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ACADEMICAL ELEGY.

As Physic's sons, when art's weak efforts fail,
Hope nature may their patient's health repair,
Sooth sad despair by many a cheering tale,
Send them to Bath, or to their native air.

So did my sire his son to college send,

Big with the lordly hopes of future fame, Most sagely bade him to his book attend, And boldly emulate each honour'd name.

He little knew, poor soul! the student's toil,
And sweat, and care, and speculation fine;
He never knew, alas! the midnight oil
And mathematics make a sound divine.

He never saw, alack! good honest man,
Master Vice-Chancellor, as meek as Job,
Marching to church, three Beadles in the van,
Or the red splendour of a Doctor's robe.

But ah! his son, by trial sad hath found,
How hard the task, with painful steps, to rove
O'er rocks which roughen academic ground,

And thorns which poison ev'n the muses' grove.

Ev'n now, sad wight! in college closely pent,
While slowly tolls old Mary's doleful bell,
He pours, despondent pours, his poor complaint,
And glares confus'dly round his lonely cell.

His sinking soul ideal fancy shocks,

And paints the tempest of his future years, When, like a lion, in the horrid box,

His visage grim the stern opponent rears.

Tempestuous dreams disturb his broken rest,

Tremendous Waring opes his ghastly maw, And, like the night-mare on his troubled breast, O'erwhelms him with his mathematic paw.

Rest, heaving bosom! pause, thou startling tear! Now sleep and silence reign o'er half the globe, Where is thy courage, god-like Sampson, where? And where thy patience, oh! undaunted Job? Mr. Langhorne.

THE MARINER.

A SONNET.

TH

HE sea-beat mariner, whose watchful eye Full many a boist'rous night hath wak'd to weep, When the keen blast descending from the sky, Snatch'd his warm tear-drop from the rav'nous deep.

Drench'd by the chilling rain, his dreary hour
Creeps slowly onward to the dawn of day;
Till burning Phoebus darting thro' the show'r,
Warms, with his golden beam, the frothy spray.

With lightning's swiftness he ascends the mast,
And eries "another tedious night is o'er,"
He spreads the swelling sail-he sees at last

His darling mistress--and his native shore:
The restless wand'rer then forgets his pain,
Steals a fond kiss--and braves his fate again.
English Chronicle.

THE INTERCESSION

TO THE FAIREST OF WOOD-NYMPHS.

No

o more, soft deceiver! with cruelty sweet, Of mock adoration thy moments employ, Spare, spare thy sad lover-a truce to deceit―

Nor say that his thought is the source of thy joy.

A Traitress I know, tho' a charmer thou art,

For all thy endearments are meant to mislead; Thy beauties, resistless, must seize on the heart, But why should thy merriment doom it to bleed?

grove;

Leave, leave such designs, nor exultingly go
To the edge of the mountain, or scite of the
There, gaily observant, to laugh at his woe,
Who wanders at midnight to think upon LOVE.

Tho' weak be the wretch who can languish in vain,
And pour forth, distracted, his sighs to the wind;
Yet, sooth'd by his folly, he feeds upon pain,

And anguish becomes the sole bliss of his mind.

What tho' E adore thee with tenderest care,

Enough-that thy wisdom his passion despise; That it turns in disgust from the throbs of despair, And contemn the sad drops that descend from his eyes.

O since then by truth or by pity subdu'd,

A female of spirit, thou scornest to yield; Let mercy, at least, in thy triumph be view'd,

Nor attack the unarm'd with a sword and a SHIELD.

But come, rosy Nymph! from the moonshine retire,
O hasten to mingle fond kisses with mine;

A bowl of rich nectar shall brighten the fire,
While Love gives his torch to the God of the Vine.

See my tygers are ready, my car is prepar'd,
To deck thee a garland of joy I have brought;
With mirth uureflecting my throne may be shar'd,
But Sorrow must still be the TYRANT of THOUGHT.

Bacchus.

RETIREMENT.

WRITTEN IN AMERICA, BY A NATIVE BARD.

A HERMIT'S house, beside a stream,
With forests planted round,

Whatever it to you may seem,
More real happiness I deem,

Than if I were a monarch crown'd.

A cottage I would call my own,
Remote from domes of care;
A little garden wall'd with stone;
The wall with ivy overgrown;
A limpid fountain near;

Would more substantial joys afford,

More real bliss impart,

Than all the wealth that misers hoard,

Than vanquish'd worlds, or worlds restor❜d,
Mere cankers of the heart!

Vain, foolish man! how vast thy pride;
How little can thy wants supply!
'Tis surely wrong to grasp so wide;
We act as if we only had

To triumph-not to die.

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