There sleep, unnoticed as the gloomy vaults
That veil their dust, their follies, and their faults,
A race, with old armorial lists o'erspread,
In records destined never to be read.
Fain would I view thee, with prophetic eyes,
Exalted more among the good and wise,
A glorious and a long career pursue,
As first in rank, the first in talent too:
Spurn every vice, each little meanness shun;
Not Fortune's minion, but her noblest son.
Turn to the annals of a former day;

Bright are the deeds thine earlier sires display.
One, though a courtier, lived a man of worth,
And call'd, proud boast! the British drama forth."
Another view, not less renown'd for wit;
Alike for courts, and camps, or senates fit;
Bold in the field, and favour'd by the Nine;
In every splendid part ordain'd to shine;
Far, far distinguish'd from the glittering throng,
The pride of princes, and the boast of song.'
Such were thy fathers; thus preserve their name;
Not heir to titles only, but to fame.

The hour draws nigh, a few brief days will close,
To me, this little scene of joys and woes;

Each knell of Time now warns me to resign

Shades where Hope, Peace, and Friendship all were mine:
Hope, that could vary like the rainbow's hue,

And gild their pinions as the moments flew;
Peace, that reflection never frown'd away,
By dreams of ill to cloud some future day;
Friendship, whose truth let childhood only tell;
Alas! they love not long, who love so well.
To these adien! nor let me linger o'er

4 ["Thomas Sackville, Lord Buckhurst, was born in 1527. While a student of the Inner Temple, he wrote his tragedy of Gorbuduc, which was played before Queen Elizabeth at Whitehall, in 1561. This tragedy, and his contribution of the Induction and legend of the Duke of Buckingham to the Mirror for Magistrates,' compose the poetical history of Sackville. The rest of it was political. In 1604, he was created Earl of Dorset by James I. He died suddenly at the council-table, in consequence of a dropsy on the brain."-CAMPBELL.]

3 [Charles Sackville, Earl of Dorset, was born in 1637, and died in 1706. He was esteemed the most accomplished man of his day, and alike distinguished in the volup tuous court of Charles II. and the gloomy one of William III. He behaved with cơnsiderable gallantry in the sea-fight with the Dutch in 1665; on the day previous to which he is said to have composed his celebrated song, "To all you Ladies now at Land." His character has been drawn in the highest colours by Dryden, Pope, Prior, and Congreve.]

Scenes hail'd, as exiles hail their native shore,
Receding slowly through the dark-blue deep,
Beheld by eyes that mourn, yet cannot weep.

Dorset, farewell! I will not ask one part
Of sad remembrance in so young a heart;
The coming morrow from thy youthful mind
Will sweep my name, nor leave a trace behind.
And yet, perhaps, in some maturer year,

Since chance has thrown us in the self-same sphere,
Since the same senate, nay, the same debate,
May one day claim our suffrage for the state,
We hence may meet, and pass each other by
With faint regard, or cold and distant eye.
For me, in future, neither friend nor foe,
A stranger to thyself, thy weal or woe,
With thee no more again I hope to trace
The recollection of our early race;
No more, as once, in social hours rejoice,
Or hear, unless in crowds, thy well-known voice.
Still, if the wishes of a heart untaught

To veil those feelings which perchance it ought,
If these,--but let me cease the lengthen'd strain,-
Oh! if these wishes are not breathed in vain,
The guardian seraph who directs thy fate
Will leave thee glorious, as he found thee great."

FRAGMENT.

WRITTEN SHORTLY AFTER THE MARRIAGE OF MISS CHAWORTH.7

HILLS of Annesley, bleak and barren,

Where my thoughtless childhood stray'd,
How the northern tempests, warring,

Howl above thy tufted shade!

[This amiable nobleman was killed by a fall from his horse while hunting in 1815. "I have," says Byron, in his letters of that year, "just been, or rather ought to be, very much shocked by the death of the Duke of Dorset. We were at school together, and there I was passionately attached to him. Since, we have never met, but once, I think, since 1805-and it would be a paltry affectation to pretend that I had any feeling for him worth the name. But there was a time in my life when this event would have broken my heart; and all I can say for it now is, that it is not worth breaking."] 7 [Miss Chaworth was married to John Musters, Esq., in August, 1805. The stanzas were first published by Mr. Moore after Lord Byron's death.]

Now no more, the hours beguiling,
Former favourite haunts I see;
Now no more my Mary smiling
Makes ye seem a heaven to me.

1805.

GRANTA. A MEDLEY.

• Αργυρέαις λόγχαισι μάχου καὶ πάντα Κρατήσαις ; "

OH! Could Le Sage's demon's gift
Be realised at my desire,

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

Then would, unroof'd, old Granta's halls
Pedantic inmates full display;
Fellows who dream on lawn or stalls,
The price of venal votes to pay.

Then would I view each rival wight,
Petty and Palmerston survey;
Who canvass there with all their might,
Against the next elective day."

Lo! candidates and voters lie'

All lull'd in sleep, a goodly number:

A race renown'd for piety,

Whose conscience won't disturb their slumber.

Lord H-, indeed, may not demur;
Fellows are sage reflecting men:

The Diable Boiteux of Le Sage, where Asmodeus, the demon, places Don Cleofas on an elevated situation, and unroofs the houses for inspection.

9 [On the death of Mr. Pitt, in January, 1806, Lord Henry Petty and Lord Palmerston were candidates to represent the University of Cambridge in Parliament.]

1 [In the private volume the fourth and fifth stanzas ran thus:

"One on his power and place depends,

The other on-the Lord knows what!
Each to some eloquence pretends,
Though neither will convince by that.

The first, indeed, may not demur;

Fellows are sage reflecting men," &c.]

[Edward Harvey Hawke, third Lord Hawke. His Lordship died in 1824.]

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 knowledgé:

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;
În 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,

3 Seale'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.

Compared with other recreations,
Which bring together the imprudent;

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

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.

6 On a saint's day the students wear surplices in chapel.