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“ Then bid me but hope, and my wandering lute

Again shall sound cheerly, again shall be gay; But frown on me, lov'd one, but frown on my truth,

And then silent the Wand'rer, then hush'd is the Lay."

The Maid had heard-her bosom heav'd,

And passion sparkled in her eye ;
E’en for a while of sense bereav'd,

She stood entranc'd in ecstasy.

For music, with its magic pow'r,

Each fibre of the soul can move;
But doubly charms at lonely hour,

When warbled by the lips of love.

With gentle blandishment it woos,

And weaves a chain the heart around,
Till every pulse the strain pursues,

And beats responsive to the sound.

But short the bliss that wrapt her soul,

And short that visionary calm ;
She spurned her Anna's soft control,

And flung away the lifted arm.

That image, which in Fancy's eye,

She saw to touch the trembling lyre ;
Rais'd in her breast Love's tempest high,

Usurp'd Affection's softer fire.

There was but one-one heart alone,

That moment all the world within,
That she would wish to call her own,

That she would care to lose or win.

And still the strain her Lona sung

Would vibrate on her list’ning ear;
Each airy accent of his tongue

Seem'd still as if 'twas warbling near.

She stood awhile--but passion's tide

Was pour'd along her eddying soul;
And, springing from her Anna's side,

She darted, reckless of control,

Through that fair window's open frame,

And gain'd the balcony—her form
Shone lovely as some fairy dame,

Or white-rob’d spirit of the storm.

She saw the much-lov'd Youth beneath,

While kindled love her bosom warms;
And hardly daring to take breath,

She rushed to meet her Lona's arms.

I know no more a little bark,

Whene'er the Moon illumed the tide,
Was seen amid the billows dark

In bounding playfulness to glide.

And there was heard the murm’ring sound

Of oars, that dash'd the briny spray;
And when the zephyr play'd around,

It bore along this simple lay :

“O smile, Love, to-night, for together we trace

The rude ocean of billows, deriding its ire ;
I'll warm thee, when cold, in a lover's embrace,

And lull thee to sleep with the sound of the dyre. “ Then smile, love, to-night-for the breast of the wave

Seems to sparkle aneath the rude dash of the oar;
For thé Nereids laugh in their coralline cave,
And speed us away to some happier shore.”

X. C.

PRIVATE CORRESPONDENCE.

Peregrine Courtenay to Coll. apud Cantab. Soc.MY DEAR SIR, Your letter has afforded me so much amusement in my closet, that I should consider myself quite unpardonable if I made no return for the favour of it; and, since you have opened to me no means of private communication, I am compelled to acknowledge my obligations to you publicly.

I am really quite charmed with your epistolary style. There is a something of ease and jauntiness about it, which I would almost give his Majesty's crown to acquire. But " what's impossible can't be"-I must scribble as well as I may! .

Your description of your Breakfast-table, on the first of the month, quite enraptured me. “ Your paper-cutter always accompanies your Breakfast Apparatus; and you leisurely inspect the Nugæ Literaria, which you regularly take in.” I had the whole picture before me in a moment! The mahogany table,– the clean cloth,—the buttered-toast,—the chocolate,—the spruce serving-man, or sprucer serving-maid, and Coll. apud Cantab. Soc. seated in a great arm-chair, almost as big as my own, looking by turns at the breakfast and the Nuga, and gaping for both with the appetite of an Ogre. Beside him, on a little spider-legged table, legions of Periodical Worthies repose; but I pass them all over to come to his “ chiefest delight.” “ My chiefest delight, Sir, I readily confess, is drawn from the pages of · The Etonian.-My dear Sir, you are the best Critic that ever drank chocolate. So far we have gone on smoothly, but the catastrophe is shocking!

It is the first of March.—The servant enters :-“ Sir! I have been to Mr. Warren's”—(Coll. apud Cantab. Soc. testifies impatience.)". The Etonian' is not arrived”—(Coll. apud Cantab. Soc. looks black.)—“ It is not expected.”— (Coll. apud Cantab. Soc. is in a passion.)He calls for pen, ink, and paper; he indites, yea ! he indites a grievous letter! He taketh up the cudgels, and he will no more take in the work; he giveth us his sage advice; and he will no more give us his two shillings.

