song 
 Be bold like Byron, ' publish right or wrong.' 
 
 Poet. Butt'will expose my verse to ridicule, 
 All College will condemn me as a fool. 
 
 Editor. Anddoyou, then, the College critics fear? 
 TS T o darts of wit, believe me, linger there. 
 
 Poet. Dare you, yourself a Colleger, abuse 
 Your brother gownsmen, and their kindred muse :
 
 76 DIALOGUE. 
 
 Forget you, then, how potent M ltr e sung, 
 
 ' Sweet as the harps by Spirit minstrels strung ;' 
 
 And dare I with that champion's force engage, 
 
 And vainly mock his all-o'erwhelming rage ? 
 
 There's H d too, who boldly dares to write, 
 
 Nor fears the arrows of satiric spite, 
 
 Pleasing alike, the Hermit's sacred rage, 
 
 And Post-Bag's scandal, deck his lively page. 
 
 N ch too of midnight hours, and gholes will tell, 
 
 And sing how lamentably Mary fell : 
 
 I see him frantic, spouting lofty rhyme,* 
 
 Spurring his fault'ring steed Parnassus' height to climb. 
 
 Editor. Then dare you with the malice of Reviews, 
 Silent yourself, denounce another's muse ? 
 Time was, when you, still hanging to the nurse, 
 Pour'd the weak stream along of childish verse, 
 To Teian themes your artless harp you strung, 
 Or the soft numbers of the Latian tongue. 
 And now, apostate from the Muses' cause, 
 From fame's pursuit your modest pen withdraws, 
 Nor dares to take another timorous flight, 
 And wing her journey through the fields of light. 
 O ! let the spark that warm'd your first essay, 
 Be now rekindled with maturer ray : 
 If then, unknown to fame, your anxious lays 
 Could 'scape disgrace, arid merit aught of praise; 
 Thy muse, in judgment older grown, and power, 
 May help your friends to kill one passing hour: 
 Th' impetuous stream that sweeps along the plain, 
 And wildly rushes to the distant main, 
 
 Sublimes versus ructatur. Hon.
 
 THE CAMP P1ELD. 77 
 
 From narrow windings takes it's gentle source, 
 Then foams, exulting with collected force : 
 Thus, with progressive efforts, let jour pen 
 Resume it's labours, and be known again, 
 With glory finish it's proposed career, 
 And write, next Number, satires more severe. 
 
 f. c. 
 
 f)e Camp JFiclij. 
 
 The scene of this little Poem is laid in the neighbourhood of Windior, 
 where there isa meadow, which tradition has handed down as the spot on 
 which the Rebel Army, under the command of Ireton, was encamped, 
 when they besieged the Castle. It then changes to Burnham Abbev, 
 situated about four miles from Eton College. 
 
 Out, out upon Time ! where the cowslip so gay,. 
 And the harebell and daisy, now usher in May ; 
 Where the slopes of the meadow, so mellowly green, 
 Give the cautious observer a hint what has been ; 
 For, tho' partially lcvell'd, yet still they denote 
 Where the battlement frown'd o'er the deeply-trench'd 
 
 moat ; 
 And, in lieu of the caltrops, and chevaux-de-frise, 
 There is now but the blade-grass, that bends with each 
 
 breeze. 
 The sun, whose full lustre now glows on that field, 
 Once was flash'd back, all restless, from corslet and 
 
 shield ;
 
 78 THE CAMP FIELD. 
 
 And musquetry's light'nings, and culverins' glare, 
 With their smoke dimm'd his rays, and outrivall'd him 
 
 there ; 
 While the clang of mail'd warriors, and war- steeds' 
 
 tramp, 
 Proclaim'd the fierce Rebels' beleaguering camp. 
 When wav'd tlieir proud standard audaciously here, 
 How glovv'd the bold breast of each brave Cavalier ! 
 Yon Castle, that seems, as the light strikes the pile, 
 To look at this spot with a frown or a smile, 
 And peeps thro' the elms, as they wave in the gale, 
 As a coy bashful maiden from under her veil, 
 Tho' now calm and placid, yon Castle, I ween, 
 Presented a fiercer, a busier scene : 
 The wool-sack stuff'd windows the firm barricade 
 The drawbridges up the return cannonade 
 The royal red standard, display 'd o'er the walls, 
 Told of Windsor still faithful to hapless King Charles. 
 
 But, why * Out upon Time ?' Is the horn blast more 
 sweet 
 Than the linnet's soft strain, or the lambkins bleat ? 
 Is the clear gurgling streamlet less gay to the sight, 
 Than the stagnant moat gorg'd with the victims of 
 
 fight? 
 Are the hawthorns less pleasing, that blossom around, 
 Than a battlement's threat'ning monotonous mound? 
 Jfyour heart's not of steel, then, impute it no crime, 
 That this scene, once terrific, is soften'd by Time.
 
 B URNHAM ABBEY. 
 
 Is Time, then, ne'er guilty ? Yon ruins sigh No! 
 
 Or why are they lonely and desolate so? 
 
 Oh ! where are the chapels, the altar, the aisle, 
 
 Where penitence beam'd first a heaven-ward smile ; 
 
 The glass-panes, that gleam'd once with images quaint 
 
 Of many a martyr, and many a saint ; 
 
 And the hearth, where the pilgrim a welcome hath found, 
 
 While the legend as well as the flaggon went round ? 
 
