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EURIPIDES. ['Ερωτες υπις μεν αγαν, κ. τ. λ.] When fierce conflicting passions urge

The breast where love is wont to glow, What mind can stem the stormy surge

Which rolls the tide of human woe? The hope of praise, the dread of shame,

Can rouse the tortured breast no more; The wild desire, the guilty flame,

Absorbs each wish it felt before.

But if affection gently thrills

The soul by purer dreams possest, The pleasing balm of mortal ills

In love can soothe the aching breast: If thus thou comest in disguise,

Fair Venus ! from thy native heaven, What heart unfeeling would despise

The sweetest boon the gods have given ?

But never from thy golden bow

May I beneath the shaft expire ! Whose creeping venom, sure and slow,

Awakes an all-consuming fire : Ye racking doubts ! ye jealous fears!

With others wage internal war; Repentance, source of future tears,

From me be ever distant far !

May no distracting thoughts destroy

The holy calm of sacred love!
May all the hours be wing'd with joy,

Which hover faithful hearts above !
Fair Venus ! on thy myrtle shrine

May I with some fond lover sigh, Whose heart may mingle pure with mine

With me to live, with me to die.

My native soil ! beloved before,

Now dearer as my peaceful home, Ne'er may I quit thy rocky shore,

A hapless banish'd wretch to roam ! This very day, this very hour,

May I resign this fleeting breath! Nor quit my silent humble bower;

A doom to me far worse than death.

Have I not heard the exile's sigh ?

And seen the exile's silent tear, Through distant climes condemn'd to fly,.

A pensive weary wanderer here? Ah ! hapless dame!! no sire bewails,

No friend thy wretched fate deplores, No kindred voice with rapture hails

Thy steps within a stranger's doors.

Perish the fiend whose iron heart,

To fair affection's truth unknown,
Bids her he fondly loved depart,

Unpitied, helpless, and alone; though a considerable liberty is taken with the original, by expanding the idea, as also iú some other parts of the trans. Lation.

If e'er myself, or sire, have sought to grace
Thine altars with the produce of the chase,
Speed, speed my dart to pierce yon vaunting crowd,
To free my friend, and scatter far the proud."
Thus having said, the hissing dart he flung;
Through parted shades the hurtling weapon sung ;
The thirsty point in Sulmo's entrails lay,
Transfix'd his heart, and stretch'd him on the clay :
He sobs, he dies, – the troop in wild amaze,
Unconscious whence the death, with horror gaze.
While pale they stare, through Tagus' temples riven,
A second shaft with equal force is driven.
Fierce Volscens rolls around his lowering eyes ;
Veil'd by the night, secure the Trojan lics.
Burning with wrath, he view'd his soldiers fall.
“ Thou youth accurst, thy life shall pay for all !”
Quick from the sheath his flaming glaive he drew,
And, raging, on the boy defenceless flew.
Nisus no more the blackening shade conceals,
Forth, forth he starts, and all his love reveals ;
Aghast, confused, his fears to madnes3 rise,
And pour these accents, shrieking as he flies :
“ Me, me, — your vengeance hurl on me alone;
Here sheathe the steel, my blood is all your own.
Ye starry spheres ! thou conscious Heaven ! attest !
He could not — durst not — lo ! the guile confest!
All, all was mine, - his early fate suspend ;
He only loved too well his hapless friend :
Spare, spare, ye chiefs ! from him your rage remove ;
His fault was friendship, all his crime was love."
He pray'd in vain; the dark assassin's sword
Pierced the fair side, the snowy bosom gored ;
Lowly to earth inclines his plume-clad crest,
And sanguine torrents mantle o'er his breast :
As some young rose, whose blossom scents the air,
Languid in death, expires beneath the share ;
Or crimson poppy, sinking with the shower,
Declining gently, falls a fading flower;
Thus, sweetly drooping, bends his lovely head,
And lingering beauty hovers round the dead.