And you really think, my dear Sir, that “the vaunted extension of · The Etonian's' sale must not be relied upon!” I think this an unfair insinuation, and I shall be serious about it; which I very seldom am. : I will lead you into our Printing-Office ;-put you quite behind the scenes. In this Work we have no view to individual reputation; and therefore we do not wish to dispose of more than a limited number of copies. We print 750 copies of every Number;, we shall continue to do so; and we shall sell them all! Mark me, Sir! I cannot prevent your “ inferences” or your“ fears ;" but, by his Majesty's whiskers, we shall sell them ALL.Our sale will never be “ extended.”

To proceed.—" You had intended to offer me a few criticisms upon the Review of Wordsworth's Poetry, and on a few other passages in “ The Etonian” which appear to favour the profession of principles, which you would willingly persuade yourself its conductors do not entertain.” How unfortunate! you have never found out that the sentiments contained in the said Review have been repeatedly disavowed by the said conductors. Vide page 169, 1. 30.- page 248, 1. 26. i.

After all, my dear Coll. apud Cantab. Soc.," I believe you to be our very good friend, and long to shake hands with you in the Club-room. But I must let you into a secret. There are here things which we call “ regular weeks,” and “ four exerciseweeks,” which you know nothing at all about, but which we consider a great nuisance. There are also such things as weak constitutions, illnesses, &c.—but these, in common with another worthy and Rev. Gentleman (whom I could mention), you may, perhaps, call “ Peregrine apologies.” And you are surprised at my irregularity? Alas! alás! I have twenty excuses to make ; but when I have said, “ First, I am an Etonian,” all charitable persons will say « Enough-leave out the nineteen.” After all, No. V. was in London on the 1st of March, and you might have had it at tea.

And now, my dear Sir, I must take my leave of you. Forgive me if I have said any thing impertinent; you see that foolish inference about our sale put me into a little pet. Believe me, few persons expect much “ regularity' from a school-boy. You have no idea how punctual I will be when I am “ Coll. apud Cantab. Soc." In conclusion, allow me to assure you that I shall be happy to receive your criticisms, and loth to peruse your fears; that I am very thankful for your good-will, and yery sorry for your inferences; that I have the greatest respect for your observations, and not the smallest wish for your two shillings.

I have the honour to be, &c.

PEREGRINE COURTENAY.

II.

Extract of a Letter written from Athens, in the 2d year of the

109th Olympiad.

CHARICLES TO MENEDEMUS. It is painful, Menedemus, to contemplate Death at a distance ; it is painful only to hear of the departure of a human soul; but you cannot form an idea how dreadful a thing it is to see the dissolution of what was dear to us, to look upon the final extinction of the prospects, the wishes, the pursuits, of a being like ourselves.

Poor Crito! You remember well how kind and engaging he was; how mild to his inferiors, how obliging to his equals, how respectful to his superiors ! He died, as you know, very young; and it may perhaps be foolish to dwell much upon talents whose cultivation had hardly commenced, and to anticipate the future success of qualities which had scarcely begun to expand ; nevertheless it is consolatory to us to reflect, that, if manhood had been granted to him, he might have become as great in public as he was amiable in private life; he might hereafter have been as dear to Athens as he already was to us! Alas! while I paint a vision of what he might have been, I am striving to forget the certainty of what he is ! .

His illness was short, but painful. He bore it with exemplary fortitude, and testified thoughout the greatest reluctance to give pain or apprehension to his friends. Alas! the recollection of this only avails to add poignancy to the regret which pervades the Walks of Academus. Latterly, as his danger became more imminent, his friends were not allowed to see and converse with him, but he was not the less present to their hearts ;—their inquiries concerning him were constant and affectionate; the mirth which is natural to youth was pensive and restrained ; they avoided causing the slightest sound, and walked softly by the threshold of the sufferer.

At last all expectation, all hope, of his recovery expired. We were informed of his situation, and admitted to the room where he lay. Oh! Menedemus! if you had witnessed with me that feverish countenance, those vain efforts to express by words some wish which we could not hear or gratify, and, last of all, the faint struggles of departing animation, you would not be surprised when I say, that more wisdom is to be learned from the contemplation of a death-bed than from the precepts of another Socrates.

He endeavoured to take leave of us, and he could not speak; we spoke to him, and he could not hear; he strove to look round upon those who wept about him, and agony had weighed

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