speak of learned Greek professors, who forgot to leave their classical lore behind in the lecture-room, and carried it with them to the drawing-room. In the mouth of ladies, or addressed to them, pedantry is particularly offensive; and it were much to be wished that such Blue Belles were obliged to wear a conspicuous emblem, like the yellow flag of quarantine, as a warning to others to avoid them.

While, however, we enter our protest against innovations in the language, and precise cavils at words, we by no means desire to censure those who strive to correct real errors and popular prejudices; but unfortunately it is in trivial and unimportant matters only that pedantry is manifested; and while it condescends to trifle with minute verbal distinctions, on graver subjects it is for the most part silent. And this very circumstance of the trivial nature of its so-called "improvements," is one of the most convincing reasons that can be urged against it. As a warning to men of genius and learning to beware of this error, Dr. Johnson, in his "Lives of the Poets," has some sensible remarks; and they are the more worthy of notice, as his own practice was quite at variance with the good advice which he gives to others. After summing up the character of Savage, he says in conclusion:-"This relation will not be wholly without its use, if those who, in confidence of superior capacities or attainments, disregard the common maxims of life, shall be reminded that nothing will supply the want of prudence; and that negligence and irregularity, long continued, will make knowledge useless, wit ridiculous, and genius con

temptible." It is greatly to be regretted that he, who in these words proved how well he knew the nature and cause of Pedantry, should have exhibited in his own life so strong an instance of this very fault; a fault which rendered him an object of aversion to many of his contemporaries. The pedantry of Johnson adds another name to the melancholy catalogue of great men, who have benefitted others by their precepts and instruction, but were not sufficiently strongminded to reduce them to practice in their own person.

TRANSLATION FROM SIMONIDES.

[Some time ago we received a contribution in the shape of a translation of Simonides famous ode ὅτε λάρνακι εὖ δαιδαλέα, κ. τ. λ. It was declined, partly because the piece had been so frequently translated before; and partly, from some little errors, which might have been removed with a little judicious alteration. Since that time, however, the author has been taken away from us, and the article assumes fresh claims to our notice. We are sure that the fact of its being a memorial of a deceased schoolfellow will disarm criticism, and that our readers will be gratified at seeing in a periodical, in which he took an interest, the humble tribute of its conductors to his good qualities, and the universal regret of those who knew him for his untimely death.-Ed. E. S. M.]

SIMONIDES-DANAE, &c.

WHEN o'er her fragile bark the wind

In raging fury blew,

The troubled waters o'er her mind

A sad foreboding threw.

She clasped her Perseus to her breast,

Her cheeks yet moist with tears,
Her sleeping offspring she caressed,
And thus poured forth her fears:

What troubles rack my brain;
In infancy's unconscious bliss
Thou knowest not my pain;
And in this dreary, brass-bound ark,

Reclining on my breast,
Despite the raging elements

Thou liest in peaceful rest.

"What though the troubled waters roar?
The darkness close us round?
The billows o'er thy head may pour,
The stormy wind resound!
Secure from fear, in purple robe,

Thou sleepest all-enrolled,

A. babe in slumber's sweet embrace,
And beauteous to behold.

"If what I fear should mar thy joy,
If thee my words disturbed,
'Sleep, I would say, sleep on, my boy,
The tempest's rage be curbed.'
Great Jove, our fortune change, I pray,

And hear me unreproved;

Not for myself these words I say,

But for my best beloved!"

[A. F. CUSTANCE, July 1847.]

FORGIVENESS.

As, trampled under careless feet,

The flowerets of the field,

By injury become more sweet,

A richer perfume yield:

So breathes the meek and pious heart
Forgiveness to its foes,

More noble under sorrow's smart,

More heavenly in its woes.

FROM EURIPIDES' HIPPOLYTUS,

vv. 729-748 (ed. Monk.)

STROPHE.

I would I dwelt in lofty caves,

To view the distant waves;

Or on eagle pinions dight

To chase the sunbeams dancing bright,
Lightly flitting o'er the foam

Of Adria's conflicting waters,

Or where Eridanus' three daughters,
In love of Phaethon,

Distil into their father's purple wave

The amber light of tears, an offering to his grave.

ANTISTROPHE.

Would I could fly to Afric's shore,
Where orchards, as of yore,

Yearly a golden produce bring,
And Hesperus' fair daughters sing;
Where the purple river's lord

The sailor's onward course restrains,
Dwelling near Atlas' ancient reigns;

And round Jove's awful throne,

A thousand rivulets of nectar shine,

And Gods rejoice for aye in golden fields divine.

H. F. C.

THE EPITAPH OF GRISOSTOMO, Don Quixote, part I. ch. 14, ad fin.

δυστήνου ψυχρὸν σῶμ' ἐνθάδε κεῖται ἐραστοῦ, βουκόλος ἦν, δύσερώς νιν θανάτωσε πόθος καλλίστης ἐδάμασσε κόρης νιν θυμὸς ἀτειρὴς, ἐξ ἧς ἐμὸς ἄναξ μείζον ̓ Ἔρως κατέχει.

H. F. C.

THE LEGEND OF RYDE.

We have received the following poem from a foreign correspondent, and we cannot do better than quote his own words as an introduction to it :

"About 100 years ago, where the flourishing town of Ryde now stands, there was a small village inhabited chiefly by fishermen, situated on a low muddy coast; since that time the character of the shore has entirely altered, and a layer of fine sand has made its appearance. The enclosed legend then endeavours to account for this change."

THE evening breeze is blowing chill,
And a heavy rain is falling,
And the petrel amid the surging waves
To his mate is shrilly calling.

Drearily sets in the darksome night;
No stars are seen, and the moon's pale light
Is hid by the masses of driving cloud,
As they veil the sky with a murky shroud.
The storm is rising, the waves run high,
And the wind in gusts right mournfully
O'er the waters sweeps from the troubled sky.
On the crests of the wild waves dancing
A ship is dimly seen,

Its toilsome way advancing

Through the foaming billows sheen,
And gleams of light are glancing
Bright where its path has been.

On, on-no rest-for tempest-tost,
Their canvass rent, their reckoning lost,
The mariners know not the danger nigh,
"Till the man at the helm with eager eye
Perceives a long low line of shore,

No rocks-no breakers-the sullen roar
Of the waves, as the muddy coast they lash,

Is heard for a moment-she strikes,-one crash !—
"Tis done!-down the roaring wind rings a cry,

As of mortals who feel the last death-agony.