Tune "Partant pour la Syrie

220

LAST month I saw thee green, tree,
The lark sat on thy bough;
Thy friends then would not leave thee,
Alas! where are they now?
Neglected thou must stand, tree,
Till summer's sun shall dry
The waters that have bound thee;
Or, unregarded, die.

Thy friends prove false to thee, tree,
Nor heed the "pelting storm;
They're hous'd," nor think of thee, tree,
Content with being warm.

When summer comes again, tree,

All eager to enjoy,

Surpris'd, they'll view thee cold, tree,
And wonder you could die."

ENIGMA. BY MR. C. s.

"TIS a bubble that floats on the air,
A breath will disturb its repose;
The sun of its splendour's a breeder of care,
And it triumphs wherever it goes.

"Tis admir'd and sought by the great;
"Twill rise from the cot of the poor;

It usurps the dominion of pomp and of state,"Tis a mania disdaining a cure.

Twill live after life is extinct;

No bounds are assign'd for its reign, Though it rest for an age to oblivion link'd; A breeze will awake it again.

ON THE TRAGICAL DEATH OF MARY
QUEEN OF SCOTS.

IF orphan child, enwrapt in swathing bands,
Doth move to mercy when forlorn it lies;
If none, without remorse or love withstand
The piteous noise of infants' silly cries;
Then hope, my helpless heart, some tender cares
Will rue thy orphan state and feeble tears.
Relinquish'd lamb, in solitary wood,

With dying bleat doth move the toughest mind!
The passing plaints of new engender'd brood,
Base though they be, compassion use to find,
Why should I, then, of pity doubt to speed,
Whose hap would force the hardest heart to bleed!
Left orphan-like, in helpless state I rue;

With sighs and tears alone I plead my case; My dying plaints I daily do renew,

And fill with heavy cries each desert place. Some tender heart will weep to hear my moan, Men pity may-but God can help alone.

Rain down, ye heavens, your tears this case requires;
Men's eyes unable are enough to shed:

If sorrows could have place in heavenly quires,
A fitter cause the world bath seldom bred.
For right is wrong, and virtue's weigh'd with blood:
The bad are bless'd, God murder'd in the good.
A gracious plant for fruit, for leaf, and flower;
A peerless gem for virtue, proof, and price;
A noble peer for prowess, will, and power;
A friend to truth, a foe I was to vice.
And lo, alas; all innocent I die,

A case that might e'en make the stones to cry.
Thus Fortune's favours still are bent to flight;
Thus worldly bliss in final bale doth end;
Thus virtue still pursued is with spite;

But let my fate, tho' rueful, none offend.
God doth sometimes first crop the sweetest flower,
And leaves the weed till time does it devour.

MERTON COLLEGE, OXFORD.

HERE has long been a contest between the two universities (Oxford and Cambridge) about the priority of their foundations, which, there is no probability of ever being decided: in fact, it is but a mere school-boy contention, and matters not if it never should. It is beyond a question, that, in the size of the place, the number of inhabitauts and scholars, Oxford has the advantage: yet each has peculiar beauties of which the other is deprived.

Merton College is situated on the south side of the city. It was founded by Walter of Merton, bishop of Rochester, and lord high Chancellor of England. The Society was first planted at Maldern, in Surry, in 1264, and he transferred it to Oxford, in the year 1267. The founder framed his statues so admirably, that they were proposed as a pattern to the founder of Peter-house, Cambridge, by King Henry III. This College has a warden, twenty-four fellows, fourteen proportionists or post-masters, and two clerks. The inner large court or quadrangle is very beautiful; it has a well furuished library, and a most delightful garden. The visitor is the archbishop of Canterbury.

The Church of St. John is the Chapel belonging to the College. It is an august gothic edifice, with a tower, in which is six bells. Its choir, or inner chapel, is the largest NO. XXII.

of any in the university, that of New College excepted: formerly it had an organ, yet without any regular institution for choir service. There is something particularly elegant in the painted glass of the east window, which instantly arrests the eye of the observer. The anti-chapel is proportionally spacious, and was originally much larger than at the present time; for if we examine the outside of the church, towards the west, we may perceive the arches filled up, which once stood within, and made part of the nave. Near the altar are the monuments of Sir Thomas Bodley and Sir Henry Saville. On the right hand of the choir door, is that of one of its wardens, Dr. Wyntle, and his sister, which is prettily executed; and not far from the north door of the anti-chapel, is a burst and inscription to the memory of Anthony Wood. This church was built in the year 1424, but it does not appear by whom.

RICHARDSON, THE NOVELIST.

THIS wonderful genius was born in the county of Derby, in the year 1698. Had we indeed space in our little collection to expatiate on the merits of this profound scholar and excellent friend, we should deem ourselves engrossing the reader's time in repeating what must be obvious to every one that has read his invaluable works. Shakspeare tells us

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another bue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light

To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess.'

In infancy Richardson was sent to London and spent his whole life in the metropolis and its environs. He was apprenticed to a printer, as a compositor, but his fondness of books did not prevent him from becoming a thorough master of his business. He became himself a printer of high respectability, and enjoyed the friendship of the most estimable and literary persons among his cotemporaries, particularly of women of superior talents and polished manners, who formed around him a circle, from whence he drew the mental features of his admirable fictitious females. The sex have not been forgetful of the advantages he extended towards them, for to the energetic pen of Mrs. Barbauld we owe the delineation of his own character. Richardson lived to be 79.

It is really surprising how men of such rare intellect as Richardson, Dr. Franklin, and others, could have existed in that grave of decency and learning→ a London Printing-office.

B

EFORE midnight, all who slept awoke. It was hoped that an heir was about to be born to that ancient house; and there is something in the dim and solemn reverence which invests an unbroken line of ancestry, that blends easily with those deeper and more awful feelings with which the birth of a human creature, in all circumstances, is naturally regarded. Tenderly beloved by all as this young and beautiful lady was, who, coming a stranger among them, and, as they felt, from another land, had inspired them insensibly with a sort of pity mingling with their pride in her loveliness and virtue, it may well be thought that now the house was agitated, and that its agitation was soon spread from cottage to cottage to a great distance round. Many a prayer, therefore, was said for her; and a God was beseeched soon to make her, in his mercy, a joyful mother. No fears, it was said, were entertained for the lady's life; but, after some hours of intolerable anguish of suspense, her husband, telling an old servant whither he had gone, walked out into the open air, and, in a few minutes, sat down on a tombstone, without knowing that he had entered the little churchyard, which, with the parish church, was within a few fields and groves of the house. He looked around him; and nothing but graves-graves-graves. "This stone was erected by her husband, in memory of Agnes Ilford, an Englishwoman, who died in child bed, aged nineteen.' This inscription was every letter of it distinctly legible in the moonlight; and he held his eyes fixed upon itreading it over and over with a shudder; and then rising up, and hurrying out of the church-yard, he looked back from the gate, and thought he saw a female figure all in