Arm'd, thence they go, while all th' assembled train,
To aid their cause, implore the gods in vain.
More than a boy, in wisdom and in grace,
Tulus holds amidst the chiefs his place :
His prayer he sends; but what can prayers avail,
Lost in the murmurs of the sighing gale !

The trench is passed, and, favour'd by the night, Through sleeping foes they wheel their wary flight. When shall the sleep of many a foe be o'er ? Alas some slumber who shall wake no more! Charlots and bridles, mix'd with arms, are seen; And flowing flasks, and scatter'd troops between: Bacchus and Mars to rule the camp combine; A mingled chaos this of war and wine.

Now," cries the first, "for deeds of blood prepare,
With me the conquest and the labour share :
Here lies our path; lest any hand arise,

Watch thou, while many a dreaming chieftain dies:
I'll carve our passage through the heedless foe,
And clear thy road with many a deadly blow."
He whispering accents then the youth repress'd,
And pierced proud Rhamnes through his panting
breast:

Stretch'd at his ease, th' incautious king reposed;
Deanch, and not fatigue, his eyes had closed:
To Turnus dear, a prophet and a prince,
H omens more than augur's skill evince;
But be, who thus foretold the fate of all,
Could not avert his own untimely fall.
Next Remus' armour-bearer, hapless, fell,
And three unhappy slaves the carnage swell;
The charioteer along his courser's sides
Lycres, the steel his sever'd neck divides;
And, last, his lord is number'd with the dead:
Bundling convulsive, flies the gasping head;
From the swoll'n veins the blackening torrents pour ;
Stain'd is the couch and earth with clotting gore.
Young Lamyrus and Lamus next expire,
And gay Serranus, fill'd with youthful fire;
Half the long night in childish games was pass'd;
Lall'd by the potent grape, he slept at last:
Ab: happier far had he the morn survey'd,

And tall Aurora's dawn his skill display'd.

In slaughter'd fold, the keepers lost in sleep, His hungry fangs a lion thus may steep; Mid the sad flock, at dead of night he prowls, With murder glutted, and in carnage rolls : Insatiate still, through teeming herds he roams; In seas of gore the lordly tyrant foams.

Nor less the other's deadly vengeance came, But falls on feeble crowds without a name; Ha wound unconscious Fadus scarce can feel, Yet wakeful Rhasus sees the threatening steel; His roward breast behind a jar he hides, And vainly in the weak defence confides; Tall in his heart, the falchion searched his veins, The reeking weapon bears alternate stains; Through wine and blood, commingling as they flow, One feeble spirit seeks the shades below. Now where Messapus dwelt they bend their way, Whose fires emit a faint and trembling ray; There, unconfined, behold each grazing steed, Enwatch'd, unheeded, on the herbage feed: Brave Nisus here arrests his comrade's arm, Tso flush it with carnage, and with conquest warm:

"Hence let us haste, the dangerous path is pass'd;
Full foes enough to-night have breathed their last :
Soon will the day those eastern clouds adorn ;
Now let us speed, nor tempt the rising morn."

With silver arms, with various art emboss'd, What bowls and mantles in confusion toss'd, They leave regardless! yet one glittering prize Attracts the younger hero's wandering eyes; The gilded harness Rhamnes' coursers felt, The gems which stud the monarch's golden belt: This from the pallid corse was quickly torn, Once by a line of former chieftains worn. Th' exulting boy the studded girdle wears, Messapus' helm his head in triumph bears; Then from the tents their cautious steps they bend, To seek the vale where safer paths extend.

Just at this hour, a band of Latian horse To Turnus' camp pursue their destined course: While the slow foot their tardy march delay, The knights, impatient, spur along the way: Three hundred mail-clad men, by Volscens led, To Turnus with their master's promise sped: Now they approach the trench, and view the walls, When, on the left, a light reflection falls; The plunder'd helmet, through the waning night, Sheds forth a silver radiance, glancing bright. Volscens with question loud the pair alarms: "Stand, stragglers! stand! why early thus in arms? From whence, to whom?"-He meets with no reply? Trusting the covert of the night, they fly: The thicket's depth with hurried pace they tread, While round the wood the hostile squadron spread.

With brakes entangled, scarce a path between,
Dreary and dark appears the sylvan scene:
Euryalus his heavy spoils impede,
The boughs and winding turns his steps mislead;
But Nisus scours along the forest's maze
To where Latinus' steeds in safety graze,
Then backward o'er the plain his eyes extend,
On every side they seek his absent friend.
"O God! my boy," he cries," of me bereft,
In what impending perils art thou left!"
Listening he runs — above the waving trees,
Tumultuous voices swell the passing breeze;
The war-cry rises, thundering hoofs around
Wake the dark echoes of the trembling ground.
Again he turns, of footsteps hears the noise;
The sound elates, the sight his hope destroys:
The hapless boy a ruffian train surround,
While lengthening shades his weary way confound;
Him with loud shouts the furious knights pursue,
Struggling in vain, a captive to the crew.
What can his friend 'gainst thronging numbers
dare?

