And spoke I of my wither'd fire?

I trust again to strike the lyre. homolo
And though my heart is low with sorrow,
I still look forward to the morrow;
I know not why: perhaps in death
I long to spend my parting breath;
Perhaps some innate dread of fate
Has made me love what most I hate-
st I hate
Though 'twere not half so desolate.
Though 'twere not half such pain to die
As mould'ring mid these walls to lie ;
Yet hope, whom still I love too well,
Sometimes dissolves the fatal spell

Which, round my inmost thoughts entwin'd,
Has cas'd in grief my sorrowing mind.

A press of matter, naturally attending the close of my labours, must be my excuse to my worthy Correspondents for my giving only a partial and obscure kind of insertion to Compositions which might, under other circumstances, have obtained, as they may have deserved, a better fate. bmw s

To all who have encouraged and aided me; to all who have looked with a favourable eye, whether active or passive, on my undertaking, to my Correspondents and Supporters in particular, let me here express my hearty and sincere gratitude. If they have not met with the encouragement they deserved, I have to ask their pardon. To old Etonian Contributors, in particular, I would wish to state, that I have been desirous, as much as possible, to confine the Eton Miscellany to those who have been actually at the time inmates of our classic walls.

From the communication by the Author of the Stanzas to Mary,' I extract the following stanzas,

TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUTHFUL FRIEND.

Teach us what few brief hours may roll away,
'Ere we may meet thy Spirit where 'tis fled;
When each survivor of this mournful day
Shall lie beside thee in thy lowly bed.

And ye, the young, the thoughtless, and the great,
Who breath'd for him the momentary sigh,
Hear the stern dictates of unalt'ring fate,

Think how he liv'd, and learn like him to die!

Pale as the shroud which wraps his mould'ring clay,
Cold as the stone above his youthful head,

Too soon that form in indistinct decay

Must mix its dust with the unhallow'd dead.

For now, while seated on that lonely spot

Where we, in early youth, were wont to meet,
The Zephyrs sigh, the dew-drops mourn thy lot,
And fall, like tears of sorrow, at my feet.

From E. H. I can only extract the following stanzas. Jaana Puede yar to 9200 siis quibusida yilewI60 (159JMAT leinsq e ylao govi NEY, AT HIS EXECUTIONŢIN 07 920589 ober Adg'on

*

The ruddy drops that warm'd my heart

bedool sveď od In battle's fiercest cry, begpucoma saad ofw lis oT quierobau Still glow with these from life I part,

And e'en proud death defy.bos &ão `n qzettud

Whose heart is stung, whose hope is blighted.

Then sing of all the joys that flow

From hearts in mutual faith united:

Yet that were mock'ry of my woe,

Whose love is torn, whose hope is blighted.

Then sing not of or joy or pain,

"Twill but recall love's fitful fever

I would not even dream again,
Of that too beautiful deceiver.

But sing a sad and solemn strain,

But yet not all to sorrow given, That tells of what doth yet remain, A higher, purer, love of heaven.

F

Perhaps some learned 'friend can inform the Writer on Anomalies why, though duelling is unlawful, a defendant is allowed in our courts to challenge any Juryman! and on what pretence any poor curate can complain of an insufficient stipend, when he certainly possesses a Surplus!

In the Tenth Number, the Stanzas to the Memory of a Youthful Friend, those signed F.and those To- come under the class of Ada, &c. &c.

METEMPSYCHOSIS AND CONCLUSION.

Ὥρη ἀποβλώσκειν, μὴ πρὶν φάος ἠελίοιο
Δύῃ ὑποφθάμενον.

-APOLLONIUS.

Suspended between hope and fear, divided between confidence and hesitation, once more, and that for the last time, do I come forward to address my friends. I cannot help feeling that there has now been continued, for at least a sufficient period, an exhibition which, even if Mercy can pardon, Justice may yet condemn; an exhibition which, having perhaps been made in thoughtlessness, and certainly received with indulgence, we are now at least called upon to close. With the full and admitted consciousness of many deficiencies, of many errors, of many faults, we yet claim to ourselves the humble commendation of an acknowledgment that, however weak in their nature, however capricious in their exertions, however impotent in their effect, our efforts have, at least, not been such as to betray a disposition on our part to forfeit the pledge which we voluntarily gave, of striving with humble yet constant assiduity to pay our tribute of veneration to that foster-mother whom we then did, and whom we still continue to honour and revere.

The voice of duty sounds in my ears (to indulge, for the last time, in the darling sin of quoting poor Horace),

Tempus abire tibi est ; ne potum largiùs æquo

Rideat, et pulset lasciva decentiùs ætas.”

The aim and nature of the sentiment which these lines are intended

to convey, may perhaps render adducing them a more venial delinquency than those I have before been guilty of, as conveying an assurance of my consciousness, that I am called upon to depart from a station I am unworthy to fill, and to relinquish that literary sceptre which my hand is unable to wield with due efficiency.

But I feel and acknowledge, that the subject which I am now commenting upon, that namely of leaving Eton, and, what is more, Etonians, is one which is to me at least a topic of powerful but melancholy interest: it is one which would lead me, did I not restrain its impulses, into many a lengthened lamentation, which, however truly it might depict my own feelings, could not in fairness be expected to produce any sympathizing effect on those of my readers. I will, therefore, without further delay, betake myself to my task; and endeavour to describe the fate of the Spirits of my coadjutors, while, in this our present and last Number, their bodies are finally committed to the press. Long, long may those spirits continue to animate the frames of those to whom they rightfully belong, to animate them with the combined and united glow of Taste, Genius, Virtue, and Religion; to animate—not the visionary and fragile limbs which boast alone of paper for flesh, of printer's ink for blood; but those substantial and vivacious carcasses, to which they rightfully belong.

None of my friends need be alarmed at my relapsing into the erroneous doctrines of the heathen Philosophers. Mr. Bouverie enacts the part of the Pythagorean for this day only; and indulges in a species of literary Paganism alone. Nor on the present occasion is he less obedient to truth than to convenience; his motive being to restore to their lawful owners certain spirits which he has for some time past abstracted from their bodies, for his own use and benefit; to dissolve the charm which has bound them in their constrained state of existence, and, after a long and faithful service, to grant them the discharge which they require.

As soon, therefore, as the Tenth Number of the Eton Miscellany had been composed and arranged, my coadjutors, supposing that their labours were now at an end, assailed me in my humble habitation. They were not satisfied with a release from their occupations, but demanded rewards in addition. I thought to soothe them with fair words, and hoped, between giving a little and promising a great deal, to get fairly out of their fangs. I told them, however, plainly, that I could not very easily give what I had not got: that one soul could not well be divided