But fiery Nisus stems the battle's tide,
Revenge his leader, and despair his guide ;
Volscens he seeks amidst the gathering host,
Volscens must soon appease his comrade's ghost ;
Steel, flashing, pours on steel, foe crowds on foe ;
Rage nerves his arm, fate gleams in every blow;
In vain beneath unnumber'd wounds he bleeds,
Nor wounds, nor death, distracted Nisus heeds;
In viewless circles wheel'd, his falchion flies,
Nor quits the hero's grasp till Volscens dies ;
Deep in his throat its end the weapon found,
The tyrant's soul fled groaning through the wound.
Thus Nisus all his fond affection proved —
Dying, revenged the fate of him he loved ;
Then on his bosom sought his wonted place,
And death was heavenly in his friend's embrace.

Celestial pair ! if aught my verse can claim, Wafted on Time's broad pinion, yours is fame! Ages on ages shall your fate admire, No future day shall see your names expire, While stands the Capitol, immortal dome! And vanquish'd millions hail their empress, Rome!

| Medea, who accompanied Jason to Corinth, was deserted by him for the daughter of Creon, king of that city. The chorus from which this is taken here addresses Medca ;

W210 ne'er unlocks with silver key!

The milder treasures of his soul,May such a friend be far from me,

And ocean's storms between us roll !


High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
MAGNUSP his ample front sublime uprears :
Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god,
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod.
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little versed in any art beside ;
Who, scarcely skill'd an English line to pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic's ken.
What, though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord piled the ficlds with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands aulvance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France :
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta,
Yet well he recollects the law of Sparta ;
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid ;
Or Grecian dramas ats the deathless fame,
Of Avon's bard remembering scarce the name.

Such is tlie youth whose scientific pate Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await; Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize, If to such glorious height he lifts his eyes. But lo i no common orator can bope The envied silver cup within his scope. Not that our heads much eloquence require, Th' ATHENIAN'S' glowing style, or Tully's fire. A manner clear or warın is useless, since We do not try by speaking to convince. Be other orators of pleasing proud : We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd : Our gravity prefers the muttering tone, A proper mixture of the squeak and groan:

No borrow'd grace of action must be seen
The slightest motion would displease the Dean; 4
Whilst every staring graduate would prato
Against what he could never imitate.

The man who hopes t'obtain the promiscd cup
Must in one posture stand, and ne'er look up;
Nor stop, but rattle over every word
No matter what, so it can not be heard.
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest :
Who speaks the fastest's sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space
May safely hope to win the wordy race.

The sons of science these, who, thus repaid, Linger in ease in Granta's sluggish shade ; Where on Cam's sedgy bank supine they lie Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for die : Dull as the pictures which adorn their halls, They think all learning fix'd within their walls : In manners rude, in foolish forms precise, All modern arts affecting to despise ; Yet prizing Bentley's, Brunck's, or Porson's 5 note, More than the verse on which the critic wrote: Vain as their honours, heavy as their ale, Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale ; To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel When Self and Church demand a bigot zeal. With eager haste they court the lord of power, Whether 't is Pitt or Petty rules the hour ; 6 To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head, While distant mitres to their eyes are spread. But should a storm o'erwheim him with disgrace, They'd fly to seek the next who fill'd his place. Such are the men who learning's treasures guard ! Such is their practice, such is their reward ! This much, at least we may presume to say — The premium can't exceed the price they pay.


TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER. Sweet girl ! though only once we met, That meeting I shall ne'er forget; And though we ne'er may meet again, Remembrance will thy form retain. I would not say, “ I love," but still My senses struggle with my will :

! The original is “ Kabogde dretærri zinda prywv," literally, " disclosing the bright key of the mind."

