brief and troubled existence, it would be stifled by general clamour, or sink unnoticed into oblivion. These fears, however, dwelt in the silence of their bosoms, whence they strove to expel them. It is hardly necessary to say, that, in the event, they were scattered, like the mists of the morning, by the early dawn of success. The Editors feel, that, after so short a period of probation as they have passed through, it would ill become them to indulge in the language of exultation and triumph. But they may be allowed to own, that to have won the approbation of those whom it was their chief desire to please, is a peculiar gratification to them, and an ample reward. They gladly acknowledge their obligation, and offer their warm thanks, to such of their friends as have kindly contributed articles, to one especially (whom it is needless otherwise to designate), to whose practised talent of composition, and rich vein of humour, the Haileybury Observer owes not a little of its merit and its fame. Honour and gratitude require them to mention this circumstance, not the less imperatively because they are likely to be deprived henceforth of his valuable assistance. They earnestly hope that the standard of excellence, which he has erected, will never be suffered to be lowered; and that the specimens of playful and racy satire, which he has furnished, may provoke many to jealousy and emulation. It only remains to announce, that, as the approach of the Christmas Examination warns the Editors to release their correspondents, as well as themselves, from tasks that would interfere with their academical duties, the present is the last number that will be issued this term. STANZAS SUGGESTED BY A SCENE IN THE CLOSE OF THE EMPEROR CHARLES V.'s LIFE. "He resolved to celebrate his own obsequies before his death. He ordered his tomb to be erected in the chapel of the monastery. His domestics marched thither in funeral procession, with black tapers in their hands. He himself followed in his shroud. He was laid in his coffin, with much solemnity. The service for the dead was chanted, and Charles joined in the prayers which were offered up for the rest of his soul, mingling his tears with those which his attendants shed, as if they had been celebrating a real funeral."-ROBERTSON, VOL. iv. p. 285.] I saw a sable mourner-band I heard a priest, in surplice clad, Near to the mournful scene I drew I bent me down to scan its ghastly face, When lo! the living chief of Austria's ducal race. Sat not upon his face grim scorn, A meek serenity was there, As though the workings of reflective thought Over his soul dim clouds, dashed with bright gleams, had brought. ODE AD CLEMENTIAM. O quæ Dearum prima choro Dea Blanditiis moderare sanctis : Muneribus cumulare gaudes. Gaudes levamen ferre dolentibus, Fractisque morbo reddere pristinas Te Gratiarum turma decentium Circumvolat, te castus Amor fovet, Nec laudibus fictis Camoenæ Egregiam peperere famam. Numen fatetur miles atrox tuum, Cùm, laureato fronte superbiens, Ardet coronâ pulchriore, lande mendaci IGNOTUS REMARKS ON LYCIDAS. "A critic, who sets up to read only for an occasion of censure and reproof, is a creature as barbarous as a judge, who should take up a resolution to hang all men that came before him upon trial.”— Swift's Tale of a Tub. THE pleasure which we feel in looking upon any work of art is indubitably heightened in a considerable degree, if we discover it to be the production of one, whose genius we have ever been accustomed to admire, and whose name has been associated in our minds with the idea of excellence. A fine painting acquires even additional beauties, if we learn that it was executed by one of those great masters, whose pieces we have been accustomed to regard as approaching most nearly to perfection. For though we still look upon the same objects as before, a train of agreeable recollections has been started in our minds, which produces something like emotions of gratitude, and renders us more easily pleased and more willing to praise. In precisely the same manner, too, a noble sentiment or a fine image is never so charming, as when known to proceed from one whose writings have often afforded us gratification. Without this consideration, it would be difficult to account for the very lavish praises, which are frequently bestowed upon compositions which seem altogether undeserving of them. But, whenever a writer has once particularly distinguished himself, and engaged in an uncommon degree the attention of society, his subsequent productions are not judged entirely according to their intrinsic merits. Those, who have been influenced by the splendour of his former compositions, will necessarily retain a bias in his favour, which, if not sufficient to blind them to very conspicuous defects, will induce them, at least, to magnify slight beauties, and to over-rate the effect of the whole. If this not unfrequently takes place with regard to poets who are not in the first grade of merit, and who, consequently, cannot be expected to exercise an irresistible control over the feelings of their readers, what