OXFORD.*

ODE.

To break the stillness of the Night,
No vagrant Zephyr wing'd his flight
Along the venerable Grove ;
Where, hard by beauteous Isis' stream,
That hastes to her espoused Thame,
In musings lost, I rove;

Invoking oft the Sister Powers,

Bright Guardians of these hallowed towers,
The Powers, that prompt the immortal Song!
"For you I left yon laughing Board

With high-crown'd goblets richly stor❜d,
For you yon joyous throng;

The irregularities, hinted at in these stanzas, written some years ago, have since been much corrected, by wise and recent regulations.

Hear then benignly, nor refuse
To bathe me in Pienian dews."

When thus, from out the gloom profound
Of intermingling branches, stole
A voice celestial, that my soul
In rapt attention bound.

"Well hast Thou done to court once more
These shades renown'd, where, oft of yore,
The vocal Daughters of the Sky
In bright assemblage wont to meet,
Beneath, O! once belov'd Retreat,
Thy leafy Canopy !

No longer sacred now!-For here
Mad Comus and his Rout appear
With feet unholy, revelling wild,
And scare from their sequester'd seat,
Solitude and Silence sweet,

And Contemplation mild.

The Spirits of the illustrious dead, (Who joy'd in life, these haunts to tread,

Refulgent gems of elder time)

Disdaining now to hover nigh,

Indignant from these orgies fly,

And seek their Skies sublime!

Haste Thou, the infatuate crouds to tell, Who yield them to the wizard's spell,

Too soon shall Circe's power deploreAround their temples let them twine, Like phrenzied Bacchanals, the vine, But laurels pluck no more!

From high we summon to our aid
The immortal Ægis-bearing Maid,
Before whose spear's resistless might,
The Sorcerer and his vassals base,
Discomfited with foul disgrace,
Are hurl'd to Stygian Night!

Then England's Athens shall behold

A new Elysian Age of Gold,

Wisdom, from Schoolmen's chains, unbound, Science and Order rule again!

The Muses' and the Virtues' train

Shall sanctify the Ground!"

C. H. S..

FRAGMENTS.

By GEORGE GOODWIN.

Now o'er the hills the shades of Night are fled And pleasant is the Morn. The rising Sun Pours his faint radiance o'er the smiling fields And animates the scene. From every branch The wandering minstrels of the air are heard Hailing his orient beams,

But not to thee

Meek Spirit, not to thee the Morn is fair
Nor gleam the sunbeams cheerily. Alas!
The early carols of the woodland choir,

Echoing so sweetly in the dewy fields,
Thou hearest not. Wrapt in the arms of death
Thou can'st not feel the rising Sun's warm ray,
Thou can'st not mark the beauty of the Morn,
For dark and silent is thy narrow cell!