Ah! must he rush, his comrade's fate to share?
What force, what aid, what stratagem essay,
Back to redeem the Latian spoiler's prey ?
His life a votive ransom nobly give,
Or die with him for whom he wish'd to live?
Poising with strength his lifted lance on high,
On Luna's orb he cast his frenzied eye:
"Goddess serene, transcending every star!
Queen of the sky, whose beams are seen afar!
By night heaven owns thy sway, by day the grove,
When, as chaste Dian, here thou deign'st to rove;

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 lies.
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 madness 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!

1 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;

Who ne'er unlocks with silver key 1
The milder treasures of his soul, -
May such a friend be far from me,

And ocean's storms between us roll!

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE
EXAMINATION.

HIGH in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
MAGNES 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,
Caskill'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 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 be recollects the law of Sparta ;
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone 's on the shelf neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
Of Avan's bard remembering scarce the name.

Such is the 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: no common orator can hope
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 warm 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 :

The artgual in " Καθαρὰν ἀνοίξαντι κληδα φρενών,” lite"dikiosing the bright key of the mind."

11 Ne reflection is here intended against the person menSed under the name of Magnus. He is merely represented as perfverming an unavoidable function of his office. Indeed, as atempt could only recoil upon myself; as that genlewan is now as much distinguished by his eloquence, and the guised propriety with which he fills his situation, as he ra ta tus yocoger days for wit and conviviality.[Dr. Wil

Mansel was, in 1790, appointed to the headship of irsty Callege, by Mr. Pitt. While a bachelor of arts, he taling sabed himself as the author of several jeur d'esprit. De Jowett, of Trinity Hall, having amused both himself kar the prutte, by a pretty little fairy garden, with narrow Fan walls besprinkled with shells and pellucid pebbles, ad melmed by a Chinese railing, Dr. Mansel wrote the darwing lines thereon:

- A little garden, little Jowett made, And feared it with a little palisade; If you would know the taste of little Jowett, Ta little garden won't a little show it." was indelted to the influence of his pupil, the late Mr. Peral, for his subsequent promotion, in 1808, to the see of He is supposed to have materially assisted in the - Pursatts of Literature." His lordship died at Trinity Lange, in June, 1820)

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

The man who hopes t'obtain the promised 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'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 —
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:

1806.

4 [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, justify their preference. [In a letter written in 1818, 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 Vicemaster'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 blackguard as his action. Of all the disgusting 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 vomit, pages of all languages, and could hiccup Greek like a Helot: and certainly Sparta never shocked her children with a grosser exhibition than this man's intoxication."]

Since this was written, Lord Henry Petty has lost his 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 (1836) Marquess of Lansdowne.]

In vain, to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt ;
In vain I check the rising signs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our meeting I can ne'er forget.

What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
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 disguise.
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 'It 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 charms 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 meet,
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

[These verses were written at Harrowgate, in Aug. 1806.] 2 [The cornelian of these verses was given to Lord Byron by the Cambridge chorister, Eddlestone, whose musical talents 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 letter 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 of 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 metropolis, 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 remember 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 gave it to me, when I was very young, is dead, and though a long

THE CORNELIAN. 2

No specious splendour of this stone Endears it to my memory ever; With lustre only once it shone,

And blushes modest as the giver.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 gift I took,
My only fear 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.

Still, to adorn his humble youth,

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

Must quit the garden for the field.

'Tis not the plant uprear'd 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 had fix'd her fickle breast; Her countless hoards would his have been, And none remain'd to give thee rest.

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

DELIVERED PREVIOUS TO THE PERFORMANCE OF "THE
WHEEL OF FORTUNE" AT A PRIVATE THEATRE."4
SINCE the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;

time has elapsed 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 have 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 cornelian died in May last, of a consumption, at the age of twentyone, making the sixth, within four months, of friends and relations that I have lost between May and the end of August." The cornelian heart was returned accordingly; and, indeed, Miss Pigot reminded Lord Byron, that he had left it with her as a deposit, not a gift. It is now in the possession of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh.]

4 ["When I was a youth, I was reckoned a good actor. Besides Harrow speeches, in which I shone, I enacted Fenruddock, in the Wheel of Fortune,' and Tristram Fickle, in the farce of The Weathercock,' for three nights, m 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 seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh 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 Kemble, can salute you here,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night you throng to witness the début 1
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 one poor trembler only fear betrays,

Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise;
But all our dramatis personæ wait

In find 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 feeble 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.

TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE FOLLOWING REPLY.

On 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 III success obscured his dying hour, Pity her dewy wings before him spread, I've noble spirits war not with the dead: " His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, As all his errors slumber'd in the grave;

spalanse. The occasional prologue for our volunteer play was sino of my composition. The other performers were rong ladies and gentlemen of the neighbourhood; and the while west off with great effect upon our good-natured auCars" - Byrum Diary, 1821.]

*This prologue was written by the young poet, between Eaps on his way from Harrowgate. On getting into the Parrage at Chesterfirid, he said to his companion, "Now, ng, I'll spis a prologue for our play;" and before they

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 ruin'd fabric rear'd:
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 weep,
Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep;
For 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 PITT, and PITT alone, has dared to ask. *

THE TEAR.

"O lachrymarum 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 smile, 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.

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! 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.

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, The exclaiming, "Ay, that will do for rhyme to new." 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.