Brown Exercise rejoiced to hear;

And Sport leaped up, and seized his beechen spear.

Last, came Joy's ecstatic trial.
He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addressed;

But soon he saw the brisk awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he loved the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw, in Tempe's vale, her native maids, Amid the festal-sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing;

While as his flying fingers kissed the strings,
Love framed with Mirth a gay fantastic round-
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound;
And he, amid his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.

III.-THE VOICE AND PEN.

(D. F. M'CARTHY.)

D. F. M'Carthy is a native of Ireland, and a frequent contributor to the Dublin University Magazine.

OH! the orator's Voice is a mighty power

As it echoes from shore to shore

And the fearless Pen has more sway o'er men
Than the murderous cannon's roar.

What burst the chain far o'er the main,

And brightens the captive's den?

"Tis the fearless Voice and the Pen of Power-
Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

The tyrant knaves who deny our rights,

And the cowards who blanch with fear,

Exclaim with glee, "No arms have ye—
Nor cannon, nor sword, nor spear!

Your hills are ours; with our forts and towers
We are masters of mount and glen."
Tyrants, beware! for the arms we bear
Are the Voice and the fearless Pen!

Though your horsemen stand with their bridles in hand,

And your sentinels walk around

Though your matches flare in the midnight air, And your brazen trumpets sound;

Oh! the orator's tongue shall be heard among These listening warrior men;

And they'll quickly say, “Why should we slay Our friends of the Voice and Pen?"

When the Lord created the earth and sea,
The stars and the glorious sun,

The Godhead spoke, and the universe woke―
And the mighty work was done!

Let a word be flung from the orator's tongue,
Or a drop from the fearless Pen,
And the chains accursed asunder burst,
That fettered the minds of men!

Oh! these are the swords with which we fight,
The arms in which we trust;

Which no tyrant hand will dare to brand,
Which time cannot dim or rust!

When these we bore, we triumphed before,-
With these we'll triumph again;

And the world will say, "No power can stay The Voice and the fearless Pen !"

Hurrah!

Hurrah! for the Voice and Pen!

IV. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD.

(GRAY.)

Thomas Gray was born in Cornhill, London, in 1716, and died in 1771.
Elegy, The Progress of Poesy, and The Bard, secure him undying fame.

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day;

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea;
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way;
And leaves the world to darkness, and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds;
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds :

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath these rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,

The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed!

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
No children run to lisp their sire's return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share!

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield;

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke:
How jocund did they drive their team a-field!

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

His

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await, alike, the inevitable hour;

The paths of glory lead but to the grave!

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If memory o'er their tombs no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn, or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust?
Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death?

Perhaps, in this neglected spot, is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page,
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;

Chill penury repressed their noble rage,
And froze the genial current of the soul!

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air!

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest

Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

The applause of listening senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,

And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone

Their glowing virtues, but their crimes confined,Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide;
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame;
Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride

With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the madd'ning crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learned to stray;
Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way!

Yet even these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial, still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelled by the unlettered

muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, To teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing, anxious being e'er resigned— Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires:
E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,—
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires!