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POETRY.

Good Friday. An Ode....
Contentment
Horace. Lib II. Ode 3. Translation of
A Fragment
Acrostic. No. 1
• Anacreon. Ode 1. Translation of
A Morning in Spring
Charade
Choral Song of the Trojan Maidens. Eurip. Hecuba..
The Farewell of Joan of Arc to her home...
Progress of the Seasons
Enigma. No. 1.......
I.ament of a Marble Chimney Piece
Enigma. No.2...
Acrostic. No. 2
The Leap of Lichtewald
The Field of Waterloo..
The Holly
The Banks of Trent......
Enigma. No. 2. Answer to
Stanzas
Music
Harold's Address to his Soldiers
Enigma. No.3....
The Poet's Complaint
Horace. Epode II. Translation of
Coriolanus.
Enigma. No. 4..
Enigma. No. 5..

.Pages 4, 19, 39

8 jo 11 14 26 29 31 48 52 55 58 70 74

77 .88, 100, 121

84 93 103 108 111 126 134

138 141 152 166 176 183

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Page 12 line 2 for “ waving" read “ distant.”

69 39 “ it” read “ him."
77
36

“ be taught to pray” read “ each night and day.”
128 from 14 to 21 should be placed at the top of the page.
146

31 for “eyes” read ears."
157 4 after “ thirty-four” read at four."

29 for “same” read “scene.”
169 29 between “Repay” and “ thee" read to.”

We think it fair to observe that these Errata have been caused by no fault of the printers.

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As a periodical without an introduction, would be a kind of lusus nature, and appear like an abortion of careless brains, we sit down to the hardest task of an Editor,—that of introducing himself and his work to the public.

We claim indulgence due to inexperience and good designs. Our intention is to give a Literary turn to the character of our School, and to promote a competition in the paths of Poetry and Elegant Literature. Lest our attempt should appear too bold, let it be remembered that our predecessor, “ The Microcosm," written by youths of our own age, at Eton, has obtained a station with the Spectator, Rambler, Mirror, &c., among the Standard Essayists of our language.

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Our work will for the present consist of sixteen octavo pages, demy paper : should it meet with public favour, it may hereafter be enlarged. It will appear on the tenth of every month, except July and January, at which times the greater portion of our contributors, and numbers of our subscribers, are absent, in consequence of the holidays.

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Chap. I.The Departure. Family History. * Now I really must go, dear Emmeline,” said the young Marquis of Montbrison ; “the horses have been standing at the gates for more than half an hour.”

“ Not till you have promised to return soon,” said the beautiful girl whom he addressed, with difficulty restraining her tears.

Yes, Emmeline, I shall return soon, three months at the uttermost.”

“Oh, Eustace,” replied she, “I wish you were not going to leave us at all. I'ın sure you are very happy here.”

“Why, surely you would not wish me to remain idle and cowardly, when so many no older than myself have already drawn their swords in the good cause? Why, Louis was telling me but yesterday, that the son of Count Lauraincourt, who is only a few months older than I, received a medal from King Henry for his gallant conduct at Arques. Oh, what would I give to have been in his place! The king gave it him with his own hands. And yet, would you wish me to stay ? No, Emmeline, I am sure you would not. I shall soon return, but not before I have done someting worthy of my

noble ancestors, and the name I bear."

No, Eustace, I will detain you no longer ; but promise, before you go, to think sometimes of your little cousin, who loves you so much.” She could say no more, but bursting into tears, sank with her face upon his shoulder.

Eustace had determined not to shed a tear, but poor Emineline's grief quite unmanned him; and when he thought of the affectionate little creature whom he held in his arins, and with whom he had been brought up from his infancy, he could not help joining in her grief.

Adieu, dearest Emmeline,” he whispered; “I will write by the next inessenger from Abbeville, and be sure you send an answer at his return."

He then tore himself away, and running down to the gates, jumped on the horse which was waiting for him there; and galloping through the court-yard, followed by his attendant, Eustace was soon miles from the Chateau d'Evreux.

Eustace d'Evreux, the hero of the present narrative, was the son of that Marquis of Montbrison who, at the early age of seven-andtwenty, was assassinated at the instigation of the Marechal de Retz, (then in high favour with Charles the Ninth,) for his attachment to the Protestant faith. The marquis had two brothers, Francois and Frederique. They had all three been brought up at court, but Francois alone manifested any attachment to it: he was ambitious and intriguing, and before the age of nineteen, was made private secretary to the Marechal de Retz; and now became his confidential friend. He did all in his power to prevent the marriage of his elder brother, but finding him determined, left the house, and never saw

him after. As soon as a son and heir was born, his hatred and jealousy increased, and when, in the year 1579, Montbrison was assassinated, Francois did not escape suspicion of having influenced the marechal to the commission of the horrid crime. The marchioness died of grief shortly afterwards, leaving little Eustace, then but five years of age, to the care of Count Frederique, who now came from Paris with his wife and little daughter Emmeline, to the Chateau d'Evreux, where he found his young charge, and he remained there up to the period when our tale commences.

