Hypocrisy, the gift of lengthen'd years,
Matured by age, the garb of prudence wears.
When now the boy is ripen'd into man,
His careful sire chalks forth some wary plan;
Instructs his son from candor's path to shrink,
Smoothly to speak, and cautiously to think;
Still to assent, and never to deny-

A patron's praise can well reward the lie:
And who, when Fortune's warning voice is heard,
Would lose his opening prospects for a word?
Although against that word his heart rebel,
And truth indignant all his bosom swell.

Away with themes like this: not mine the task
From flattering fiends to tear the hateful mask;
Let keener bards delight in satire's sting;
My fancy soars not on Detraction's wing:
Once, and but once, she aimed a deadly blow,
To hurl defiance on a secret foe;

But when that foe, from feeling or from shame,
The cause unknown, yet still to me the same,
Warn'd by some friendly hint, perchance, retired,
With this submission all her rage expired.
From dreaded pangs that feeble foe to save,
She hush'd her young resentment, and forgave;
*Or, if my muse a pedant's portrait drew,
POMPOSUS' virtues are but known to few;
I never fear'd the young usurper's nod,
And he who wields must sometimes feel the rod.
If since on Granta's failings, known to all
Who share the converse of a college hall,
She sometimes trifled in a lighter strain,
'Tis past, and thus she will not sin again,
Soon must her early song forever cease,
And all may rail when I shall rest in peace.

Here first remember'd be the joyous band,
Who hail'd me chief, obedient to command;
Who join'd with me in every boyish sport-
Their first adviser, and their last resort;
+Nor shrunk beneath the upstart pedant's frown,
Or all the sable glories of his gown;

With him, for years, we search'd the classic page,
And fear'd the master, though we loved the sage;
Retired at last, his small yet peaceful seat
From learning's labor is the blest retreat.
Pomposus fills his magisterial chair;
Pomposus governs,-but, my muse, forbear:
Contempt, in silence, be the pedant's lot;
His name and precepts be alike forgot: +
No more his mention shall my verse degrade,
To him my tribute is already paid.‡

§ High, through those elms, with hoary branches crown'd,

Fair IDA's bower adorns the landscape round;
There Science, from her favor'd seat, surveys
The vale where rural Nature claims her praise;
To her awhile resigns her youthful train,
Who move in joy, and dance along the plain;
In scatter'd groups each favor'd haunt pursue;
Repeat old pastimes, and discover new;
Flush'd with his rays, beneath the noontide sun,
In rival bands between the wickets run,
Drive o'er the sward the ball with active force,
Or chase with nimble feet its rapid course.
But these with slower steps direct their way
Where Brent's cool waves in limpid current's stray,
While yonder few search out some green retreat,
And arbors shade them from the summer heat;
Others again, a pert and lively crew,

Some rough and thoughtless stranger placed in view,
With frolic quaint their antic jests expose,
And tease the grumbling rustic as he goes;
Nor rest with this, but many a passing fray
Tradition treasures for a future day:
"Twas here the gather'd swains for vengeance

fought,

And here we earn'd the conquest dearly bought;
Here have we fled before superior might,
And here renew'd the wild tumultuous flight."
While thus our souls with early passions swell,
In lingering tones resounds the distant bell;
Th' allotted hour of daily sport is o'er,

No splendid tablets grace her simple hall, But ruder records fill the dusky wall;

• Pomposus fills his magisterial chair; Pomposus governs, &c.

Had Lord Byron published another edition of Hours of Idleness, it was his intention to give the following turn to this passage:

"Another fills his magisterial chair;
Reluctant Ida owns a stranger's care;

Oh may like honors crown his future name,

If such his virtues, such shall be his fame."

Moore's Life of Byron, vol. I. p. 189.

↑ His name, &c. Instead of this line, the private volume reads, "Soon shall his shallow precepts be forgot."

This alludes to a character printed in a former private edition for the perusal of some friends, which, with many other pieces, is withheld from the present volume. To draw the attention of the public to insignificance, would be deservedly reprobated; and another reason, though not of equal consequence, may be given in the following couplet :

"Satire or sense, alas I can Sposus feel?
Who breaks a butterfly upon the wheel?"
POPE-Prologue to the Satires.

