His vent'rous weapon pierc'd the horseman's Aank,
And trembling stood, and there his life blood drank,
Prone fell the knight-to his departed shade
A neighbouring pawn the due atonement made,
And felld the bishop down ; himself too gone
To swell the triumph of a happier pawn.
The battle grows—the elephants prepare
Their ponderous castles to sustain the war ;
Loud twangs the bow-string of the archer train,
And knights rush trampling o'er the chequer'd plain.

Note. The writer wishes to express his great obligations to the translation of Vida's Poem, which has furnished him with the English version of the extracts he has quoted, the merit of which may perhaps in some measure atone for the defects of the rest of the paper. The translation is from the elegant pen of the late lamented Vinerian Professor, in the University of Oxford. One or two trifling alterations have been made, which it is thought hardly necessary to specify.

REPENTANCE.

There is an hour, when in the heart

All scarred with many a fearful sin,
The waters of repentance start,

And pour their healing tide within ;
Then will the weary man of crime

Live o'er again his wasted years,
And wake no thought in manhood's prime

But opes a spring of unavailing tears.

It tells how on his father's knee,

He heard sweet tales of byegone years, Oh! could he then, poor child, foresee

Not e'en this mem'ry free from tears.

Then stings remorse! the past hath flown

Like a dark cloud before the sun, Wrecked on life's shore, he stands alone,

And tracks the course his barque hath run, Oh! that some kindly angel's hand

Could blind to all but childhood's years, And man's dark deeds from out the sand Be washed away by angels' tears !

Φιλανθρωπος, .

ΦIΛOMMEΙΔΗΣ ΑΦΡΟΔΙΤΗ. .

Joy to thee! joy to thee ! beautiful maiden,

Is thy heart free?
Joy to thee! joy to thee! thy smiles are laden

With merry glee.

Take thou a young laughing boy for thy lover,

Loyal and true ;
Think that a light face a warm heart may cover,

Give him his due.

Love that is born amid joyance will ever

Keep his torch bright;
Mirth-nourished shine in the darkness, and never

Fly with the light.

Joy to thee! joy to thee! beautiful maiden,

Is thy heart free?
Joy to thee ! joy to thee! thy smiles are laden

With merry glee,

A COMPLIMENT FROM THE FRENCH,

On offering a Bouquet.
“ Ce n'est point en offrant des fleurs

Que je veux peindre ma tendresse ;
De leur parfum, de leurs couleurs

En peu d'instants le charme cesse !
La rose, nâit en un moment,

En un moment elle est fletrie,
Mais ce que pour vous mon cæur sent
Ne finira qu'avec ma vie !"

TRANSLATED.
It is not in the flowers I wreathe,

My heart would image all it feels,
Their fairy tints, the sweets they breathe,

The passing hour too swiftly steals!
A moment wakes the rose's charms,

A moment bids her beauty pine ;
But while one pulse this bosom warms,

That pulse shall throb as truly thinc.

THE POET'S SONG. The rain had fallen-the poet arose

He went through the town and out of the street, A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,

And waves of shadow went over the wheat.

And he sat him down in a lonely place,

And chanted a melody loud and sweet, Which made the wild swan pause in her cloud,

And the lark drop down at his feet.

The swallow stopt, as he hunted the bee,

The snake slipt under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,

And stared, with his foot on the prey.

And the nightingale said, “ I have sung many songs,

6. But never a one so gay,
" For he sings of what the world will be,
• When the years have died away.”

A. TENNYSON.

CANTUS MARONIS.
Jam satis inber aquæ dederat, quam sede relictâ

Pone fores linquens exiit urbe Maro,
Aura levis Aabat de limine solis eoö,

Raraque per flavos umbra fluebat agros.

Et resupinatus tacitâ convalle poeta,

Clarisono finxit carmine dulce melos,
Quo correptus olor mediis in nubibus liceret,

Adque pedes labens devia alauda cadit.

Segnis omittit apem, venari nescia, hirundo,

Se properat serpens insinuare rubo,
Et prædam, dum pluma recens tremit ore cruento

Totus in obtutu milvius ungue premit.

£t reputat serum philomela, “ Ego plurima certè

“ Carmina, sed nunquam tam bene læta, dedi,
“ Ille etenim cantat, quæ sint speranda, ubi cuncti

“ Ematuruerint exciderintque dies.”

The Editors regret to state, that in consequence of the increasing expense of this publication, and the small assistance received by them from present Etonians, they have resolved for the present to discontinue it. If however, any one at any future time, should think it worth his while to renew it, they will be most happy to give any assistance in

their power.

They must before giving up their office, return their most sincere thanks to all those who have favored them with their assistance,

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