woman, and had persuaded her to take one night's sound sleep.

About five in the morning, I was started from a reverie by the sound of Charles' voice-he told me to light a candle, and to bring him a Greek prosody which I would find in a particular corner of his bookcase-I did so. I found the volume precisely as he told me, and brought it to his bedside.

"Look out," said he, " for the quantity of πανταπᾶσι», (he pronounced the word as I have marked it) and tell me have I pronounced it wrong." I did as he desired me, and told him that his quantity was false, he laughed, and begged of me to do the same with regard to the word ndizu, I did so, and the result was the same.

66

Only two of Meddleum's quantities," answered he thoughtfully.* "Charles dear," said I, " you ought to think of other things now."

"I have not forgotten all my prosody yet," he replied, "it is only three weeks since I was in my examinations, (the interval had been nearly two months!) and I have not been well since, but now that I have got over this little fit of illness, all will be well. I have been," added he, "sometime engaged in preparing a Greek prosody, I will go to the country to-morrow, and finish it; and I will prove that all the prosodians, and all the Greek poets are wrong about these words-they are ravтurări and ndinu," and he laughed immoderately at the notion.

I was shocked to hear him talk thus, as if all the impressions of the night before had been forgotten. I endeavoured to recall his mind to more serious subjects. I asked him if I should not read the Bible.

"I will read a chapter myself," said he, talking unusually loud, "when I get up and dress. The Bible, Edward, is a very fine book—I will not read so

hard for college again-we will all go to the country; and I will study the Bible-I must become really religious: I will marry a religious woman-We will all go to the country: you must come to us in spring. You know spring is de-light-help-me—0— God-"

A gurgling noise choked the words in his throat, and he sank down-some blood frothed upon his lips. I lifted him up. He attempted to speak. I called violently for the nurse-tender. I sat behind him in the bed, and he leaned his head upon my breast-my clothes were stained with the blood from his mouth-I raised his head, which had fallen upon my arm-but all was over--the last convulsive struggle was still quivering on his features— in another few seconds he was gone.

The nurse-tender had been by this time summoned by my cries. She stood over the corpse with the carelessness of one who had often seen the death-beds of the young. I gently disengaged the lump of clay, that had been Charles D'Alton, from my arms; and laid the head upon the pillow. "Poor young gentleman!" said she, with a tone of voice that indicated the pity of habit rather than of feeling," poor young gentleman! he will make a handsome corpse."

I rushed from the room-a thousand bitter emotions rushed upon my mind -I cursed-yes, (God forgive, me,) I cursed myself for having permitted the coldness of a madman to repel me from the duty of a friend. In agony of mind I paced up and down the apartment, which had been the sitting-room of my friend. When grief had partly exhausted itself by its vehemence, I threw up one of the windows, and admitted the fresh air. I sat down, and looked across the courts upon which the windows of the sitting-room opened; the dismal lamps were almost expiring, and some were altogether extinguished, while a few more were flickering in the blast. There was little light except from the stars, which shone with a peculiar lustre upon the frosty blue of

the sky, and what was reflected from the ground, for during the night a shower of snow had completely covered it. I know not how long I sat. The nurse-tender left the room, I supposed, to seek for assistance in laying out the corpse. I felt the chill of the keen blast a relief to my throbbing temples. Just as the first grey of the morning had begun to tinge the heavens, I perceived, through the indistinct and gloomy twilight, two figures making their way towards the building. As they came nearer, I recognised them to be Charles's father and sister. I ran to meet them at the door-his father read the truth in my looks. "He is gone!" he cried. I could not answer. They both rushed past me towards his bed-room-the room in which he was now a corpse. I tried to follow them, but I scarcely could-his sister's voice was the first I heard-never shall I forget the tone in which she screamed, or rather shrieked-" My God! I have no brother!"

*

Reader! I have thought it wiser here to end my chapter. I might, it is true, have added something to its length. I might have described to you the melancholy and unusual spectacle which the hearse presented in the College courts, when it came to take away the body of my friend. I might have even told you of the sad ceremony, when we laid his poor remains to rest among "the clods of the valley ;" and how we heard the clay sound hollow, as it fell from the sexton's shovel upon the boards of his coffin. I might have dwelt upon the groans of a fatherthe heart-broken grief of a mother-or the tears of a sister. But no! I have not written for effect, and therefore I

have written none of these things. I have told my simple and my true tale. Take it without the additions of fiction, or the embellishments of artor take it not at all.