The ensuing hundred and twenty-two lines, to

for his vacant chair: of this I can only say,

Si mea, cum vestris valuissent vota, Pelasgi I Non foret ambiguus tanti certaminis Hæres.

"Alonzo ! best and dearest of my friends,"

Hours of Idleness.

• Those pieces are reprinted in the second edition. The character alluded to is contained in the preceding poem.

There, deeply carved, behold! each tyro's name
Secures its owner's academic fame;

Here, mingling view the names of sire and son-
The one long graved, the other just begun;
These shall survive alike when son and sire
Beneath one common stroke of fate expire:
Perhaps their last memorial these alone,
Denied in death a monumental stone,
Whilst to the gale in mournful cadence wave
The sighing weeds that hide their nameless grave.
And here my name, and many an early friend's,
Along the wall in lengthen'd line extends.
Though still our deeds amuse the youthful race,
Who tread our steps, and fill our former place,
Who young obey'd their lords in silent awe,
Whose nod commanded, and whose voice was law,
And now in turn possess the reins of power,
To rule the little tyrants of an hour;-
Though sometimes with the tales of ancient day
They pass the dreary winter's eve away-
"And thus our former rulers stemm'd the tide,
And thus they dealt the combat side by side;
Just in this place the mouldering walls they scaled,
Nor bolts nor bars against their strength avail'd;
Here Probus came, the rising fray to quell,
And here he falter'd forth his last farewell;
And here one night abroad they dared to roam,
While bold Pomposus bravely stayed at home; "-
While thus they speak, the hour must soon arrive,
When names of these, like ours, alone survive:
Yet a few years, one general wreck will whelin
The faint remembrance of our fairy realm.

Dear honest race, though now we meet no more,
One last long look on what we were before-
Our first kind greetings, and our last adieu-
Drew tears from eyes unused to weep with you.
Through splendid circles, fashion's gaudy world,
Where folly's glaring standard waves unfurl'd,
I plunged to drown in noise my fond regret,
And all I sought or hoped was to forget.
Vain wish! if chance some well-remember'd face,
Some old companion of my early race,
Advanced to claim his friend, with honest joy,
My eyes, my heart proclaim'd me still a boy;
The glittering scene, the fluttering groups around,
Were quite forgotten when my friend was found;
The smiles of beauty-(for, alas! I've known
What 'tis to bend before Love's mighty throne)-
The smiles of beauty, though those smiles were dear,
Could hardly charm me when that friend was near:
My thoughts bewilder'd in the fond surprise,
The woods of Ida danced before my eyes;
I saw the sprightly wanderers pour along,
I saw and join'd again the joyous throng;
Panting, again I traced her lofty grove,
And friendship's feelings triumph'd over love.

Yet why should I alone with such delight
Retrace the circuit of my former flight?
Is there no cause beyond the common claim
Endear'd to all in childhood's very name?
Ah! sure some stronger impulse vibrates here,
Which whispers friendship will be doubly dear
To one who thus for kindred hearts must roam,
And seek abroad the love denied at home.
Those hearts, dear IDA, have I found in thee-
A home, a world, a paradise to me.

Stern death forbade my orphan youth to share

The tender guidance of a father's care:
Can rank, or e'en a guardian's name, supply
The love which glistens in a father's eye?
For this can wealth or title's sound atone,
Made by a parent's early loss my own?
What brother springs a brother's love to seek ?
What sister's gentle kiss has prest my cheek?
For me how dull the vacant moments rise,
To no fond bosom link'd by kindred ties!
Oft in the progress of some fleeting dream
Fraternal smiles collected round me seem;
While still the visions to my heart are prest,
The voice of love will murmur in my rest:
I hear-I wake-and in the sound rejoice;
I hear again,-but, ah! no brother's voice.
A hermit, 'midst of crowds, I fain must stray
Alone, though thousand pilgrims fill the way;
While these a thousand kindred wreaths entwine,
I cannot call one single blossom mine:
What then remains? in solitude to groan,
To mix in friendship, or to sigh alone?
Thus must I cling to some endearing hand,
And none more dear than IDA's social band.

