When (like committed linnets) I Stone walls do not a prison make, If I have freedom in my love, I fear that my reader will long ago have thought that it was time to conclude. With the specimens here given I would advise my brother Carthusians to be content. I believe I have acted the part of Jack Horner without his selfishness, and picked out all the plums for their benefit as much as my own, and deserve to be cudized as "a good boy" for my trouble. Much that I have rejected is tasteless, and some would disgust. The very reprehensible license which marks the Caroline epoch is too universal to make us feel much surprise that Lovelace was not wholly free from its contamination. The companion of Goring and Davenant, and Suckling, and Jermyn could hardly be expected, notwithstanding his "innate modesty," to be wholly undefiled in that stream from which even the good Dr. Donne has not altogether escaped with clean hands. Lovelace however does not deserve to be confounded for a moment with the most licentious of his age. As times went, perhaps he is the purest specimen of the thorough-bred Cavalier, which we could point out. We have reason to be thankful that at the present day both religion and loyalty are far better understood than they were then. Such is the history of the man, the author of "the Scholar" and "the Soldier;" and though both these pieces have perished, he has left behind him in his life and writings sufficient to show that there were few who could have more authority on such subjects, and fewer still who united both characters so honourably in their own person. Such too is the poetry of him, the only bard (the authors of the Prize poems will excuse me) that Charterhouse has yet produced; for Addison will claim his laurel for his prose. Whether among her present sons there are any youthful aspirants worthy of that name, and whether the CARTHUSIAN has tended to call forth their powers, I leave to others to determine. If, out of many very promising performances, one may be permitted, by their connection with the present subject, to select the verses which appeared in the last number on the monarch whom Lovelace served, as doing credit both to the taste and feelings of the author, it is not with any disparagement to the merits of the other compositions in a publication in which no one takes a more hearty interest than the writer of this paper. SNOWDON. HAIL, mighty monarch of the frowning brow, Though all things round thee hasten to decay Fling to the tempest their defiance bold, As when they first were cast in their primæval mould. Thy beetling sides are by no forests graced, And I have stood upon thy loftiest peak, O, sweet it is, when day gives place to night, Slow from th' horizon have night's shadows roll'd, First softly blushing, soon like liquid gold, On the dull lakes below that idly sleep, And the loud dashings of the mountain streams, I DIDDLE, DIDDLE, THE CAT AND THE FIDDLE. THOSE of our readers who are acquainted with Mr. Bellenden Ker's curious researches into the origin of our Nursery Rhymes will be little surprised to find in any of them a philosophy beyond what the vulgar dream of. But that learned antiquary seems to have limited his investigations too exclusively to the Saxon sources. Yet, as the erudite editor of the Britannia Romana has shown, the influence of Latin customs and language pervaded the laws and poetry of Britain long after the retirement of the Romans from the island; and no one can doubt that in the following Elegiacs lies the original of the wellknown I diddle, diddle, the cat and the fiddle. Ludicra quæ spectans nugasque Canicula risit, Protinus et Patinæ novus additur ardor eundi, EPIGRAMS FROM THE GREEK. THE following translations, besides their own merit, have an hereditary claim on the lovers of the Greek Anthology; we have much pleasure in inserting them. APOLLONIDAS, II. 118. ὑπγώεις, ὦ ταῖρε, τὸ δὲ σκύφος αὐτὸ βοᾷ σε. μὴ φείσῃ, Διόδωρε λάβρος δ' εἰς βάκχον ὀλισθὼν ἔσσεθ', όθ' οὐ πιόμεσθα, πολὺς χρόνος· ἀλλ ̓ ἄγ ̓ ἐπείγον You are sleeping, my friend, but the bowl is calling- Awake, Diodorus, the time will be long In the realms where no liquor our clay ever wets: Lose no moments, but let our potations be strongOnly look at our bald philosophical pates! κλείδουχοι νεκύων, πάσας 'Αϊδαο κελεύθους Guards of the dead, close all the roads |