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Page 12
6.
Or as Lear I pour'd for the deep imprecation,
By my daughters of kingdom and reason depriv'd:
Till fir'd by loud plaudits, and self adulation,
I consider'd myself as a _Garrick_ reviv'd.
7.
Ye dreams of my boyhood how much I regret you,
As your memory beams through this agoniz'd breast,
Thus sad and deserted, I ne'er can forget you,
Though this heart throbs to bursting by anguish possest.
8.
I thought this poor brain fever'd even to madness,
Of tears as of reason forever was drain'd,
But the drops which now flow down _this_ bosom of sadness,
Convince me, the springs have some moisture retain'd.
9.
Sweet scenes of my childhood! your blest recollection,
Has wrung from these eye-lids to weeping long dead,
In torrents, the tears of my warmest affection,
The last and the fondest, I ever shall shed.
[Footnote 5: MOSSOP, a cotempory of GARRICK, famous for his
performance of _Zanga_, in YOUNG's tragedy of the _Revenge_.]
* * * * *
THOUGHTS SUGGESTED BY A COLLEGE EXAMINATION.
High in the midst surrounded by his peers,
M--ns--l his ample front sublime uprears;
Plac'd on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs and Freshmen, tremble at his nod.
Whilst all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
_His_ voice in thunder shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach, to luckless fools,
Unskill'd to plod in mathematic rules.
Happy the youth! in Euclid's axioms tried,
Though little vers'd in any art beside;
Who with scarce sense to pen an _English_ letter,
Yet with precision, scans an _attic metre_.
What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil'd the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France;
Though marvelling at the name of _Magna Charta_,
Yet, well he recollects the _laws of Sparta_.
Can tell what edicts sage _Lycurgus_ made,
Whilst _Blackstone's_ on the _shelf neglected_ laid;
Of _Grecian dramas_ vaunts the deathless fame,
Of _Avon's bard_, remembering scarce the name.
Such is the youth, whose scientific pate,
Class honours, medals, fellowships await;
Or even perhaps the _declamation_ prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no _common_ orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope;
Not that our _heads_ much eloquence require,
The ATHENIAN's glowing style, or TULLY's fire.
The _manner_ of the speech is nothing, since
We do not try by _speaking_ to _convince_;
Be other _orators_ of pleasing _proud_,
We speak to _please_ ourselves, not _move_ the crowd.
Our gravity prefers the _muttering_ tone,
A proper mixture of the _squeak and groan_;
No borrow'd _grace_ of _action_, must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the _dean_.
Whilst every staring graduate would prate,
Against what, _he_ could never imitate.
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