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have a great respect for the Salt-bearer, and I have a great respect for you! But, seriously speaking, my bureau has no room for antediluvian Chronicles, and my Publication has no room for political squibs.

There is yet another part of your letter which I must notice. You say, "I will give you, on the other side, a couplet written by the Marquis Wellesley, while at your illustrious Seminary-communicated by Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt." I will insert it, because I suppose it has (to use an expression of a friend of mine) "lots of wit, if one could find it out.”

"Tum Crocus obductam lento conamine glebam

Dimovet, et summam flavus inaurat humum."

I believe the Marquis Wellesley has much better verses than these set down to his account, in a compilation called the "Musæ Etonenses !"

May 14.-Transcribed some more Poetry, by Edward Morton:

There was a voice, a foolish voice,

In my heart's summer echoing through me;

It bade me hope, it bade rejoice,

And still its sounds were precious to me;

But thou hast plighted that deep vow,
And it were sin to love thee now!

I will not love thee! I am taught

To shun the dream on which I doated,
And tear my soul from every thought

On which its dearest vision floated;

And I have prayed to look on thee
As coldly as thou dost on me.

Alas! the love indeed is gone,

But still I feed its melancholy;
And the deep struggle, long and lone,
That stifled all my youthful folly,

Took but away the guilt of sin,

And left me all its pain within.

Adieu! if thou hadst seen the heart,
The silly heart, thou wert beguiling,
'Thou would'st not have inflamed the smart,
With all thy bright unconscious smiling;
Thou would'st not so have fann'd the blaze,
That grew beneath those quiet rays!

Nay! it was well-for smiles like this
Delay'd at least my bosom's fever!
Nay! it was well, since hope and bliss
Were fleeting quickly,—and for ever,
To snatch them as they pass'd away,
And meet the anguish all to-day!

I have to inform Amicus, who inquires after a reprint of our three first Numbers, that we think the 750 we have sold sufficient to answer the purpose for which this work was commenced, and that we do not, at present, contemplate any future Edition.

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May 16.-Received this day a copy of verses on "Sævior armis Luxuria," from our old correspondent, Robigo." This puts me in mind of a sort of promise I made that his Essay should appear in N°. VIII.; and, upon examining my papers, I am very sorry to be obliged to confess that the Article has been mislaidI can find no traces of it. I am, however, the less vexed at this, because I had rather offend Robigo by the omission, than injure him by the insertion, of his Contribution. The truth is, that, in my opinion, neither the Essay nor the Poem come up to the high estimation in which the talents of the Author are so deservedly held. Let him revise such rhymes as these before he is very angry with me for the opinion which I have most sin-, cerely expressed:

"Till Venus rising,
"For sprightly song,

"Io Triumphe!

For ages gone
Loudly shout ye."

Let him re-consider the following stanzas, and reflect

whether they are likely to add to a really high reputa tion. I will begin with his exordium:—

"In days of yore, when fabled lore
And mystic speech obtain❜d,

Th' Heavenly Conclave began to rave,
Nor threats their spleen restrain'd.”

Next here is a bit of the boastings of Mars:—

"Who can deny the Mastery

To me whose arm is strong;

Whose powerful sway, from day to day,
Tolls Death's deep ding, ding, dong?"

I will extract one more stanza, but Robigo must pardon me for altering one word, and taking the sentiment into my own mouth

"Ye penmen all, obey my call,

Obey my sovereign will;

Which knows no law, which feels no awe;
Obedience yield—be still!”

May 18.-Inserted a letter from our old friend Allen Le Blanc. I am so little acquainted with Oxford, its concerns, and its inmates, that I am ignorant whether the personages Allen describes are real or fictitious. If they are real, they are painted in such a manner that they cannot take offence at the colouring. If they are fictitious, I am sure nobody will feel any difficulty in finding an original for them somewhere.---There is life in every touch of his pencil.

May 21.-Many thanks to an ingenious Correspondent for his voluminous translation of Tasso's "Gierusalemme Liberata." I can positively afford room for no more than the following description of Armida from

Canto IV.


Few suns had shone and set, or ere she came
Where the Frank tents were bleaching in the gale
Around the towers of Salem, nor had fame
Been silent, far and wide was spread the tale;

And as when in broad day some meteor flame
Is seen above the astonish'd world to sail,
The camp is roused: all eye to see the Dame,
All ear to know the whence, the why she came.

No mien so noble, and no form so fair,
Could Argos, or e'en Cyprus, boast of yore;
The glowing ringlets of her golden hair
Shone through the elegant white veil she wore,
Hid, but transparent, as the sunbeams are
By fleecy clouds when faintly shrouded o'er;
Or, was her veil thrown back, those ringlets shone
As bright and glorious as a noontide Sun.


The wanton breeze, that 'mid her soft locks play'd,
Added more curls to those which Nature wove;
With downcast look she stood, as if afraid
She might too lavish of her beauties prove;
Her cheeks were of the ivory, inlaid

With roses,

and the blended colours strove

As rivals for the mastery-her mouth

Was roseate, with breath sweet as the sweet South.


Her bosom next disclosed its spotless snows,
From whence the fires of love abroad are shed?

Part only of her breast the tunic shows,

Young, soft, and tender, and o'er part is spread-
Envious; and yet that envy only knows

To stay the eyes, the amorous thought had sped
Beneath the surface, and within is flown,
Far from content with outward charms alone.


E'en as the sun's warm ray will penetrate
Water or crystal, and yet not divide,
Thus the free thoughts an entrance will await,
Although the vest that entrance hath denied;
And sacrilegiously they contemplate

The scenes which fancy pictures far and wide,
And then describe them to the warm desires,
And with new fuel feed the living fires.

May 26.-Received the following, amongst other more valuable contributions, from our old friend W.

Woman and Hope! I love the two,

Though bards and sages flout them;
They're tiresome oft, and oft untrue,
But who could live without them?

May 28.-A friend informs me that the expression of Scaliger, relative to one of the Odes of Horace, was not the King of Persia, as I have erroneously put forth, but "Rex Tarraconensis." Another friend informs me, on Lady Morgan's authority, that the King in question was "the King of Naples."

"Strange that such difference should be,

"Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!"

My dear Critics, what does it signify to you or me, whether Scaliger's Hyperbole lighted upon Rex Persicus, or Rex Tarraconensis, the King of Naples, or the King of Clubs ?


May 29.-Bless me! Here is a Corpus Poetarum rushing in. I shall never get through the serried phalanx. I must make a desperate sally! First have at you Mr. "Remove !"--there; you are an inoffensive and welldisposed gentleman, so I will not hurt you. "Nestor !" I will not hurt you either, old friend !--you are too old. Holloa, good "Vindex," with your "Address to Lord Liverpool," you come with a threatening aspect indeed; there! I have brought him down; I have flung our tenth Resolution at him. What"Senex" here? Oh! you are in a passion because I would not insert your Letter to the Boys." I'll just sharpen a "Private Correspondence," and fling it at you. He runs. "Judex" too--you are enraged because I have not enough serious stuff.---You make home-thrusts indeed! Where is No. IV.? It must be my shield ! Murder! Here is the Editor of the "Apis Matina,"

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