Fugitive Pieces | Page 7

fever'd even to madness,
Of tears as of
reason forever was drain'd,
But the drops which now flow down this
bosom of sadness, Convince me, the springs have some moisture
retain'd.
9.
Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection,
Has wrung
from these eye-lids to weeping long dead,
In torrents, the tears of my
warmest affection,
The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed.
[Footnote 5: MOSSOP, a cotempory of GARRICK, famous for his
performance of Zanga_, in YOUNG's tragedy of the _Revenge.]

THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.

High in the midst surrounded by his peers,
M--ns--l his ample front
sublime uprears;
Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While
Sophs and Freshmen, tremble at his nod.
Whilst all around sit wrapt
in speechless gloom,
His voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome;

Denouncing dire reproach, to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in
mathematic rules.
Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little vers'd in any
art beside;
Who with scarce sense to pen an English letter,
Yet with
precision, scans an attic metre.
What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord
pil'd the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands
advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France;
Though
marvelling at the name of Magna Charta,
Yet, well he recollects the
laws of Sparta.
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
Whilst
Blackstone's_ on the _shelf neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts
the deathless fame,
Of Avon's bard, remembering scarce the name.
Such is the youth, whose scientific pate,
Class honours, medals,
fellowships await;
Or even perhaps the declamation prize,
If to such
glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope

The envied silver cup within his scope;
Not that our heads much
eloquence require,
The ATHENIAN's glowing style, or TULLY's fire.

The manner of the speech is nothing, since
We do not try by
speaking_ to _convince;

Be other orators_ of pleasing _proud,
We
speak to please_ ourselves, not _move the crowd.
Our gravity prefers
the muttering tone,
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan;
No
borrow'd grace_ of _action, must be seen,
The slightest motion would
displease the dean.
Whilst every staring graduate would prate,

Against what, he could never imitate.
The man, who hopes t' obtain the promis'd cup,
Must in one posture_
stand, and _ne'er look up,
Nor stop_, but rattle over _every word,


No matter what_, so it can _not be heard;
Thus let him hurry on, nor
think to rest,
Who speaks the fastest_, 's sure to speak the _best;

Who utters most within the shortest space,
May safely hope to win
the wordy race.
The sons of Science these, who thus repaid,
Linger in ease, in
Granta's sluggish shade;
Where on Cam's sedgy banks supine they lie,

Unknown, unhonour'd live, unwept for, die.
Dull as the pictures,
which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix'd within their
walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts,
affecting to despise.
Yet prizing _Bentley's[6] Brunck's[6]_ or
Porson's[7] note, More than the verse, on which the critic wrote;

With eager haste, they court the tool of power,
(Whether 'tis PITT or
PETTY rules the hour:)
To him, with suppliant smiles they bend the
head,
Whilst mitres, prebends, to their eyes are spread.
But should a
storm o'erwhelm him with disgrace,
They'd fly to seek the next, who
fill'd his place;
Such are the men who learning's treasures guard,

Such_ is their _practice_, such is their _reward;
This much at least
we may presume to say,
Th' reward's_ scarce equal, to the _price_
they _pay.
1806.
[Footnote 6: Celebrated Critics.]
[Footnote 7: The present Greek Professor at Cambridge.]

TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.
1.
This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art
could give)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Revives my hopes,
and bids me live.

2.
Here I can trace the locks of gold,
Which round thy snowy forehead
wave,
The cheeks which sprung from Beauty's mould,
The lips
which made me Beauty's slave.
3.
Here I can trace--ah no! that eye,
Whose azure floats in liquid fire,

Must all the painter's art defy,
And bid him from the task retire.
4.
Here I behold, its beauteous hue,
But where's the beam of soft desire?

Which gave a lustre to its blue,
Love, only love, could e'er inspire.
5.
Sweet copy! far more dear to me,
Lifeless, unfeeling as thou art,

Than all the living forms could be,
Save her, who plac'd thee next my
heart.
6.
She plac'd it, sad with needless fear,
Lest time might shake my
wavering soul,
Unconscious that her image there,
Held every sense
in fast controul.
7.
Through hours, through years, through time 'twill cheer,
My hope in
gloomy moments raise;
In life's last conflict 't'will appear,
And
meet my fond, expiring gaze.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX, THE FOLLOWING
ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN THE MORNING

POST.
"Our Nation's foes, lament on Fox's death,
"But bless the hour, when
PITT resign'd his breath;
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth
unclue,
"We give the palm, where Justice points its due."
_To which the Author of these Pieces, sent the subjoined Reply, for
Insertion in the_ MORNING CHRONICLE.--
Oh! factious viper!