Alonzo! best and dearest of my friends, Thy name ennobles him who thus commends: From this fond tribute thou canst gain no praise, The praise is his who now that tribute pays. Oh! in the promise of thy early youth, If hope anticipate the words of truth, Some loftier bard shall sing thy glorious name, To build his own upon thy deathless fame.t Friend of my heart, and foremost of the list Of those with whom I lived supremely blest, Oft have we drain'd the font of ancient lore; Though drinking deeply, thirsting still the more. Yet when confinement's lingering hour was done, Our sports, our studies, and our souls were one: Together we impell'd the flying ball; Together waited in our tutor's hall; Together join'd in cricket's manly toil, Or shared the produce of the river's spoil; Or plunging from the green declining shore, Our pliant limbs the buoyant billows bore; In every element, unchanged, the same, All, all that brothers should be but the name.

Nor yet are you forgot, my jocund boy!
DAVUS, the harbinger of childish joy;
For ever foremost in the ranks of fun,
The laughing herald of the harmless pun:
Yet with a breast of such materials made-
Anxious to please, of pleasing half afraid;
Candid and liberal, with a heart of steel
In danger's path, though not untaught to feel.
Still I remember in the factious strife
The rustic's musket aim'd against my life:
High poised in air the massy weapon hung,
A cry of terror burst from every tongue;
Whilst I, in combat with another foe,
Fought on, unconscious of th' impending blow,

⚫ Alonzo. In the private volume, Johannes, †The following four lines of the private volumes were omitted in Hours of 1dleness:

"Could aught inspire me with poetic fire,
For thee alone I'd strike the hallow'd lyre;
But to some abler hand the task I waive,
Whose strains immortal may outlive the grave.
Pliant. Private volume, lusty.

Your arm, brave boy, arrested his career-
Forward you sprung, insensible to fear;
Disarm'd and baffled by your conquering hand,
The grovelling savage roll'd upon the sand:
An act like this can simple thanks repay?,
Or all the labors of a grateful lay?
Oh no! whene'er my breast forgets the deed,
That instant, DAVUS, it deserves to bleed.

LYCUS! on me thy claims are justly great:
Thy milder virtues could my muse relate,
To thee alone, unrivall'd, would belong
The feeble efforts of my lengthen'd song.t
Well canst thou boast to lead in senates fit-
A Spartan firmness with Athenian wit:
Though yet in embryo these perfections shine,
LYCUS! thy father's fame will soon be thine,
Where learning nurtures the superior mind,
What may we hope from genius thus refined!
When time at length matures thy growing years,
How wilt thou tower above thy fellow peers!
Prudence and sense, a spirit bold and free,
With honor's soul, united beam in thee.

Shall fair EURYALUS pass by unsung?
From ancient lineage, not unworthy, sprung:
What though one sad dissension bade us part,
That name is yet embalm'd within my heart;
Yet at the mention does that heart rebound,
And palpitate responsive to the sound.
Envy dissolved our ties, and not our will:
We once were friends,-I'll think we are so still.
A form unmatch'd in nature's partial mould,
A heart untainted, we in thee behold:
Yet not the senate's thunder thou shalt wield,
Nor seek for glory in the tented field;
To minds of ruder texture these be given-
Thy soul shall nearer soar its native heaven.
Haply in polish'd courts might be thy seat,
But that thy tongue could never forge deceit;
The courtier's supple bow and sneering smile,
The flow of compliment, the slippery wile,
Would make that breast with indignation burn,
And all the glittering snares to tempt thee spurn.

• An act like this, &c. In the private volume, the last four lines of this character were as follows:

"Thus did you save that life I scarcely prize-
A life unworthy such a sacrifice:

Oh! when my breast forgets the generous deed,
That instant, Davus, it deserves to bleed."

In the private volume, we find the following lines concluding the charaoter of Lycus; and the remainder of the passage relating to him was origi sally given as descriptive of a friend entitled Clarus, of whom no mention is made in the last published copy of the poem :

"For ever to possess a friend in thee,

Was bliss unhoped, though not unsought by me.

Thy softer soul was form'd for love alone,

To ruder passions and to hate unknown;

Thy mind, in union with thy beauteous form,
Was gentle, but unfit to stem the storm;
That face, an index of celestial worth,
Proclaim'd a heart abstracted from the earth.