No reflection is here intended against the person mentioned under tho name of Magtiis. He is merely represented as performing an unavoidable function of his office. Indeed, such an attempt could only recoil upon myselt'; as that gen. tleman is now as much distinguished by his eloquence, and the dignified propriety with which he fills his situation, as he was in his younger days for wit and conviviality.-(Dr. William Mansel was, in 1790. appointed to the headship of Trinity College, by Mr. Pitt. While a bachelor of arts, he distinguished himself as the author of several jeur d'esprit. Dr. Jowett, of Trinity Hall, having amused both himself and the public, by a pretty little fairy garden, with narrow gravel walks. besprinkled with shells and pellucid pebbles, and enclosed by a Chinese railing, Dr. Mansel wrote the following lines thereon :

* A little garden, little Jowett made,

And fenced it with a little palisade ;
If you would know the taste or little Jowett,

This little garden won't a little show it."
He was indebted to the influence of his pupil, the late Mr.
Perceval, for his subsequent promotion, in 1808, to the see of
Bristol. He is supposed to have materially assisted in the
* l'ursuits of Literature." llis lordship died at Trinity
Lodge, in June, 1820.)

3 Demosthenes.

* (In most colleges, the fellow who superintends the chapel service is called Dean.)

The present Greek professor of Trinity College, Cambridge ; a man whose powers of mind and writings may, perhaps, justity their preference. (In a letter written in 1813, Lord Byron says:-" I remember to have seen Porson at Cambridge, in the hall of our college, and in private parties; and I never can recollect him except as drunk or brutal, and generally both: I mean in an evening; for in the hall, he dined at the Dean's table, and I at the Vice. master's;- and he then and there appeared sober in his demeanour; but I have seen him, in a private party of under-graduates, take up a poker to them, and heard him use language as black guard as his action. Of all the disgust. ing brutes, sulky, abusive, and intolerable, Porson was the most bestial, as far as the few times I saw him went. He was tolerated in this state amongst the young men for his talents; as the Turks think a madman inspired, and bear with him. He used to recite, or rather vornit, pages of all languages, and could hiccup Greek like a Heloi : and certainly Sparta never shocked her children with a grosser exhibition than this man's intoxication."]

6 Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost bis place, and subsequently (I had almost said consequently) the honour of representing the University. A fact so glaring requires no comment. (Lord Henry Petty is now (1330) Marquess of Lansdowne.)

THE CORNELIAN. ? No specious splendour of this stone

Endears it to my memory ever ; With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the river. S

Some, who can sneer at friendship's ties,

Have, for my weakness, oft reproved me; Yet still the simple gift I prize,

For I am sure the giver loved me.

He offer'd it with downcast look,

As fearful that I might refuse it; I told him when the gitt I took,

My only fcar should be to lose it.

This pledge attentively I view'd,

And sparkling as I held it near, Methought one drop the stone bedew'd,

And ever since I've loved a tear.

In vain, to drive thec from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies :
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.
Wiat though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweet language spoke ;
The tongue in flattering falschuod dcals,
And tells a tale it never feels :
Deceit the guilty lips impart;
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul's interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguisc.
As thus our glances oft conversed,
And all our bosoms felt rehearsed,
No spirit, from within, reproved us,
Say rather, “ t' was the spirit moved us."
Though what they utter'd I repress,
Yet I conceive thou 'lt partly guess ;
For as on thee my memory ponders,
Perchance to me thine also wanders.
This for myself, at least, I'll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day:
Awake, with it my fancy teems;
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams :
The vision charins the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray,
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh ! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await,
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image I can ne'er forget.
Alas! again no more we mect,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's care :
“ May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o'ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart's partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her each hour new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover !
May that fair bosom never know
What 'tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul with vain regret,
Of him who never can forget!”1

Still, to adorn his humble youth,

Nor wealth nor birth their treasures yield; But hc who seeks the flowers of truth,

Must quit the garden for the field.

'Tis not the plant upreard in sloth,

Which beauty shows, and sheds perfume ; The flowers which yield the most of both

In Nature's wild luxuriance bloom.

Had Fortune aided Nature's care,

For once forgetting to be blind, His would have been an ample share,

If well proportion'd to his mind.

But had the goddess clearly seen,

His form bad fix'd her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been,

And none remain'd to give thee rest.




SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age Has swept immoral raillery from the stage ;

"[These verses were written at Harrow gate, in Aug. 1806.)

? (The cornelian of these verses was given to Lord Byron by the Cambridge chorister, Eddlestone, whose musical ta. lents first introduced him to the young poet's acquaintance, and for whom he appears to have entertained, subsequently, a sentiment of the most romantic friendship.]

3 [In a lctter to Miss Pigot, of Southwell, written in June, 1807, Lord Byron thus describes Eddlestone: -" He is exactly to an hour two years younger than myself, nearly my height, very thin, very fair complexion, dark eyes, and light locks. My opinion or his mind you already know ; I hope I shall never have occasion to change it." Eddlestone, on leaving his choir. entered into a mercantile house in the me. tropolis, and died of a consumption, in 1811. On hearing of his death, Lord Byron thus wrote to the mother of his fair correspondent:- "I am about to write to you on a silly subject, and yet I cannot well do otherwise. You may re. member a cornelian, which some years ago I consigned to Miss Pigot, indeed gave to her, and now I am about to make the most selfish and rude of requests. The person who gare it to me, when I was very young, is dead, and though a long

time has clapsed since we met, as it was the only memorial I possessed of that person in whom I was very much interested), it has acquired a value by this event I could bare wished it never to have borne in my eyes. If, therefore, Miss Pigot should have preserved it, I must, under these circum. stances, beg her to excuse my requesting it to be transmitted to me, and I will replace it by something she may remember me by equally well. As she was always so kind as to feel interested in the fate of him who formed the subject of our conversation, you may tell her that the giver of that corne. lian died in May last, of a consumption, at the age of twenty. one, - making the sixth, within four months, of friends and relations that I have lost between May and the end of Au. gust."— The cornelian heart was returned accordingly; and, indeed, Miss Pigot reminded Lord Byron, that he had lell it with her as a deposit, not a gitt. It is now in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh.)

* [" When I was a youth, I was reckoned a good actor. Besides llarrow speeches, in which I shone, I enacteil Proruddock, in the Wheel of Fortune,' and Tristram Tickle, in the farce of The Weathercock,' for three nights, in some private theatricals at Southwell, in 1806, with great

Since taste has now expunged licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we scek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh I let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect :
To-night no veteran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No Cooke, no Kcmble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début I
Of embryo actors, to the Drama new :
Here, then, our almost unfledged wings we try ;
Clip not our pinions ere the birds can fly :
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more.
Not onc poor trembler only fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise ;
But all our dramatis persona wait
In fond suspense this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward :
For these, each Hero all his power displays,
Each timid Heroine shrinks before your gaze.
Surely the last will some protection find;
None to the softer sex can prove unkind :
While Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our fceble efforts nought avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail,
Still let some mercy in your bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.

He sunk, an Atlas bending 'neath the weight
Of cares o'erwhelming our conflicting state :
When, lo! a Hercules in Fox appear'd,
Who for a time the ruind fabric rcard :
He, too, is fall'n, who Britain's loss supplied,
With him our fast-reviving hopes have died;
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far-extended regions mourn.
“ These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
To give the palm where Justice points its due ; "
Yet let not canker'd Calumny assail,
Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.
Fox ! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weer,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
Für whom, at last, e'en hostile nations groan,
While friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox shall in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to Pitt the patriot's palm resign ;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For Pirt, and Pitt alone, has dared to ask.


“ O lachrymarurn fons, tenero sacros
Ducentium ortus ex animo; quater
Felix ! in imo qui scatentem

Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit.” - Gray. When Friendship or Love our sympathies move,

When Truth in a glance should appear, The lips may beguile with a dimple or sniile,

But the test of affection 's a Tear.

Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile,

To mask detestation or fear; Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye

Is dimm'd for a time with a Tear.




Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below,

Shows the soul from barbarity clear ; Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,

And its dew is diffused in a Tear.

“ Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death,
But bless the hour when Pirt resign'd his breath :
These feelings wide, let sense and truth unclue,
We give the palm where Justice points its due.”