 Mark ye yon piles that asunder are riven, 
 
 Like crags from their base, by a bolt from Heaven ; 
 
 Where the nettle and night-shade are luridly green, 
 
 The marble slabs once were the pavement, I ween : 
 
 Where the chaunt peal'd or sunk, there is now but the 
 
 breeze 
 As it whispers at eve thro' the old ivy trees : 
 The flap of the bat wing, the screech of the owl, 
 And the moon-baying mastiff's angry growl, 
 Are left us in lieu of the Evening Hymn : 
 The cup of destruction is full to the brim. 
 No Priests now are there ; to the orient sun 
 The sparrow's chirp chatters the orison ; 
 The high mitred Abbot, the lowlier Monk, 
 in dusky oblivion are equally sunk ; 
 Daily and duly the requiem was said 
 O'er the tombs, that enshrin'd th' illustrious dead; 
 The tombs were of marble but now where are they : 
 The bones have long mix'd with their kindred clay; 
 The spoiler the 'scutcheons and tombs has eras'd 
 Not the site of a single shrine can be trae'd. 
 
 N.
 
 SLtootiblw Dallas, 
 
 Shewinge forthe the fulle accounte of a bonnye Breakfaste, given by the 
 Editoreof the College Magazine, previous to the sudden and wonder- 
 tulle tergiversation of Peter Poeticus and his Literarye Friends. 
 
 Come listen to a merrye rhyme 
 Ye younge Etonians all, 
 
 And heare the things, that on a time, 
 At Eton did befall. 
 
 An olde tradition, handed downe 
 In ancient days, I wcene, 
 
 Says By a Student of the Gowne 
 The College Magazine 
 
 Was published everie now and then, 
 
 As papers now a days, 
 And, 'mong the learned of the pen, 
 
 It gain'd a deal of praise. 
 
 The Editore, his name was Bl-nt ; 
 
 And he did give a messe, 
 To all the youths that had been wont 
 
 To wish his baimc successe : 
 
 So they did come in Sunday trim, 
 
 All dress'd fulle neate and cleane, 
 
 And wish'd a happie life to him, 
 And his deare Magazine.
 
 A GOODLYE BALLAD. 81 
 
 And now it boots me for to telle 
 
 Who were the lads so gay, 
 Who look'd so blithe, and dress'd so well, 
 
 On that fayre holidoye : 
 
 Ch-pm-n was there, renown'd for prose, 
 
 And M ltr-e, he for lays, 
 And T-wnsh-nd, singinge human woes, 
 
 And N ch, the Regent's praise; 
 
 And TJ-w-rd, storming as the Muse 
 
 Fills his inflated breaste, 
 And, for your sakes, 1 do not ehuse 
 
 To tell you all the rest. 
 
 These all arrived with compliments, 
 
 And doublets brnsh'd so cleane ; 
 Fill'd with luxurious intents, 
 
 And appetites fulie keene. 
 
 The cups were laid, the tea was in 
 
 Fast brewinge in the pot ; 
 When lo ! all readye to begin nc, 
 
 No eatables they'd got. 
 
 A murmur rose, as well it might, 
 
 And many groans did rise, 
 Until at length a merrye wight, 
 
 Proposed an odd device. 
 
 Then all agreed with one accorde, 
 
 And universalle wishe, 
 That each should lie upon the boardc 
 Transform'd into a dishe,
 
 82 A GOODLYE BALLAD, 
 
 Then C-rz-n turn'd into a tongue, 
 For welle he knevve to chatter, 
 
 And while the walls with laughter runge, 
 He smcJc'd upon the platter. 
 
 A calf's head lightly e spread with brains 
 
 Belie the head of Bl-nt. 
 Ch-pm-n a suckinge pig sustains, 
 
 For welle he kens to grunte. 
 
 The dishe, on which sage M ltr-e fix'd, 
 No man could telle its name, 
 
 For there was salt and sugar mix'd, 
 Well kindled in the flame; 
 
 And now 'twas soure, and now 'twas sweete, 
 
 But no one came for more, 
 But founde it very different meate 
 
 From what it was before. 
 
 And T-wnsh-nd was an empty puffe 
 
 Of eggs beat up together; 
 In trothe 'twas palatable stuffe, 
 
 Tho' lighte as any feather. 
 
 And H-w-rd was a French souffle, 
 
 That boils and rises high, 
 And bubbles, burns, and froths away, 
 
 * Curious exceedinglye.' 
 
 And N-ch a solid pudding smil'd, 
 
 The honor of the boarde, 
 In good substantial slices pil'd, 
 
 And weighty * raisins stord. 
 
 * Qu. reasons? Edit.
 
 A GOODLTE BALLAD. 83 
 
 And so they fared with goodlye cheer, 
 
 But faste the minutes rolle. 
 A sounde unwelcome strikes their ear 
 
 The belle for church dothe tolle ; 
 
 So quicke they hied the Scholars all, 
 
 And went to church awaye ; 
 Not Bl-nt for he, as did befall, 
 
 Stayed out that holidaye. 
 
 And when he saw his friends were gone a 
 
 He sate him on his chair; 
 And gravelye did he think upon 
 
 Each person's character. 
 
 Such thoughts I will not boldlye write, 
 For feare I should offend, 
 
 For deep he thought on every wighte 
 Before he made an end. 
 
