FRAGMENTS OF COLLEGE EXERCISES.

Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus. Juv.

MARK those proud boasters of a splendid line,
Like gilded ruins, mould'ring while they shine,
How heavy sits that weight of alien show,
Like martial helm upon an infant's brow;
Those borrow'd splendours, whose contrasting light
Throws back the native shades in deeper night.

Ask the proud train who glory's shade pursue,
Where are the arts by which that glory grew?
The genuine virtues that with eagle-gaze
Sought young Renown in all her orient blaze!
Where is the heart by chymic truth refin'd,
Th' exploring soul, whose eye had read mankind?
Where are the links that twin'd, with heav'nly art,
His country's interest round the patriot's heart?

Look Nature round, her features trace,
Her seasons, all her changes see;
And own, upon Creation's face,
The greatest charm's variety.

For me, ye gracious powers above!

Still let me roam, unfix'd and free; In all things, but the nymph I love, I'll change, and taste variety.

But, Patty, not a world of charms

Could e'er estrange my heart from thee;No, let me ever seek those arms, There still I'll find variety.

TO A BOY WITH A WATCH.
WRITTEN FOR A FRIEND.

Is it not sweet, beloved youth,
To rove through Erudition's bowers,
And cull the golden fruits of truth,
And gather Fancy's brilliant flowers?
And is it not more sweet than this,

To feel thy parents' hearts approving,
And pay them back in sums of bliss

The dear, the endless debt of loving? It must be so to thee, my youth; With this idea toil is lighter; This sweetens all the fruits of truth, And makes the flower of fancy brighter.

The little gift we send thee, boy,

May sometimes teach thy soul to ponder, If indolence or siren joy

Should ever tempt that soul to wander.

"Twill tell thee that the winged day

Can ne'er be chain'd by man's endeavour; That life and time shall fade away,

While heav'n and virtue bloom for ever!

How strangely the order of destiny falls!-
Not long in the waters the warrior lay,
When a sunbeam was seen to glance over the walls,
And the castle of Willumberg bask'd in the ray!
All, all but the soul of the maid was in light,

Two days did she wander, and all the long night,
There sorrow and terror lay gloomy and blank:
In quest of her love, on the wide river's bank.
Oft, oft did she pause for the toll of the bell,
Long, long did she gaze on the watery swell,
And heard but the breathings of night in the air;

And saw but the foam of the white billow there.
And often as midnight its veil would undraw,
As she look'd at the light of the moon in the
stream,

She thought 'twas his helmet of silver she saw, As the curl of the surge glitter'd high in the beam.

MRS.

TO

ON SOME CALUMNIES AGAINST HER CHARACTER.

Is not thy mind a gentle mind?
Is not that heart a heart refin’d?
Hast thou not every gentle grace,
We love in woman's mind and face?
And, oh! art thou a shrine for Sin
To hold her hateful worship in?

No, no, be happy-dry that tear-
Though some thy heart hath harbour'd near,
May now repay its love with blame;
Though man, who ought to shield thy fame,
Ungenerous man, be first to shun thee;
Though all the world look cold upon thee,
Yet shall thy pureness keep thee still
Unharm'd by that surrounding chill;
Like the famed drop, in crystal found,'
Floating, while all was froz'n around, -
Unchill'd, unchanging shalt thou be,
Safe in thy own sweet purity.

ANACREONTIC.

in lachrymas verterat omne merum. T18. lib. i. eleg. 5.

PRESS the grape, and let it pour
Around the board its purple show'r;
And, while the drops my goblet steep,
I'll think in woe the clusters weep.

Weep on, weep on, my pouting vine!
Heav'n grant no tears, but tears of wine.
Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,
I'll taste the luxury of woe.

ΤΟ

ΤΟ

THAT Wrinkle, when first I espied it,
At once put my heart out of pain;

Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,
Disturb'd my ideas again.

Thou art just in the twilight at present, When woman's declension begins; When, fading from all that is pleasant, She bids a good night to her sins.

Yet thou still art so lovely to me,

I would sooner, my exquisite mother! Repose in the sunset of thee,

Than bask in the noon of another.

WHEN I lov'd you, I can't but allow
I had many an exquisite minute;
But the scorn that I feel for you now
Hath even more luxury in it.

1 This alludes to a curious gem, upon which Claudian has left as some very elaborate epigrams. It was a drop of pure water enclosed within a piece of crystal. See Claudian. Epigram. "de Crystal.) cui aqua inerat." Addison mentions a curiosity of this kind di Milan; and adds, "It is such a rarity as this that I saw at Vend'ne in France, which they there pretend is a tear that our Saviour shed over Lazarus, and was gathered up by an angel, who put it in a little crystal vial, and made a present of it to Mary Magdalen.”— Addison's Remarks on several Parts of Italy.

Thus, whether we're on or we're off, Some witchery seems to await you; To love you was pleasant enough,

And, oh! 'tis delicious to hate you!

But shall I still go seek within those arms
A joy in which affection takes no part?
No, no, farewell! you give me but your charms,
When I had fondly thought you gave your heart.

TO JULIA.

IN ALLUSION TO SOME ILLIBERAL CRITICISMS.

WHY, let the stingless critic chide
With all that fume of vacant pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour on a stagnant pool.
Oh! if the song, to feeling true,
Can please th' elect, the sacred few,
Whose souls, by Taste and Nature taught,
Thrill with the genuine pulse of thought —
If some fond feeling maid like thee,
The warm-ey'd child of Sympathy,
Shall say, while o'er my simple theme
She languishes in Passion's dream,
He was, indeed, a tender soul
"No critic law, no chill control,
"Should ever freeze, by timid art,
"The flowings of so fond a heart!"
Yes, soul of Nature! soul of Love!
That, hov'ring like a snow-wing'd dove,
Breath'd o'er my cradle warblings wild,
And hail'd me Passion's warmest child, -
Grant me the tear from Beauty's eye,
From Feeling's breast the votive sigh;
Oh! let my song, my mem'ry, find
A shrine within the tender mind;
And I will smile when critics chide,
And I will scorn the fume of pride
Which mantles o'er the pedant fool,
Like vapour round some stagnant pool!

THE SHRINE.

TO....

Mr fates had destin'd me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lur'd my pious steps to stay;
For, if the saint was young and fair,
I turn'd and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require:
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;
And, ev'ry humbler altar passed,

I now have reach'd THE SHRINE at last!