Oft, when depress'd with sad foreboding gloom,

I sat reclined upon our favorite tomb,

I've seen those sympathetic eyes o'erflow
With kind compassion for thy comrade's wo;

Or, when less mournful subjects form'd our themes,
We tried a thousand fond romantic schemes,

Oft hast thou sworn, in friendship's soothing tone, Whatever wish was mine must be thine own. "The next can boast to lead in senates fitA Spartan firmness with Athenian wit: Though yet in embryo these perfections shine, Clarus! thy father's fame will soon be thine. When learning, &., &c.

Domestic happiness will stamp thy fate;
Sacred to love, unclouded e'er by hate;
The world admire thee, and thy friends adore;
Ambition's slave alone would toil for more.

Now last, and nearest of the social band,
See honest, open, generous CLEON stand;
With scarce one speck to cloud the pleasing scene
No vice degrades that purest soul serene.
On the same day our studious race begun,
On the same day our studious race was run;
Thus side by side we pass'd our first career,
Thus side by side we strove for many a year;
At last concluded our scholastic life,
We neither conquer'd in the classic strife;
As speakers † each supports an equal name,
And crowds allow to both a partial fame :
To soothe a youthful rival's early pride,
Though Cleon's candor would the palm divide,
Yet candor's self compels me now to own
Justice awards it to my friend alone.‡

Oh! friends regretted, scenes for ever dear, Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear. Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn To trace the hours which never can return;

Yet with the retrospection loves to dwell, And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, As infant laurels round my head were twined; When Probus' praise repaid my lyric song, Or placed me higher in the studious throng, Or when my first harangue received applause, His sage instruction the primeval cause, What gratitude to him my soul possest, While hope of dawning honors fill'd my breast! For all my humble fame, to him alone

"Where is the restless fool would wish for more?"-Private volume. This alludes to the public speeches delivered at the school where the author was educated.

The six concluding lines of this passage were given as follows in the private volume:

"As speakers, each supports a rival name,

Though neither seeks to damn the other's fame.
Pomposus sits, unequal to decide:

With youthful candor, we the palm divide;
Yet candor's self compels me now to own
Justice awards it to my friend alone "

"Yet in retrospection finds relief,

And revels in the luxury of grief."-Private volume.

From this place to the end, the copy of the poem, as printed in the Hours of Idleness, differs entirely from that in the private volume, which contains and concludes thus :--

"When, yet a novice in the mimic art,

I feign'd the transports of a vengeful heart;
When as the Royal Slave I trod the stage,
To vent in Zanga more than mortal rage;
The praise of Probus made me feel more pron
Than all the plaudits of the list'ning crowd.
"Ah! vain endeavor in this childish strain
To soothe the woes of which I thus complain.
What can avail the fruitless loss of time,
To measure sorrow in a jingling rhyme !
No social solace from a friend is near,
And heartless strangers drop no feeling tear.

I seek not joy in woman's sparkling eye:
The smiles of beauty cannot check the sigh.
Adieu! thou world! thy pleasure's still a dream,
Thy virtue but a visionary theme;
The years of vice on years of folly roll,
Till griuning death assigns the distant goal,
Where all are hastening to the dread abode,
To meet the judgment of a righteous God;
Mix'd in the concourse of the thoughtless throng,
A mourner midst of mirth, I glide along!

A wretched, isolated, gloomy thing,

Curst by reflection's deep-corroding sting;

The praise is due, who made that fame my own.
Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays,
These young effusions of my early days,
To him my muse her noblest strain would give:
The song might perish, but the theme must live.
Yet why for him the needless verse essay?
His honor'd name requires no vain display:
By every son of grateful Ida blest,

It finds an echo in each youthful breast;
A fame beyond the glories of the proud,
Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd.

Ida, not yet exhausted is the theme,

Nor closed the progress of my youthful dream.
How many a friend deserves the grateful strain,
What scenes of childhood still unsung remain,
Yet let me hush this echo of the past,
This parting song, the dearest and the last;
And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy,
To me a silent and a sweet employ,
While, future hope and fear alike unknown,
I think with pleasure on the past alone;
Yes, to the past alone my heart confine,
And chase the phantom of what once was mine.