 Fate prosper then our Editore, 
 
 And all his merrie band, 
 Who through this doughtye paper warre 
 
 Have foughte with hearte and hand. 
 
 And grante as long as ink is blacke, 
 And goose- quills pens supplie, 
 
 The Magazine may live, nor lack 
 Fame's iramortalitic.
 
 W$t (ftvusafeeg. 
 
 Tantum Religio potuit suadere malorum. 
 
 What sudden shout has rent the startled air ? 
 What baleful watch-fires spread their troubled glare ? 
 What tumult widely kindling from afar 
 Has woke the spirit, and the din of war, 
 And broke with one strong burst the iron band, 
 That bound in chains of sloth the torpid land ? 
 Still the fierce trumpet breathes it's loud alarms, 
 Still the deep drum calls sullenly to arms ; 
 .And legions, gleaming in the mid-day sun, 
 From distant climes, and foreign regions run, 
 To where yon cross, the cause and sign of strife, 
 Bears o'er the prostrate crowd it's form of life. 
 Beneath it's shade a thousand banners ware 
 Tn proud succession o'er the good and brave, 
 Whom holy zeal, or love of war inspires, 
 Whom fame delights, or superstition fires; 
 .And round it Europe's chiefs in crested pride 
 Marshal their faithful vassals at their side, 
 While at their words the thronging legions press, 
 Confus'd as autumn's leaves as numberless. 
 
 Before the countless host a form appears 
 Worn out with troubles, and bent down with years : 
 The Hermit Peter with his latest breath 
 Blows wide the blast of cunage and of death,
 
 THE CRUSADES. 85 
 
 Black are his flowing robes, and grey the hair 
 That streams in long loose locks along the air ; 
 Pale are his features, and his haggard eye 
 Rolls in a wild portentous ecstacy ; 
 While Ii is waste limbs seem long inured to bear 
 The self-inflicted agonies of prayer* 
 And thus, by zeal and inspiration driven, 
 Preaching the mandates and the words of Heaven, 
 Through Europe's courts he held his toilsome way, 
 And arm'd her Princes for the glorious fray. 
 E'en as he stood before yon mighty band, 
 Clasping the cross of life in either hand, 
 Though age, that ranks the living with the dead, 
 Had spoil'd the once-proud honours of his head, 
 Yet in that blighted form there seem'd to dwell 
 What neither years could damp, or sorrow quell ; 
 They could not rob the majesty of mien, 
 Calm, yet commanding awful, yet serene ; 
 They could not check the soul's wild energy, 
 Which flash'd in quick dark glances from his eye, 
 While now in accents, caught he deem'd from lleav'n, 
 The full o'erflowings of his heart were given. 
 
 Oh ! had ye heard th' impetuous tide of soul 
 Jn which his words too feebly seem'd to roll, 
 Had ye but seen the sacred zeal which fired 
 Each radiant feature, and each tone inspired, 
 Swell'd in his form, or lighten'd in his eye, 
 And poui^d the awful mandates of the sky ; 
 Ye would not blame the frantic impulse driven 
 Through yon vast host, yon armament of Heaven, 
 The more than mortal zeal that spread afar 
 The flame of piety, and thirst of war : 
 
 c,
 
 86 THE CRUSADES. 
 
 As every warrior wav'd his sword on high, 
 Swore bravely to revenge, or greatly die ; 
 Swore to shed round his Saviour's broken throne 
 The blood of Unbelievers or his own. 
 
 And were these vows fulfill'd ? this sacred plight 
 Prov'd in the contest of the equal fight ? 
 Did Victory sanction, or did Triumph seal 
 The first wild ravings of a madman's zeal ? 
 Yes, long shall fame's impartial voice record 
 Who bravely bore, who fell beneath the sword ; 
 Long shall th' unerring page of history tell, 
 How Antioch, Jaffa, and Edessa fell, 
 How o'er the Holy City's ransom'd towers 
 Wav'd the glad signal of the leagued powers, 
 And where the crescent tower'd, the kiosk gleam'd, 
 Loose on the wind the red-cross banners stream'd. 
 And must I check th' exulting tide of song, 
 The notes of victory no more prolong ? 
 Cease the glad note, and bid my accents flow 
 Tun'd to the dread vicissitude of woe ? 
 Ill must the dirge with joyful Paeans suit, 
 No ! let the voice be hush'd, the lyre be mute, 
 Rather than bid it's mournful chords recall 
 The Pagan's triumph, and the Christian's fall; 
 Rather than tell what fatal rivalry 
 Wasted the flower of Europe's chivalry ; 
 Round in the dungeon, scatter'd o'er the plain. 
 Worn by the pangs of agonizing pain ; 
 What tortures waited on their latest breath, 
 Disease, disgrace, captivity, and death.
 
 ' The quality of Pity is not strain'd ; 
 ' It droppeth, like the gentle rain from Heaven 
 ' Upon the place beneath.' Shakspear*:, 
 
 There is a tear for the wretched who mourn, 
 
 The softest in sorrow's dominions ; 
 There is a sigh on the zephyr 'tis borne, 
 
 And wafted on air's lightest pinions ; 
 
 Their parent is Pity, their birth-place the Soul ; 
 
 Oh ! they spring from the purest of fountains ; 
 No space can confine them, no barrier controul, 
 
 Nor ocean, nor snow-mantled mountains. 
 
