Lo! candidates and voters lie

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number:

A race renown'd for piety,

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.

Lord H-, indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage reflecting men:
They know preferment can occur
But very seldom,-now and then.

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

Now from the soporific scene

I'll turn mine eye, as night grows later,
To view, unheeded and unseen,

The studious sons of Alma Mater.

There, in apartments small and damp,
The candidate for college prizes
Sits poring by the midnight lamp;
Goes late to bed, yet early rises.

He surely well deserves to gain them,
With all the honours of his college,
Who, striving hardly to obtain them,
Thus seeks unprofitable knowledge:

Who sacrifices hours of rest

To scan precisely metres Attic;
Or agitates his anxious breast
In solving problems mathematic.

Who reads false quantities in Seale,*
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle;
Deprived of many a wholesome meal;
In barbarous Latin doom'd to wrangle:†

Renouncing every pleasing page

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

The square of the hypothenuse.+

Still, harmless are these occupations,

That hurt none but the hapless student,

Compared with other recreations,

Which bring together the imprudent;

Scale's publication on Greek metres displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but,

as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy.

The Latin of the schools is of the canine species, and not very intelligible.

The discovery of Pythagoras, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the

squares of the other two sides of a right-angled triangle.

Whose daring revels shock the sight,
When vice and infamy combine,
When drunkenness and dice invite,
As every sense is steep'd in wine.

Not so the methodistic crew,
Who plans of reformation lay:
In humble attitude they sue,

And for the sins of others pray:

Forgetting that their pride of spirit,
Their exultation in their trial,
Detracts most largely from the merit
Of all their boasted self-denial.

'Tis morn :-from these I turn my sight.
What scene is this which meets the eye?
A numerous crowd, array'd in white,
Across the green in numbers fly.

Loud rings in air the chapel bell:

"Tis hush'd-what sounds are these I hear?

The organ's soft celestial swell

Rolls deeply on the list'ning ear.

To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallow'd strain;
Though he who hears the music long
Will never wish to hear again.

Our choir would scarcely be excused,
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy now must be refused

To such a set of croaking sinners.

If David, when his toils were ended,

Had heard these blockheads sing before him,

To us his psalms had ne'er descended,

In furious mood he would have tore 'em.

The luckless Israelites when taken
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.

Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
Inspired by stratagem or fear,

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

But if I scribble longer now,

The deuce a soul will stay to read;

My pen is blunt, my ink is low;
'Tis almost time to stop, indeed.

Therefore, farewell, old Granta's spires:
No more, like Cleofas, I fly;

No more thy theme my muse inspires :
The reader 's tired, and so am I.

1806.

ON A DISTANT VIEW OF THE VILLAGE AND SCHOOL OF HARROW-ON-THE-HILL.

"O! mihi præteritos referat si Jupiter annos."-VIRGIL.

YE scenes of my childhood, whose loved recollection
Embitters the present, compared with the past;
Where science first dawn'd on the powers of reflection,
And friendships were form'd, too romantic to last;
Where fancy yet joys to trace the resemblance

Of comrades, in friendship and mischief allied;
How welcome to me your ne'er-fading remembrance,
Which rests in the bosom, though hope is denied!

Again I revisit the hills where we sported,

The streams where we swam, and the fields where we fought; The school, where, loud warn'd by the bell, we resorted,

To pore o'er the precepts by pedagogues taught.

Again I behold where for hours I have ponder'd,

As reclining, at eve, on yon tombstone I lay;
Or round the steep brow of the churchyard I wander'd,
To catch the last gleam of the sun's setting ray.

I once more view the room, with spectators surrounded,
Where, as Zanga, I trod on Alonzo o'erthrown;
While, to swell my young pride, such applauses resounded,
I fancied that Mossop himself was outshone."

*

Or, as Lear, I pour'd forth the deep imprecation,

By my daughters, of kingdom and reason deprived;
Till, fired by loud plaudits and self-adulation,
I regarded myself as a Garrick revived.

Ye dreams of my boyhood, how much I regret you!
Unfaded your memory dwells in my breast;
Though sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you:
Your pleasures may still be in fancy possess'd.

To Ida full oft may remembrance restore me,
While fate shall the shades of the future unroll!
Since darkness o'ershadows the prospect before me,
More dear is the beam of the past to my soul.

But if, through the course of the years which await me,
Some new scene of pleasure should open to view,

I will say, while with rapture the thought shall elate me
"Oh! such were the days which my infancy knew!"

A contemporary of Garrick, famous for his performance of Zanga.

1806.

TO M

OH! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright but mild affection shine,
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love more than mortal would be thine.

For thou art form'd so heavenly fair,
Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.

When Nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,

The skies might claim thee for their own;

Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those once celestial eyes.

These might the boldest sylph appal,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;

But who can dare thine ardent gaze?

'Tis said that Berenice's hair

In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,-
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.

For did those eyes as planets roll,

Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:

E'en suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.*

1806

TO WOMAN.

WOMAN! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee who behold thee:
Surely experience might have taught
Thy firmest promises are nought:
But, placed in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.

O memory! thou choicest blessing,

When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But how much cursed by every lover

When hope is fled, and passion 's over.

"Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

Having some business, do entreat her eyes

To twinkle in their spheres till they return."-SHAKSPEARK

Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her!
How throbs the pulse when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue,
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows!
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth:
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,-
When lo! she changes in a day.
This record will for ever stand,

"Woman! thy vows are traced in sand."

TO M. S. G.

WHEN I dream that you love me, you'll surely forgive;
Extend not your anger to sleep;

For in visions alone your affection can live,-
I rise, and it leaves me to weep.

Then, Morpheus! envelop my faculties fast,

Shed o'er me your languor benign;

Should the dream of to-night but resemble the last,

What rapture celestial is mine!

They tell us that slumber, the sister of death,

Mortality's emblem is given:

To fate how I long to resign my frail breath,

If this be a foretaste of heaven!

Ah! frown not, sweet lady, unbend your soft brow,
Nor deem me too happy in this;

If I sin in my dream, I atone for it now,
Thus doom'd but to gaze upon bliss.

Though in visions, sweet lady, perhaps you may smile,
Oh! think not my penance deficient !

When dreams of your presence my slumbers beguile, To awake will be torture sufficient.

TO MARY,

ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.

THIS faint resemblance of thy charms,
Though strong as mortal art could give,
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

This line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.