IDA! still o'er thy hills in joy preside,
And proudly steer through time's eventful tide;
Still may thy blooming sons thy name revere,
Smile in thy bower, but quit thee with a tear ;-
That tear perhaps the fondest which will flow
O'er their last scene of happiness below.
Tell me, ye hoary few who glide along,
The feeble veterans of some former throng,

Whose friends, like autumn leaves by tempest whirl'd,

Are swept for ever from this busy world;
Revolve the fleeting moments of your youth,
While Care as yet withheld her venom'd tooth,
Say if remembrance days like these endears
Beyond the rapture of succeeding years?
Say can ambition's fever'd dream bestow
So sweet a balm to soothe your hours of wo?
Can treasures, hoarded for some thankless son,
Can royal smiles, or wreaths by slaughter won,
Can stars or ermine, man's maturer toys,
(For glittering baubles are not left to boys,)
Recall one scene so much beloved to view

As those where Youth her garland twined for you.

But not that mental sting which stabs within,
The dark avenger of unpunish'd sin;
The silent shaft which goads the guilty wretch
Extended on a rack's untiring stretch:
Conscience that sting, that shaft to him supplies-
His mind the rack from which he ne'er can rise.
For me, whate'er my folly or my fear,
One cheerful comfort still is cherish'd here:
No dread internal haunts my hours of rest,
No dreams of injured innocence infest:
Of hope, of peace, of almost all bereft,
Conscience, my last but welcome guest is left.
Slander's impoison'd breath may blast my name;
Envy delights to blight the buds of fame :
Deceit may chill the current of my blood,
And freeze affection's warm impassion'd flood;
Presaging horror darken every sense ;-
Even here will conscience be my best defence.
My bosom feels no worm which ne'er can die :'
Not crimes I mourn, but happiness gone by.
Thus crawling on with many a reptile vile,
My heart is bitter, though my cheek may smile:
No more with former bliss my heart is glad;
Hope yields to anguish, and my soul is sad:
From fond regret no future joy can save;
Remembrance slumbers only in the grave."

Ah, no! amid the gloomy calm of age
You turn with faltering hand life's varied page;
Peruse the record of your days on earth,
Unsullied only where it marks your birth;
Still lingering pause above each checker'd leaf,
And blot with tears the sable lines of grief;
Where Passion o'er the theme her mantle threw;
Or weeping Virtue sigh'd a faint adieu;
But bless the scroll which fairer words adorn,
Traced by the rosy finger of the morn,
When Friendship bow'd before the shrine of truth,
And Love, without his pinion smiled on youth

ANSWER TO A BEAUTIFUL POEM,†

WRITTEN BY MONTGOMERY, AUTHOR OF "THES WANDERER IN SWITZERLAND," &c., &c., ENTITLED "THE COMMON LOT."

MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave: Yet some shall never be forgotSome shall exist beyond the grave.

"Unknown the region of his birth,"

The hero rolls the tide of war; Yet not unknown his martial worth, Which glares a meteor from afar.

His joy or grief, his weal or wo,

Perchance may 'scape the page of fame; Yet nations now unborn will know

The record of his deathless name.

The patriot's and the poet's frame

Must share the common tomb of all; Their glory will not sleep the same;

That will arise, though empires fall.

The lustre of a beauty's eye

Assumes the ghastly stare of death; The fair, the brave, the good must die,

And sink the yawning grave beneath.

Once more the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover's strain;
For Petrarch's Laura still survives:
She died, but ne'er will die again.

The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honor's laurels ne'er decay,
But bloom in fresh unfading spring.

All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old and young, with friends and foes,
Festering alike in shrouds, consume.

• "L'Amitié est l'Amour sans ailes" is a French proverb,

↑ Only printed in the private volume.

No particular hero is here alluded to. The exploits of Bayard, Nem Edward the Black Prince, and, in more modern times, the fame of Muh borough, Frederick the Great, Count Saxe, Charles of Sweden, &, familiar to every historical reader, but the exact place of their birth is known to a very small proportion of their admirers,