 Where gloomy misfortune her dwelling has fix'd, 
 And the broken heart yields to despair, 
 
 With the siijhs of the wretched that sigh will be mix'd, 
 That tear will be glistening there ; 
 
 There, there will sweet Pity enchant away grief, 
 Ease the Soul by woe's thundcrshock riven, 
 
 And mingle with Earth's but too feeble relief, 
 Those joys she has borrow'd from Heaven. 
 
 As the sweet-flowing numbers by Siren voice sung, 
 
 Still, still o'er the bosom will float ; 
 As the soft harp by Heavenly minstrelsy strung 
 
 Murmurs harmony's tenderest note ; 
 
 So Pity on Earth, ay in Heaven has pow'r : 
 
 Let me bow to its gentle decree, 
 And tho' dark fate may frown, tho' misfortune may 
 lour, 
 
 This Earth shall be Heaven to inc. w.
 
 Eradiation*, 
 
 HOKiCE, ILB. II. ODE II. 
 
 ' Quid bellicosus Cantaber,' &c. 
 
 Forget the Spaniards' arm'd array, 
 Forget the Scythians' mailed power, 
 
 While seas between securely play, 
 Nor dread the quickly-fleeting hour. 
 
 Gay youth and flowing beauty fly 
 Before old age's withering blight, 
 
 That checks the quickly-roving eye, 
 And wanton loves, and slumbers light. 
 
 The vernal flower must sometimes pine, 
 The glowing moon must sometimes wane. 
 
 Oh ! then th' unequal strife decline, 
 Nor vex your breast with endless pain. 
 
 Away ! we'll lie beneath the bloom 
 Of yon broad plane, or branching pine : 
 
 "We'll scent the ointment's rich perfume, 
 And roses in our hair we'll twine. 
 
 Bacchus chases care and weeping, 
 Then dip, oh! dip the mantling bowl, 
 
 'Neath the shady branches creeping, 
 Where yon refreshing waters roll. 
 
 Then call, oh ! call the sportive maid, 
 And bid her haste her lyre to bear, 
 
 And teach her flowing locks the braid 
 That Spartan maidens love to wear.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. S9 
 
 ANACREO.V. 
 
 Efw iror* (* fo5o<ff< - 
 
 As rosy Love in Venus' bower 
 
 Was sporting in a careless hour, 
 
 Arming with steel each feather'd dart, 
 
 The bane of some ill-fated heart, 
 
 An unperceiv'd malicious bee 
 
 Stung the God of Archery : 
 
 On purple pinions swift he fled 
 
 To his mother's rosy bed ; 
 
 And found her with the smiling hours, 
 
 Entwining wreaths of new-born flowers. 
 
 His mother ran to meet her boy, 
 
 And welcome him with ready joy ; 
 
 But saw the tears with crystal grace 
 
 It oiling down his cherub face. 
 
 Startled with fear she clasp'd her son, 
 
 And ask'd, what new mischance was done ? 
 
 ' A winged serpent,' answered he, 
 
 i That monster, which men call a bee, 
 
 ' Thy boy, thy favourite boy, has stung;' 
 
 And as his tortur'd hands he wrung, 
 
 ' With pain I die, 1 die,' he cried 
 
 To whom his mother calm replied : 
 
 * If a puny little bee 
 
 ' Can command such grief from thee; 
 ' Think, oh ! think, how great the smart 
 
 * Thou plantest in the human heart.' 
 
 F, C.
 
 (From the Ilorce Otios<B.) 
 
 
 
 Deep sounds are heard of tumult in the street, 
 
 And hurried greetings of the mingling throng; 
 And war-steeds snort, and friends and strangers meet, 
 
 Pacing the dark and murmuring town along. 
 
 Is this a triumph ? swells th' exultant song 
 Of British victory on the ear of night, 
 
 Or shines the marriage festival among 
 The princely tenants of yon castled height, 
 Meet joy for England's love, the people's best delight? 
 
 II. 
 
 A bell hath toll'd ! 'tis not the marriage chime, 
 Breathing sweet sounds of love and harmony ; 
 
 It tells not loudly of the blissful time, 
 
 The bridegroom's joy, the bride's soft tearful eye : 
 No ! through the air it vibrates heavily, 
 
 On the still ear of darkness dull and deep; 
 It speaks of parted souls of some that lie 
 
 Sleeping the dreamless and untroubled sleep ; 
 
 Of royal breasts that sigh! of royal eyes that weep!
 
 THE ROYAL FUNERAL. 91 
 
 III. 
 
 Hark! 'twas the trumpet's voice, though sad and slow 
 Fell it's shrill accents on the startled ear! 
 
 Hark ! 'twas the war-drum, though such notes of woe 
 Ne'er murmur'd from it when the fight was near, 
 Lo ! at that solemn signal straight appear, 
 
 Pouring in marshall'd ranks, in armour dight, 
 
 Warrior and war-steed lance, and helm, and spear, 
 
 And ilambeau flashing with uncertain light, 
 
 In peaceful meek array, all tranquil as the night, 
 
 IV. 
 
 I gaze, in silence, on that motley throng, 
 
 I hear the busy, wond'ring people's hum, 
 I view the files arrang'd in order long, 
 
 By the hoarse mandates of the muffled drum. 
 