is to be expected in the case of one, who attains to such a lofty pinnacle of glory as Milton stands upon? Can we wonder that those, who have been astounded by the sublimity of his moral genius, and the almost unbounded range of his imaginative powers, should be rather slow to find fault with any of his productions? Or is it inconceivable, that, trusting less in their own judgments than his, they should make his works to a certain degree the criterion of their tastes, rather than presumptuously cavil at what is above the reach of imitation. To such a degree have these feelings been carried regarding the productions of this author, that there are few of his minor poems, which have not been lauded above their real deserts. There is scarcely one of them, indeed, which has not repeatedly been declared to be superior to any thing which he himself, or any one else, has ever written. But, though the preconceived opinions of the reader have so great an influence, it would be impossible to believe, that they could give immortality to any composition which would otherwise have sunk into oblivion. Can it be supposed by any one, that the mere fact of a poem being the work of Milton would raise it to the rank of one of the finest pieces in our language, if in itself it possessed so little beauty as not to be worth reading? Are we to entertain so low an opinion of the taste and candour of the public, as to believe it possible, that the general voice will be loud in the praises of a work, which in itself is destitute of merit, merely in consideration for the name of its author? Yet such an assertion has been really made respecting the Lycidas,— an assertion, of which, based as it is on no solid or definite ground, it may be somewhat difficult to shew the absurdity, but which, as proceeding from one evidently searching for faults, will have little weight, and will not leave its impression on the mind of any one who carefully peruses the subject of it. It has been frequently urged as an objection to all elegies, that grief is dumb; and consequently, that the feelings expressed by the poet are fictitious and unnatural, and, for this reason, can excite no sympathy in the breast of the reader. But there can be few, who have ever experienced the sorrow resulting from the loss of a companion or relative who was peculiarly dear to them, who will not attest the falsity of such a supposition, and confess that the heart is eased of its grief by giving vent to it in language. Real grief does not, it is true, ostentatiously display itself; but it loves in solitude to open itself, dwelling upon the recollection of the virtues, and conjuring up the image of the person, of the friend it loved. The above-mentioned argument, however, appears, at first, to apply with more than ordinary force in the case of Lycidas; and there seems some truth in the remark, that deep sorrow does not call upon Arethusa or Mincius, and is not careful to remember the dancings of "satyr" and "faun with cloven heel." But, on looking closer, there does not seem any gross inconsistency even here. It is not, surely, very unlikely that, in giving utterance to his grief, the poet should fall into that train of thought, and style of expression, which is produced by the studies to which he was much addicted. The allusions, though uncommon, do not, in this instance, strike us as laboured or far-fetched; they were indeed the forms that most readily presented themselves to his mind; and deep and overpowering, indeed, must be that distress, which can altogether tear the thoughts from those pursuits in which they are constantly interested and engaged. The indirect method taken by the poet to express the closeness of the union which existed between his friend and himself, and, consequently, the great blank which his loss occasioned, has also been the subject of objections. When the poet tells us, it has been urged, that "Together both, ere the high lawns appeared and that together they passed the day in singing rural ditties, "tempered to the. oaken flute;" as we know that they never did any such thing, we are not very deeply interested. But we do not see, that to enable us to share in the regrets of the author, we must so minutely consider the actual relation in which he stood with regard to his friend. We know that a deep affection really existed between them; we know that their tastes and studies were the same; and that they used together to wander amongst the scenes which are here described. Whether driving flocks or not, they went forth with each other in the morning, and, in the day-time, if not singing to the oaken flute, they were exercising their talents in the higher department of poetry. Viewing it in this light, the imaginary colours with which the picture is filled in, far from diminishing its effect, tend rather to give a simpler and more pleasing face to the whole. But there is too much in this poem that calls for admiration, to admit of our dwelling any longer on the less pleasing task of examining the censures from which it has by no means escaped. And, perhaps, it is scarcely