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Had she but prest his hand, or felt His quivering lip, and moistened cheek, And not at that sad moment knelt ; Despite the clouds, she must have known That he was waxing kind and meek, And shortly would be all her own. That fond impatient heart again Broke forth in its beseeching strain, And sure 'twas Fate her bosom stirred, And winged with mischief each good word. Softly and winningly she sighed; « Oh brother ! think of her that died, “ Bequeathing thee, her infant son, " To him whose heart thy pride doth break; “ Return and yield thee, Lycophron ! • Return, for our dead Mother's sake." “ Dead Mother ! dead !-I had forgot; “ Shame on me, that I was beguiled “ To listen to my Mother's child " Pleading for sin, and knowing not
06 How words of that fair shew, “ Are treason to Her sacred name, “ And outrage every righteous claim
• Of this religious woe.
Away-away! I will be true, • I'll live for her and not for you ; “ And, though I love thee, Therine, “ I must forego thy love for me ; “ And yet in this I will be kind
; “ My secret of deep life-long pain “ Shall never craze thy lovely mind, • Thy thoughts in penal fetters bind,
“ Thy guileless bosom stain. “ Pity me, if thou wilt, that I “ A bondsman am of Memory,
“ An alien and a wanderer, sent
“On through the world to fare “ As a strange living monument,
" of vengeance and despair.
Weep, if thou wilt, that on me lies “ A dark entail of household crime, “ That I renounce in youth's gay prime “ The hearth's endearing sanctities : • Nor is there one who dares to give “ To this poor princely fugitive,
“ Water, or bread, or fire, “ For that they grudge, the craven herd, “ To cringe for me at Phæbus' shrine “ And pay for me the threatened fine, “ And quails all Corinth at one word
“ Of thy tyrannic Sire.
“ No friend have I in this wide town • No resting-place to lay me down" Yet will I not depart, nor stray “ By loved Pirenes' watery shades, “ Lost haply on some pleasant day “ When deer are trooping up the glades, “ And birds are loud, and air is rile “ With breathings of a joyous life, " And I may tell from sight and sound “ I tread my dear old hunting ground, “ Then my heart's purpose fail, subdued
By dalliance with that winsome mirth, “And boyish fancies so delude
My nerved and burning breast, “That it forswear, thus idly wooed, 6. What is alone my being's worth, 6. This sad and proud unrest.
“ Oh no! I parley not with joy-
“ And now, farewell ! turn back, and weep“ Not that thy tears can ought avail, “ But that I still would have thee keep " Some echo of my constant wail. « Go! leave me here to make my moan, “ Nor deem that I am quite alone, " For there is One whose shade for aye “ Will deign to bear me company;
“ One that hath power to save, « And far from truth I cannot roam “ While lies my orphan spirits' home “ Within Melissa's grave."
(To be continued.)
A TRUE ETONIAN.
Eton ! thy boast hath ever been of those
Thoughts of unworldly strain that upward tend,
ON THE STUDY OF TERENCE,
Hoc quoque te manet, ut pueros elementa docentem
Occupet extremis in vicis balba senectus.-HOR. I believe it is in obedience to a principle of our strange human nature, that we invariably view with more or less of dislike any study which we are forced by circumstances to pursue, even though our tastes would otherwise lead us to take pleasure in it. This is especially the case with the study of the Classics.-We come to school and are compelled to read them : our tastes are often formed by them involuntarily—sometimes against our will, while we are groaning under the yoke imposed upon us. Some of course there are, who leave Eton much the same as they came to her, unimproved and unformed by her training, with nothing gained but a smattering of “ small Latin and less Greek" and a gentlemanlike bearing. But there are also many more who have profited in a manner by their studies; who have always maintained a respectable position in the school, but who pass on into the world with but little love and gratitude towards those authors, to whom they owe whatever refinement and good taste they may have acquired. The classics are thrown aside
* Henry Hamond. Vide Life by Dr. Fell.
as school-books, and thus the best masters are discarded, simply because they have been employed in our education, Surely then it is much to be desired that some interest could be thrown around them, to prevent the neglect with which they are thus unjustly treated that we should learn to study them, not merely as the masters of language, and the fountains of scholarship, but as authors of character and taste, gifted with unrivalled judgment, fancy, and invention, and deeply imbued with the knowledge of nature and the human heart.
As one object of a study of this kind, perhaps I may venture to recommend the comedies of Terence to the notice of such of my brother Etonians who are yet unacquainted with them. Not merely for their elegance and pure latinity-these graces indeed they possess in an almost unequalled degree-not solely as means
of scholarship-though few books would probably be more useful for such purposes—but simply as a study of character and human nature. Terence need not be studied for the first time in this way_let those who read him for purposes of practical scholarship, pay no more attention to this view of his powers than is necessary for a proper understanding of his plays—but as an agreeable and most useful relaxation from more urgent and necessary study, I would recommend that he should be taken up, just as Shakspeare is taken up, and his characters studied as carefully as I am sure they will be pleasurably : and I feel confident that some new knowledge, some gratification unenjoyed before, will be discovered each time he is thus handled.
It may perhaps be worth while, in order to show that the evil complained of does really exist, to consider, in the case of the particular author here treated of, how far