 And lo! afar, in dark procession, come 
 The sable mock'ries, the proud pomp of death, 
 
 The torch-light flickering o'er the sable plume, 
 The 'scutcheon'd hearse that darkly shines beneath 
 Oh ! proud and vain parade for one poor mortal's breath ! 
 
 v. 
 
 Is there one heart, amid this gazing crowd, 
 That heats responsive to yon dismal knell ? 
 
 Is there one eye, that views this pageant proud, 
 And sheds such tears as aye at burial fell r 
 And is there aught that makes the bosom swell, 
 
 In the dark splendour of this long array : 
 
 These gilded cars, these proud helms burnish'd well, 
 
 The trumpet's voice, the steed's impatient neigh 
 
 Speak they of funeral rite, or of some revel gay ?
 
 92 THE ROYAL FUNERAL. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There is nought solemn in this pageantry, 
 
 There is nought death-like in this idle show ; 
 The crowd collects, to wonder, not to sigh 
 
 O'er this grave mockery of royal woe : 
 
 Better the rustic burial ! 'tis not so, 
 Where friends and neighbours bear the lowly bier, 
 
 And gushing floods of unfeign'd anguish flow, 
 And the meek pastor sheds his lonely tear 
 Meet we such genuine drops, such heartfelt anguish 
 here ? 
 
 VII. 
 
 Monarch of England ! could thy darken'd eye 
 
 Pierce the thick gloom of intellectual night, 
 How would it view this sickening luxury, 
 
 This pomp, dull glaring on the aching sight ? 
 
 But thou art shut from Heaven's own blessed light, 
 JVor dawns one ray of reason on thy mind ; 
 
 Oh ! who can look upon thy fallen might, 
 Nor feel how vain the glories of mankind ? 
 King, reckless of J.hy crown ! to right and reason blind ! 
 
 VIII. 
 Yet art thou happy ! on thine aged ear 
 
 Unheeded falls the death-knell of thy Queen ; 
 Thick darkness dwells around thee, but no tear 
 
 In thy dim eyeballs glistening e'er is seen. 
 
 Unconscious art thou, as they ne'er had been, 
 Of regal troubles and the cares of state, 
 
 Unmark'd, beneath tlioe past this funeral scene, 
 The shroud of her, thine own long cherish'd mate 
 Thou only didst not sigh, when England wept of late,
 
 THE ROYAL FUNERAL. 93 
 
 IX. 
 
 Our's was the gush of woe, the shock oPdeath, 
 When she, our. loved one, yielded up her breath. 
 One cloud of horror o'er thy kingdom burst, 
 And crush'd the promis'd harvest hope had nurs'd. 
 Then were loud wailings in each cottage heard, 
 The matron wept, the old man tore his beard ; 
 The bride turn'd pale, the youthful mother prest 
 Uer new-born infant' to her shuddering- breast ; 
 The toil-worn peasant started at the plough ; 
 E'en murderers groan'd; all griev'd save only Thou. 
 Yet was she dear to thee, for thou hadst stood 
 Beside her cradle, thou with smiles hadst view'd 
 Her childish sports, thou saw'st her opening bloom, 
 Thou did'st not view her bridal nor her tomb ! 
 Thou saw'st her present, hoped'st her future weal, 
 And death came not 'till thou had'st ceas'd to feel. 
 
 x. 
 
 The sky was clear, the moon and stars shone bright, 
 The breeze play'd softly on the cheek of night; 
 The quiv'ring streams reflected heaven's bright glow 
 All things look'd gladly but lur funeral -!;< u. 
 And bright within yon temple's gorgeous dome, 
 Flash'd the pale flambeau on her yawning tomb ; 
 And fretted lamp, and gilded chandelier, 
 Cast their cold lustre on her colder bier: 
 While, sadly thrilling on each heart below, 
 The funeral anthem pour'd its strain of woe. 
 Yet was that burial mock'd, those rites profan'd, 
 E'en in the temple where their sorrows reign 'd.
 
 94 TO CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 E'en while in sadness slowly mov'd her hearse. 
 The long aisle echoed to the brutal curse ; 
 And the rude crowd howl'd, onward as it prest, 
 The angry menace, and the ribald jest. 
 Strife ibllow'd strife, and blow succeeded blow, 
 Without was riot, though within was woe, 
 Nor could a people's sorrow, Charlotte, save 
 From coarsest outrage thy untimely grave ! 
 
 XI, 
 Thou peaceful chapel, where, in silence deep, 
 
 The bones of him my childhood lov'd repose, 
 Far from such tumults be it mine to sleep, 
 
 Where o'er the lowly dead thy charnels close ; 
 
 Where the rough grave-stone shuts all human woes 
 In dark oblivion and unbroken rest, 
 
 And o'er each new-made grave, unbidden, flows 
 The tide of anguish from the mourner's breast 
 Such be my long last home for man, perchance, the 
 best. 
 
 Co (CotTCSspontrrnte. 
 
 
 
 Readers and Writers of this Magazine, 
 
 Colleagues and Correspondents, friends and foes, 
 
 At length we shut the literary scene, 
 
 The bright career of this, our journal, close. 
 
 Ye who have smarted from our satire keen, 
 
 At length may sleep secure from verse and prose; 
 
 Ye who with ours your labours have united, 
 
 Will feel, at this cessation, much delighted.
 