Ou factious viper ! whose envenom'd tooth
Would mangle still the dead, perverting truth;
What though our “ nation's foes" lament the fate,
With generous feeling, of the good and great,
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him whose meed exists in endless fame ?
When Pitt expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill success obscured his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits “ war not with the dead : "
His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave,
As all his errors sluinber'd in the grave;

The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale,

Through billows Atlantic to steer,
As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave,

The green sparkles bright with a Tear.
The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath

In Glory's romantic career;,
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,

And bathes every wound with a Tear.
If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride,

Renouncing the gore-crimson'd spear, All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid,

From her eyelid he kisses the Tear. Sweet scene of my youth 3! seat of Friendship and

Where love chased each fast-fleeting year, [Truth, Loth to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd,

But thy spire was scarce seen through a Tear.

applause. The occasional prologus for our volunteer play was also of my composition. The other performers were young ladies and gentlemen of the neighbourhood; and the whole went off with great effect upon our good-natured audience." Byron Diary, 1821.)

! (This prologue was written by the young poet, between stages, on his way from Ilarrowgate. On getting into the carriage at Chesterfield, he said to his companion, “ Now, Pigot, I'll spin a prologue for our play;" and before they

reached Mansfield he had completed his task, - interrupting, only once, his rhyming reverie, to ask the proper pronunciation of the French word “début," and, on being answered, exclaiming, " Ay, that will do for rhyme to 'new'.'" The epilogue, which was from the pen of the Rev. Mr. Becher, was delivered by Lord Byron.)

? (The illiberal improptu" appeared in the Morning Post, and Lord Byron's reply" in the Morning Chronicle.)

3 Harrow.

Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more,

My Mary to Love once so dear;
In the shade of her bower I remember the hour

Your pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend, She rewarded those vows with a Tear.

Your pardon, a thousand times o'er :

From friendship I strove your pangs to remove, By another possest, may she live ever blest !

But I swear I will do so no more.
Her name still my heart must revere :
With a sigh I resign what I once thought was minc,

Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, And forgive her deceit with a Tear.

No more I your folly regret ; Ye friends of my licart, ere from you I depart,

She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine This hope to my breast is most near :

Of this quickly reformed coquette.
If again we shall meet in this rural retreat,
Day we mect, as we part, with a Tcar.

Yet still, I must own, I should never have known

From your verses, what else she deserved ;
When my soul wings her night to the regions of night, | Your pain seem'd so great, I pitied your fate,
And my corse shall recline on its bier,

As your fair was so devilish reserved.
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh ! moisten their dust with a Tear.

Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss
Can such wonderful transports produce;

(met," May no marble bestow the splendour of woe,

Since the “ world you forget, when your lips once bave Which the children of vanity rcar ; No fiction of fame shall blazon my name ;

My counsel will get but abuse. All I ask - all I wish -- is a Tear.

You say, when “ I rove, I know nothing of love;" October 26th, 1806.

'T is true, I am given to range :
If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number,

Yet there's pleasure, at least, in a change.

I will not advance, by the rules of romance,

To humour a whimsical fair ;
WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain,
Why thus in despair do you fret ?

Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't affright,

Or drive me to dreadful despair.
For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh
Will never obtain a coquette.

While my blood is thus warm I ne'er shall reform,

To mix in the Platonists' school;
Would you teach her to love? for a time secm to rove;

Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure,
At first she may frown in a pet;
But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile,

Thy mistress would think me a fool.
And then you may kiss your coquette.

And if I should shun every woman for one, For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs,

Whose image must fill my whole breastThey think all our homage a debt :

Whom I must prefer, and sigh but for her

What an insult 't would be to the rest !
Yet a partial neglect soon takes an effect,
And humbles the proudest coquette.

Now, Strephon, good bye; I cannot deny
Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain,

Your passion appears most absurd ; And seem her hauteur to regret;

Such love as you plead is pure love indeed,

For it only consists in the word. If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny

That yours is the rosy coquette.

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