Count Frederique had had no intercourse with Francois since their elder brother's death, till about seven months before the period of which we are writing, when the latter suddenly arrived at the chateau, and by his courtly and agreeable manners, soon allayed all suspicion in Count Frederique's mind as to his having had any share in the marquis's death. During his stay he appeared to take a great fancy to Eustace, and at his departure begged leave of his brother to allow his nephew to accoinpany him to Paris, there to be instructed in the art of wai', like the other young men of his age and station. Count Frederique promised his consent as soon as Eustace should have completed his sixteenth year.

About a month after the departure of Francois, Henry the Third died, and left his throne to Henry, King of Navarre. On his death the war blazed forth with redoubled fury: and the faithful friend of Retz, seeing that the Protestant, or rather, the Moderate party, was likely in the end to prove victorious, forsook his patron and went over to Abbeville, where the king was with seven thousand men; and his resolution was confirmed when the Duke of Mayenne was defeated at Arques, in March of 1590.

We have now almost arrived at the period when our hero was first introduced. Count Frederique, seeing the civil war again broken out, was unwilling that his nephew, the heir of Montbrison, should, at his tender age, encounter all the dangers which would be the necessary consequence of such a state of things; but his reluctance was at length overcome by the entreaties of his brother, and the importunities of Eustace, and he gave his nephew permission to go to Abbeville. The delighted youth could brook no delay; but next morning, having ordered the horses, got every thing ready for his departure, and received some parting advice from his uncle, he flew down stairs to bid farewell to Emmeline.

When he had left her, she threw herself on a couch, and wept long and unrestrained at the loss of her friend and companion. How could she read or walk, or enjoy any pleasure, without Eustace ? He was all in all to her. Since her mother's death, which took place when Emmeline was nine years of age, her father had lived very much alone. Very few guests ever enlivened the halls of Chateau d'Evreux. The only occupants of the castle besides the count and his daughter,

ere an old nurse, two more female servants, and fifteen or sixteen retainers of the count, who were farmers or soldiers, as circumstances tequired.

Emmeline was just entering her fifteenth year,---án age whert

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perhaps, beauty is most enchanting, just as the moss-rose is never more beautiful than when it is bursting from its bud. Her long flaxen hair hung down in glossy ringlets: her large blue eyes, shaded by their long silken lashes, had seldom before been dimmed by a tear, and an almost perpetual smile played round her rosy, pouting lips.

Some time after the departure of Eustace, her meditations were disturbed by the entrance of her father.

"Well, my pretty Emmeline,” said he, “ your cousin has just left you, I suppose ?"

Yes, he was in a great hurry to be.gone, wishing to reach Rouen before night-fall," replied Emmeline, drying her eyes. “ I am afraid

you will be very lonely without him," said the Count; “ but I have just heard from Count Lauraincourt, who promises to be here to-morrow with his wife and son, who has just arrived from Abbeville, where he has been with your uncle Francois ever since this. last war broke out. I hear that he distinguished himself very much at the battle of Arques, two months ago. I wish Eustace had not been so impatient; it would have been very pleasant for him to have heard something of the ways of the camp, before he went, and he might have returned so well with young Lauraincourt, who will not stay more than a week, when he will return to Abbeville. mind to send Larrot to Rouen to recall him.

Oh, do!” Emmeling was about to exclaim, but she checked herself, recollecting how ardently Eustace longed to join the army.

Her father continued—“ You would wish it, Emmeline ?"

At this moment the conversation was interrupted by a loud knocking at the gate.

(To be continued.)

I have a great

ODE. GOOD FRIDAY.

Part First.
Israel ! thy hope is fled: no more

Is heard the voice of truth divine:
Thy sons have drained their Saviour's gore,

And reel like drunkards filled with wine.
The wrath of Heaven is on thy head,

The nations watch thee for their prey ;
The trembling doubt of anxious dread
And horror through thy courts is spread,

Where Desolation wings her way.
No more the hand that loves to save,
Is stretched to snatch thee forth, like Peter, from the wave.
Weep, daughters of the Temple, weep,

While strains from Sorrow's fountain pure
Arise to lull your woes to sleep,

And soothe the pain they cannot cure.
The trust of ages past has flown,

And ages after ages rising,
Shall hear the Sacred City's moan,
Prostrate, unguarded, and alone,

All care save only grief despising:

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