 TO CORRESPONDENTS. 9-J 
 
 In truth, ourselves are grown exceeding weary 
 Of reading, writing, editing, correcting, 
 
 Blotting, and interlining, (task most dreary !) 
 Accepting, and approving, and rejecting. 
 
 Think not, our gentle friends, we mean to jeer ye, 
 13 ut all your favours carefully inspecting 
 
 Is work enough much stronger brains to tire, 
 
 And, in this weather, makes us quite perspire. 
 
 Yet much we fear that when our pages rest 
 In the drear mansion of the mighty dead, 
 
 College will be afflicted with a nest 
 
 Of pigmy scribblers reigning in our stead. 
 
 Again ' the Linger ' will the school infest, 
 And the gaunt ' Lion ' rear his shaggy head ; 
 
 And soon there'll be an end of all propriety, 
 
 And all be filth, and nonsense, and impiety. 
 
 We've done a deal of good, Sirs, in our time, 
 Witness th' effects of sage Thalia's lash, 
 
 And Martin Luther's rhapsodies sublime, 
 
 Of use all Sabbath-breaking rogues to thrash. 
 
 We've clear'd the place too of the Linger's rhyme, 
 1 Jokes,' 'Accidents,' < Offences,' all such trash ; 
 
 And introduced a little true gentility, 
 
 Instead of vulgar doggrel and scurrility. 
 
 To us some thanks the Literati owe, 
 
 For giving their proceedings more publicity, 
 
 (Reported by a member, you must know, 
 Depend upon the strictest authenticity.) 
 
 Whate'er their faults, our readers must allow 
 These grave debates their share of eccentricity : 
 
 And they contain much eloquence, no doubt, 
 
 And lots of wit if one could find it out.
 
 96 TO CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 Then, to be sure, this very sapient bill 1 
 This first great step tow'rds radical reform 
 
 This Panacea, (quiz it as yon will) 
 
 Of members will prevent too great a swarm. 
 
 And summer's coming on, and we shall swiil 
 Much ginger beer, and still shall be too warm : 
 
 And so this surely is an useful rule, 
 
 To thin the house, and keep our benches cool. 
 
 Besides we think it very indecorous 
 
 That Eton's senate (deem not that we're bamminghev) 
 Should elect members of that tribe inglorious, 
 
 Who join beef-steak clubs, and frequent th' eslaminet. 
 Besides, we've some whose sneers and satires bore us, 
 
 And so we move we fix on an examiner 
 For all new members, or select committee, 
 To see that none drink, smoke, or sport too witty. 
 
 We've always notic'd that all sorts of things, 
 
 States, kingdoms, books, rise mightier from their ruins : 
 
 Rome did not triumph o'er so many Kings 
 Till after some half dozen of undoings: 
 
 And Covent-Garden Theatre, which rings 
 
 Each night with plaudits, hisses, fiddlers, booings, 
 
 And Drury-Lane (where oft we're wont to laugh,) 
 
 Ere they Mere burnt, were not so large by half. 
 
 We think this a most happy illustration 
 
 Of the improvement of our Magazine.- 
 We have not now the slightest hesitation 
 
 Jn saying ' The production is not mean.' 
 
 (1) We arc liappy to state, that the odious bill here alluded to has been 
 lately repealed. This and the following stanza are borrowed from the 
 Horre. Otiosa?. 
 
 (2) This alludes to the temporary discontinuation of the Magazine 
 after the 10th number, which completed Vol. I.
 
 TO CORRESPONDENTS. 97 
 
 The poetry's improved, the circulation 
 
 Is more extensive than it e'er has been. 
 And now there's nothing you can cast your eye on 
 Half so disgusting as * the Linger Lion.' 
 
 Enough of this : our readers will discuss 
 Our sum of merit at some public session ; 
 
 We humbly beg their pardon for the fuss 
 We've made about it in this long digression. 
 
 'Tis time we notice those who've noticed us, 
 And in our journal held a joint possession 
 
 Our correspondents all who've dared to trouble you, 
 
 From Metius Tarpa down to young T. W. 
 
 Too soon we lost thee, worthy II. N. C. 
 
 Oh ! for some touches of that gentle pen ! 
 The Ocean Bride what bard could sing like thee ? 
 
 We shall not look upon thy like again. 
 Vapid and weak is all our poesy, 
 
 Compar'd to thy sweet numbers when ! oil ! when 
 Shall the soft muse our college bosoms sway, 
 With numbers half so tuneful as thy lay : 
 
 Anti-Scriblerus, many thanks to you, 
 For your most witty and obliging letter, 
 
 We're sorry to be bidding you adieu 
 
 If you'd write more, you'd surely write the better. 
 
 To vou, F. C, acknowledgments are due, 
 For many pretty verses we're your debtor. 
 
 Your stanzas, A. L. B., we've proudly shown, 
 
 But much suspect not one of them your own. 
 
 Sukev, we thank thee for thy satire keen, 
 (We've mention'd it above, in stanza third 
 
 Or fourth,) 'twill gain some auditors to 1) n, 
 If, as we hope, its eloquence be heard.
 
 98 TO CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 The Post-Bag much becomes our Magazine: 
 
 The last epistle is by most preferr'd ; 
 We should have thought the second far completer., 
 Had but the verses been reduced to metre. 
 
