Yet here he persists in spurting hot water upon my cheek,
And, which is my detestation, quoting a bushel of Greek.
And, here's the river Simois, and here's Xanthus,' says he,
As if either of them ever ran with Mr. Weight's best tea;
And here's 'Achilles and his Myrmidons.' I think it's very

harsh

To clap Achilles and all his soldiers into a great boiling marsh;

And though I tell him to be quiet, as loud as I can bawl, It seems that he thinks me a blockhead, (Hear, heur,) for he don't mind me at all.

Therefore, as I don't like to be in this manner defied,

I pray that the President will immediately decide,

Whether the rights of Members are to be protected, or

whether

Mr. Swinburne is to go on upsetting propriety, tea-cups, and Trojans, all together."

SWINBURNE. "Larga quidem, Drance, semper tibi copia fandi--"

OAKLEY. "If you talk any more lingo, you'll be fined and that won't be so handy."

SWINBURNE. "I Scorn to talk English where Latin won't be

heard,

And if I mayn't answer him classically, I
won't answer a single word."

COURTENAY. "Guilty, guilty, the case is clear."
MUSGRAVE. "The Swinburne coach is upset,
I fear."
COURTENAY. "To give the Judges no defence
Argues or guilt or insolence;

CHORUS.
OAKLEY.

Be it the first, or be it the last,

Dread is the doom that must now be pass'd." "Guilty, guilty, the case is clear."

"Mr. Courtenay, and Gentlemen, I think you're decidedly wrong here,

I differ from you in most matters, and I differ from you in

this;

Mr. Swinburne is guilty;-now what if I don't

think he is?"

CHORUS-(testifying astonishment.)

"Oh! Lord! did you ever?
Oh Lord! no I never !

OAKLEY.

CHORUS.

The culprit was caught, the indictment drawn!
Like a terrified child,

Mr. Oakley grows mild,

Peregrine's mock'd, and the charge withdrawn!" "Chairman and King,

I meant no such thing;

Whence is this shouting and tumult drawn?”
"You've gone in your track
Too far to go back,
Peregrine's mock'd, and the

CHARGE WITHDRAWN.'

OAKLEY. "I don't wish or intend to transgress any proper

rules,

But I can't help observing that you're altogether a parcel of fools."

1

(Exit in the sullens.-Members testify congratulation.)

COURTENAY. "It 's very late!"

O'CONNOR.

"Let's have another cup!"

MONTGOMERY." And sing a song,'

BURTON.
CHORUS.

"By way of summing up? "Late is the evening! hush'd is the song, Friendly Etonians-health, and good night! Be your fame and your 'Articles'equally long! Be your Ale and your Genius equally bright." The Members shouted carmen hoc,

As sweet as linnet or canary;

The Club adjourn'd at Six o'clock,

(Signed)

RICHARD HODGSON,

Secretary.

THE DEATH OF ALEXANDER.

FAREWELL to the Hero, whose chivalrous name
Bade the land of his fathers rise highest in fame;
Farewell, Macedonia, to all that was dear;
Farewell to thy glory's unbroken career.

The Triumphs of Empire have fled with a breath,
And the Day-star of Conquest is faded in death.
With the soul that once gave thee command over all,
With the arm that upheld thee, proud land, thou must fall;
For the Spirit that warm'd thee for ever hath flown,
And left thee to weep o'er his sepulchre's stone.

Time was that the lightning, which erst used to play From yon eyeball that glares with a powerless ray, Would have flash'd through the din, and the tumult of fight, As the meteor gleams 'mid the darkness of night. Time was, that yon arm would have dealt out the blow With the thunderbolt's force on the helm of the foe ; And Fancy might think, as the blood-reeking crest Of the King and the Warrior shone high o'er the rest, That the God of the battle was goading his car Through the ranks of the vanquish'd, the tide of the war. Time was, but those glories have long pass'd away, Like the breeze of the North o'er the sea-ruffled spray; Like the rose-bud of Summer they died in their bloom, And Memory pauses to weep o'er their doom.

Oh! Fiend of Ambition, look down on the shame That has darken'd the ray of thy Votary's fame; And blush to confess that in yon low estate Lies the remnant of all that was mighty and great. And shook not the world, and its kingdoms with dread? And quail'd not the sky as the parting life fled?

And fell not the Hero where nations pursued,
In the heat of the battle, the toil of the feud?
Did no prodigy herald the last dying pain,

As his breath ebb'd away o'er the millions of slain?

Now, joy to ye, Thebans, whose heart's blood bedew'd The desolate soil, where thine altars had stood! Thou Genius of Persia! look down from thy throne, The battle is won, and the proud are o'erthrown; And the Spirit of Valour, the bosom of Fire, That grasp'd at the world in its headlong desire, Unworthy the fame of the Deified Brave, Has sunk like the dastard luxurious slave. Weep, Macedon, weep, o'er thine Hero's decay, Weep, Macedon! slave of a foreigner's sway; Give a tear and a frown to the page of thy story, That tells of the darkness that shrouded his glory; And lament that his deeds were unable to save The son of thy love from so lowly a grave.

C. B.

ON THE WRITINGS OF JAMES MONTGOMERY.

THE true spirit of criticism, as well as of poetry, has revived in our days; and when that spirit had once developed itself, it was not to be supposed that so fair and extensive, as well as peculiarly interesting a field for its exercise as that of modern poetry, should remain long unoccupied. Accordingly, it has been the fortune of our great contemporaries to have their great characteristic excellencies illustrated, and the interior sources of those excellencies developed, by minds more or less qualified for the task,-minds of various capacity, and which have exerted themselves in very different ways, but all endued with a deep sense of the beautiful in poetry, and

the power of embodying that sense in words. Of good criticism, indeed, as of other good things, we may have too much; and we are almost tempted to wish, that, like the Dutch in their Spice Islands, we could consume one half of the precious commodity, in order to make the rest more valuable. I only mention this eircumstance, however, as exonerating me from pursuing the track in which so many maturer and more highly-endowed intellects are engaged; and as justifying me in confining my efforts to those little neglected corners of our contemporary literature, which, while the circumstance of their being yet untouched renders the task of their explorer more easy, may also, from the comparatively contracted grasp of mind which is required for their survey, appear more suited to the humble capacities of "The Etonian." I mean not, however, to intimate, that the writings of James Montgomery have escaped the notice of the censors. It will be remembered that his earliest publication was the object of a severe criticism in the "Edinburgh Review." This was answered by a just and spirited article in the "Quarterly," which, from its style, appears to be the production of an individual, eminent for his efficient and unpretending patronage of youthful merit; --an individual whose warm benevolence, no less than his unsullied integrity, his abilities, and his extraordinary learning, will be held in honourable remembrance, when the clamour, which the spirit of party and his own indiscretion have raised against him, shall have died away. Since that period, however, though the popularity of Montgomery, before considerable, has continued, or even increased, I am not aware of the appearance of any adequate critique on his writings, nor have I seen his name mentioned by any of the modern critics, except occasionally in a census of our whole poetical population, or as one of a particular class of writers. Feeling, therefore, as I sincerely do, my incompetency to the task of a regular review, and declining any such attempt, I yet