desirable, that it should have done so, as the investigation and discussion of any really meritorious work serves, always, in the end, to set off with greater clearness its more striking beauties, and to bring into general notice others of a less obvious, though not less pleasing, nature. From the very outset, in the present instance, we begin to share in the griefs of the bard, and to join in lamenting the peerless Lycidas, "dead ere his prime." Nor do we feel for him, merely, because he died while life was yet in its spring. The effect is heightened by the consideration that he was no ordinary person, and possessed of no mean abilities. "Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knew He was not one to be loved solely on account of some natural tie, or accidental companionship; but he was one, who ensured his hold on the heart which he had once gained by his estimable qualities and his high attainments. He had not a claim upon his immediate friends and neighbours alone, but a title to a portion of the respect of all, from his many virtues. For any composition of this kind, however, to produce any great effect, it is essential, that it be written as feeling prompts. If the reader observe that the poet has been directed and influenced by any consideration but pure regret for the subject of his sorrow, his interest is immediately lessened. For how can it be expected that one should inspire that which he does not feel, or impart that which he does not possess? Thus the very natural manner, in which the poet declares the close relation in which he lived with his friend, at once engages our attention, and forces us into sympathy. "For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.” Together they passed their youth, and their pursuits were similar. At all times, and in all his studies and retirements, therefore, would he feel the loss which he had sustained. We can imagine how sad and lonely he would feel in his solitude, and the heart is prepared to receive a deeper impression from the touching appeal, "But, oh! the heavy change! now thou art gone, The whole passage which immediately follows this must strike every reader as peculiarly impressive. Minutely to examine the whole, however, would occupy more time and space than could well be spared; and the only way fully to appreciate its beauties, is with attention to peruse the original. It would be impossible to pass over without notice the exquisite lines, in which the poet calls upon the vales to give up their choicest flowers, " to strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies." Not only is the passage itself remarkable for its great poetical excellence, but the application of it seems so beautifully turned :— "For so, to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ah me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas How natural the wish that he might pay some affectionate tribute to the body of one so loved in life! how natural that dwelling upon the wish that he might for the moment cheat himself into a forgetfulness of the mournful reality! But too great grief is needless and unmanly, and we must, after a certain period, strive to check or smother our feelings. It is with great taste and propriety, therefore, that, towards the end of the poem, the friends of the lost Lycidas are called upon to cease from their woe, and to be comforted by thinking upon the happy state of their departed friend. "Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more; For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk tho' he be beneath the watery floor: So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore So Lycidas sunk low, is mounted high." The concluding lines, by turning the thoughts from the sad spectacle which has just been presented to them, serve to cheer the mind, without diminishing the previously formed impression: he was sorrowing before, and forced us into sympathy with his sorrows; but he is now cheerful, and we partake of his cheerfulness. How enviable the fate of Lycidas! none read of him in the lines of his friend, that do not bestow upon him kind thoughts and blessings: all go away sorrowing for his fate. Of what avail is glory to the dead? What though future generations marvel at the records of their fame? But blessed, indeed, is his lot, of whom none ever think without pity for his misfortune, and of whom none ever speak without praise. THE FLAME WORSHIPPER. ༈ Ω πῦρ συ, ο πᾶν δεῖμα. Sophocles-Philoctetes. "It is a story, good Monsieur Le Notaire, which will rouse up every affection in nature; it will kill the humane, and touch the heart of cruelty herself with pity.— The notary was inflamed with a desire to begin, and put his pen a third time into his ink-horn, and the old gentleman, leaning a little forward, commenced his story in these words.''-Sterne. Fast fades the day,-the gloom of evering creeps, Is mantled with thick darkness, and is still. The day has past,-that day remembered long By nurse's story and by poet's song; That day which gladdens every infant heart Which rescued good King James from Popish plots |