 W. D., we're grown extremely tired 
 
 Of your eternal, prosy, whining stuff; 
 We can't say that we ever much admir'd 
 
 Your poems, (don't fly off into a huff) 
 We never catch you with a thought inspir'd, 
 
 Of such canorae nugas we've enough ; 
 You're just the poet to please girls and nurses, 
 And write extremely pretty nonsense verses. 
 
 We mention this, because there is a sect 
 Of feeble, sing-song, namby-pamby writers, 
 
 Just such as Metius Tarpa would expect,3 
 Who of our journal now are chief inditers. 
 
 We cannot treat them with profound respect, 
 Against the muse's cause we deem them fighters. 
 
 Our journal will (if they're so often seen) 
 
 Be call'd the Delia Cruscan Magazine. 
 
 We mean such poems as the ' Lines to Mary J 
 ' Lines to the Primrose,' 1 ' Lines by Nicodemus / 
 
 When will this crambe repetita vary ? 
 
 Our real bards will soon cease to esteem us. 
 
 G. H. your pen was downright necessary, 
 It's powerful effusions do beseem us. 
 
 ' The Kelpie's* author is to most preferr'd 
 
 We thank him for the ' Rose and Honey-Bird.' 
 
 (3) ' bless me, 1 says I, ' Versos from Eton College !' ' Well, I may pro- 
 mise nnsHf plenty of invocation- to Phoebus and the Nine; and winged 
 Cupids and Castalias crossing my path at every turn, like the juvenile 
 depredators and new water-course-, this morning, in Oxford-Street; and 
 Syrens and shackles pressed into the s rvice, in a copy of verses to Miss 
 Sophia on her singing, or Mis- Caroline on her canary bird.' Letter from 
 Metius Tarpa to the Vatic Contributors to the Coll. Mag. Vol. I. p. 137.
 
 TO CORRESPONDENTS. 99 
 
 * Tarpa, you've put all College in commotion, 
 Though we conceive that you've a deal of puff; 
 
 Your strictures upon Moonlight on the Ocean, 
 We venture to pronounce are perfect stuff: 
 
 Of other poems you've a better notion, 
 And your remarks seem accurate enough ; 
 
 Your style, although the sense is sometimes so so, 
 
 Would not disgrace Bombastes Furioso. 
 
 In sooth, sweet Sir, a little less conceit, 
 
 Somewhat more diffidence, sans affectation, 
 
 Would make your writings a far richer treat, 
 E'en to the victims of your condemnation. 
 
 Why, man, thou dost bestride us with thy feet, 
 Like a Colossus, such thy elevation ; 
 
 You seem, as a great favour, to peruse us, 
 
 And condescend, most kindly, to abuse us. 
 
 Our song is past ! ' Farewell ! a long farewell 
 To all our greatness !' 'tis high time to close 
 
 This fitful scene, to ring our journal's knell, 
 And sink into oblivion and repose. 
 
 Should we another series try to sell, 
 
 Oh ! gentle reader ! turn not up thy nose : 
 
 Our fate is doubtful, and, 'tis one to ten, 
 
 Our Magazine may some lime rise aga ~, 
 
 Fre, like Cervantes, we suspend our pen, 
 
 To rest for ever on its rusty peg, 
 Never to scribble magazines again, 
 
 We humbly venture your applause to beg ; 
 
 (\) A .non-resident Correspondent of this Magazine, whokiudlv under- 
 took to review the poetry, tor whohO able support we take this opportu- 
 nity of making our best public acknowledgments. Lditor.
 
 100 A VALE. 
 
 Like some { poor player,' when he's clos'd his scene, 
 
 Bowing and scraping with a well-taught leg 
 Dismiss us with a smile quod si conceditur, 
 Nil amplius oramus. Your's, 
 
 THE EDITOR^ 
 
 & Vn\t. 
 
 The Editors of ' the Poetry of the College Magazine' have much plea- 
 sure in inserting the following Vale, from the pen of one of their mobt 
 constant and uniform supporters, in addition to the poems originally in- 
 tended for publication ; and trust, that in making this small enlargement 
 to the present work, they will not only gratify their friends, but evince 
 more fully the high respect they entertain for the talents of the Author. 
 
 Dulces reminiscitur Argos? 
 
 Must I then leave thee, Eton leave the scene 
 Of thoughts to come, and pleasures that have been, 
 Without one parting accent to declare 
 All that I cherish'd and respected there ? 
 Nor one predominant emotion tell ? 
 Nor breathe one prayer ? nor sigh one last farewell r 
 Oh ! rather, as 'tis said, the bards of old, 
 When life was waning, and the blood ran cold, 
 Bore their lov'd harps, a melancholy load, 
 To the bright temple of their patron god ; 
 Yet, ere they hung them on the votive shrine, 
 Woke once again the strain they deem'd divine ; 
 Still lov'd with trembling hand, and moisten'd eye, 
 To drink its last and dying harmony ;
 
 A VALE. 101 
 
 Wept o'er the chords their art so oft had fir'd, 
 Then slowly, sorrowing, from the fane retir'd : 
 Thus must 1 leave my lyre, so often strung 
 To the smooth numbers of the Latian tongue; 
 Yet, while 1 breathe its last, its parting tone, 
 The Heart must speak the Language be my own. 
 
