THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.

High in the midst surrounded by his peers, M--ns--l his ample front sublime uprears; Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a G.o.d, While Sophs and Freshmen, tremble at his nod.

Whilst 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 vers'd in any art beside; Who with scarce sense to pen an _English_ letter, Yet with precision, scans an _attic metre_.

What! though he knows not how his fathers bled, When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead, When Edward bade his conquering bands advance, Or Henry trampled on the crest of France; Though marvelling at the name of _Magna Charta_, Yet, well he recollects the _laws of Sparta_.

Can tell what edicts sage _Lycurgus_ made, Whilst _Blackstone's_ on the _shelf neglected_ laid; Of _Grecian dramas_ vaunts the deathless fame, Of _Avon's bard_, remembering scarce the name.

Such is the youth, whose scientific pate, Cla.s.s honours, medals, fellowships await; Or even perhaps the _declamation_ prize, If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.

But lo! no _common_ orator can hope The envied silver cup within his scope; Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require, The ATHENIAN's glowing style, or TULLY's fire.

The _manner_ of the speech is nothing, 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_.

Whilst every staring graduate would prate, Against what, _he_ could never imitate.

The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 banks 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[6] Brunck's[6]_ or _Porson's_[7] note, More than the _verse, on which the critic wrote_; With eager haste, they court the tool of power, (Whether 'tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour:) To _him_, with suppliant smiles they bend the head, Whilst mitres, prebends, to their eyes are spread.

But should a storm o'erwhelm 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, Th' _reward's_ scarce equal, to the _price_ they _pay_.

1806.

[Footnote 6: Celebrated Critics.]

[Footnote 7: The present Greek Professor at Cambridge.]

TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.

1.

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.

2.

Here I can trace the locks of gold, Which round thy snowy forehead wave, The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould, The lips which made me _Beauty's_ slave.

3.

Here I can trace--ah no! that eye, Whose azure floats in liquid fire, Must all the painter's art defy, And bid him from the task retire.

4.

Here I behold, its beauteous hue, But where's the beam of soft desire?

Which gave a l.u.s.tre to its blue, Love, only love, could e'er inspire.

5.

Sweet copy! far more dear to me, Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art, Than all the living forms could be, Save her, who plac'd thee next my heart.

6.

She plac'd it, sad with needless fear, Lest time might shake my wavering soul, Unconscious that her image there, Held every sense in fast controul.

7.

Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer, My hope in gloomy moments raise; In life's last conflict 't'will appear, And meet my fond, expiring gaze.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE MORNING POST.

"Our Nation's foes, lament on _Fox's_ death, "But bless the hour, when PITT resign'd his breath; "These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, "We give the palm, where Justice points its due."

_To which the Author of these Pieces, sent the subjoined Reply, for Insertion in the_ MORNING CHRONICLE.--

Oh! factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth, Would mangle still the dead, in spite of truth, What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate, With generous feeling, of the good and great; Shall therefore dastard tongues a.s.sail the name Of him whose virtues claim eternal fame?

When PITT expired in plenitude of power, Though ill success obscur'd his dying hour, Pity her dewy wings before him spread, For n.o.ble spirits "war not with the dead;"

His friends in tears, a last sad requiem gave, And all his errors slumber'd in the grave.

He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight, Of cares oppressing our unhappy state; But lo! another Hercules appear'd, Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd; He too is dead! who still our England propp'd, With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd; Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far extended regions mourn.

"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue, "And give the palm where Justice points it due;"

But let not canker'd calumny a.s.sail, And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep, Whose dear remains in honoured marble sleep; For whom at last, even hostile nations groan, And 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 PITT, and PITT alone, would dare to ask.

TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.

These locks which fondly thus entwine, In firmer chains our hearts confine; Than all th' unmeaning protestations, Which swell with nonsense, love orations.

Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it, Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov'd it; Then wherefore should we sigh, and whine, With groundless jealousy repine.

With silly whims, and fancies frantic, Merely to make our love romantic.

Why should you weep like _Lydia Languish_, And fret with self-created anguish.

Or doom the lover you have chosen, On winter nights, to sigh half frozen: In leafless shades, to sue for pardon, Only because the scene's a garden.

For gardens seem by one consent (Since SHAKESPEARE set the precedent;) (Since Juliet first declar'd her pa.s.sion) To form the place of a.s.signation.

Oh! would some modern muse inspire, And seat her by a _sea-coal_ fire, Or had the bard at Christmas written, And laid the scene of love in Britain; He surely in commiseration, Had chang'd the place of declaration.

In Italy I've no objection, Warm nights are proper for reflection; But here, our climate is so rigid, That love itself, is rather frigid; Think on our chilly situation, And curb this rage for imitation.