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Who sacrifices hours of rest,
To scan, precisely, metres Attic; Or agitates his anxious breast,
In solving problems mathematic.
Who reads false quantities in Sele (1),
Or puzzles o'er the deep triangle; Depriv'd of many a wholesome meal,
In barbarous latin (2), doom'd to wrangle.
Renouncing every pleasing page,
From authors of historic use; Preferring to the letter'd sage,
The square of the hypothenuse (3).
Still, harmless are these occupations,
That hurt none but the hapless student, Compar'd with other recreations,
Which bring together the imprudent.
(1) Sele's publication on Greek metres, displays considerable talent and ingenuity, but, as might be expected in so difficult a work, is not remarkable for accuracy.
(2) The Latin of the schools is of the CANINE SPECIES , and not very intelligible.
(3) 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 vicé and infamy combine ; When drunkenness and dice unite, And every sense is steep'd in wine.
15. Not so the methodistic crew,
Who plans of reformation lay:
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 (1),
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 listening ear.
(1) On a saint day, the students wear surplices in chapel,
To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallowed strain; Though he, who hears the music long,
Will never wish to hear again.
Our choir would scarcely be excus’d,
Even as a band of raw beginners; All mercy, now, must be refus’d,
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,
Inspir’d by stratagem or fear;
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;
The reader's tir’d, and so am I.
LACHIN Y. GAIR.
Lachin Y, Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse , LOCH
Na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld.
One of our modern Tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain; be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our « Caledonian Alps. » Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows: near Lachin y. Gair, I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas.
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses !
In you, let the minions of luxury rove; Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposas,
Tho'still they are sacred to freedom and love : Yet, Caledonia, belov’d are thy mountains,
Round their white summits tho' elements war, Tho'cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps, in infancy, wander’d,
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid (1); On chieftains, long perish’d, my memory ponder'd,
As daily I strode thro’ the pine-cover'd glade ;
(1) This word is erroneously pronounced plad, the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch ) is shewn by the orthography. ,