 This hour I waited with a varying train 
 Of changing thought, of Pleasure and of Pain : 
 How oft, with expectation's eager eye, 
 * The world !' 1 cried, ( the world and Liberty V 
 Here young Ambition wings the fond desire, 
 Frames high imaginings and thoughts of fire ; 
 Here Pleasure woos me with a train of wiles, 
 iSweet as her breath, and treacherous as her smiles; 
 And Fancy pictures to the willing mind 
 The bliss and excellence it hopes to find. 
 But now that hour is come, and doubts arise, 
 Each cherish'd form, each lov'd idea flies ; 
 Ambition's wild, and Pleasure's flowery, themes, 
 Manhood's high aims, and Fancy's idle dreams, 
 The confidence of Hope, the thrill of Fear 
 All lost, leave only room for Sorrow here. 
 
 Yes ! I must grieve ; and who that e'er has stray 'd 
 In sportive joyaunce through this classic shade, 
 Breath'd the light gales that flow'd thy banks along, 
 Hallow'd by science, orbelov'd by song, 
 Wove the light verse, or roam'd the shady grove 
 In mutual friendship and confiding love, 
 Could e'er those happy hours and scenes forget, 
 View without kindness, leave without regret ? 
 
 n
 
 102 A VALE. 
 
 Yes ! I must grieve, for here my steps have rov'd, 
 My thoughts have kindled, and my heart has lov'd : 
 Here first my mind debating learn'd to prize 
 The great and good, the beautiful and wise ; 
 Saw to its ardent gaze in order spread 
 The hoarded treasures of the mighty dead, 
 Caught the immortal beam of Homer's fire, 
 Virgil's high song, and Horace' raptur'd lyre : 
 Here too, when fancy burn'd, or youth beat high, 
 Oft have I pourM my own rude minstrelsy, 
 And tuneless howsoe'er the note might be, 
 Yet still that tuneless note was dear to me. 
 But while these once-lov'd numbers I recall, 
 Let me not him forget who gave them all ; 
 "Who lov'd my first faint trembling notes to cheer, 
 More smooth by precept, and by time more clear ; 
 Spurr'd my first zeal, and bade my soul explore 
 The rich variety of classic lore ; 
 Display'd each bright example to my view ; 
 Taught me to prize, encourag'd to pursue : 
 But for such kindness past the heart alone 
 ft] ust speak to him in language like his own. 
 
 You too, with various stores of learning grae'd. 
 With easy elegance, and classic taste, 
 Since every stripling bard to you must bend, 
 I or you each muse her artless chaplet blend. 
 Oh I let my voice be heard ! for you have long 
 Indulgent smil'd on many an idle song; 
 Look on this effort as on all the past, 
 And as the first you foster'd, cheer the last.
 
 A VALE. 103 
 
 And oh ! to you, my friends, who yet remain 
 In the warm sunshine of this favourite plain ; 
 Or you, who still recall those once-lov'd hours, 
 By Cam's green sedge, or Isis' sister towers ; 
 One word, one parting word the muse would give, 
 Your virtues hail, and bid your friendship live ; 
 Friendship, without which all were dark and drear, 
 No sun to gladden and no breeze to cheer : 
 Grief were Despondency, and Pleasure Pain, 
 The joys of youth short-lived, the hopes of manhood vain. 
 How long it here has been our lot to know 
 A blest exemption from the pangs of woe; 
 The heartfelt merriment, the laugh sincere, 
 Breasts without stain, and eyes without a tear; 
 The ger.erous glow from kindred feelings caught, 
 The flow of Soul, the interchange of Thought. 
 Then have we turn'd to Eton's days of old, 
 And all the glories of her offspring told ; 
 Here youthful warriors, youthful statesmen dwelt, 
 Here bards the tide of inspiration felt ; 
 Here first the eagle-pinioi/d lyre of Gray 
 Pour'd to his own lov'd ' Father Thames ' the lav 
 Here Fox's eloquence first learn'd to flow, 
 And Wellesley's spirit caught its martial _';Io\v. 
 My lov'd companions! still may Eton view 
 All that she priz'd in them revive in you ; 
 .'^till may she see you, ever as in youth, 
 Hold in the cause of freedom and of truth , 
 With letter'd science, or with patriot zeal, 
 Upholding Britain's fame, or Britain's weal . 
 First in her Church, her Senate, or her i>ar, 
 In Peace her wisdom, and her strength in War.
 
 104 A YALE. 
 
 For him, who tunes these lays, whate'er his lot, 
 To be by most remember'd or forgot ; 
 Whether, remote from care, unvex'd by strife, 
 Glides the smooth current of his prosperous life ; 
 Whether each future hour appears o'ercast, 
 And this of peace and happiness the last; 
 Or yet, if not too rash the thought may seem, 
 (What will not youth and youthful fancy dream ?} 
 Should e'er this breast aspiring pant for fame, 
 And Britain smile upon his humble name ; 
 Should e'er his voice, with nobler views elate, 
 'Mid Albion's senate raise the high debate ; 
 Thence, from the toils of state, the strife of power, 
 His heart shall turn to this sequester 5 d bower; 
 Think how he once delighted here to dwell, 
 How griev'd when forc'd to bid his last ' Farewell.' 
 
 H . 
 
 FINIS. 
 
 ERRATUM. 
 
 Page 82 for belie, read belies. 
 
 Knight and Sou, Printer*, Windior.
 
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