A few words more, Reader! and I will release you from what you have probably found but a melancholy companionship. I introduced myself to you rather unceremoniously. I am a man of plain manners, and of plain speech; and in the liberty which I at first took with you, I presumed upon the intimacy which I felt confident would yet exist between us. All men, now, of all ranks, contrive to forestall their incomes to make a show-A writer's fortune is in the good-will of his readers-and I merely followed general example in forestalling thisI but drew my wages before I earned them. However, I know myself to be an honest man, and I have reason to believe you to be one too. These are times when knaves are so abundant, that honest men should never throw away an opportunity of cultivating each other's acquaintance. So, I hope that notwithstanding any apparent uncouthness in my first address to you-I mean in the introductory chapter, and the commencement of this-we shall yet be good friends. If you are not quite tired of my acquaintance, and if you do not look on me as a most impertinent intruder on your precious time, I shall take some more opportunities of meeting you, of which I hope you will also avail yourself. Perhaps we might meet on the first of next month, if I can have another chapter ready by that time. But of one thing be assured-that short as has been the term of our acquaintance, you have my best wishes for your health, happiness, and prosperity.

LYRIC poetry, as its name imports, was originally not only sung or chanted by the bard, but also accompanied by such instrumental music as the earliest ages could produce; and from this connection flowed its peculiar adaptation for the expression of some present overpowering emotion, or solemn thought. It was probably at first peculiarly devoted to the service of religion, and in process of time to the celebration of heroes and 'godlike men,' to the commemoration of national thanksgivings and victories. Individual feelings, passions, and desiresthe fears and the raptures, the suspense and the triumph of love-social enjoyments or sorrows, in more refined ages became also the subjects of lyric song.

The Odes, in which. the sacred writings abound, it is not here our province to investigate: it will be sufficient to mention that the songs of Miriam, of Deborah and Barak, are the earliest as well as the most sublime specimens of this species of poetry. As we shall have frequent occasion to comment on the peculiar train of imagery and sentiment suited for each of the varieties of odes, we shall proceed at once to consider the works of the Prince of Lyrists,'

PINDAR.

From his birth Pindar appears to have been marked out as a great poet. He was born of parents devoted to music; and the fable of the bees who swarmed around his cradle and left their honey on his infant lips, shadows out the sweet sounds and influences by which his childhood was surrounded. Two of the greatest poetesses were his earliest instructors; and in his riper years, Simonides and the cele

brated musician Lasus. During his whole life glory and prizes were showered upon him, kings courted his society, and nations delighted to do him honour.

The half of all the firstfruit offerings at the altar of Delphi, were presented to him and his de scendants; a lofty statue was erected to his memory in Thebes, his native town; and six centuries after, this testimonial of his countrymen's veneration was viewed with admiration by the geographer Pausanius. The most inveterate enemies of the Theban nation revered his fame: Sparta, when she razed the walls and houses of Thebes, left his dwelling uninjured :"The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground."

His death was worthy of such a life-of such glory at a great national festival, surrounded by music, and song, and splendour, he breathed forth his soul, leaving behind him an imperishable fame as the "greatest of lyric poets."*

No subjects can at first sight appear more unfitted for poetry than those which he has chosen; and certainly none can be more uninteresting to the modern reader; but in the mind of the Greek none were associated with more lofty feelings of exultation and delight. The games of Greece resembled in some respects the tournaments of the middle ages-in one they most materially differed. The line of demarcation drawn in modern times between the noble and the peasant, permitted none, save the high-born, to enter the lists. Not so in Greece; the richest and the poorest, the peasant

and the gorgeous ruler of Syracuse, were alike entitled to contend; and the glorious wreath of victory, equal in dignity to a triumph at Rome, crowned the brow of the most deserving, without any distinction of rank or fortune. The victor's name, "familiar in the mouths of men as household words," was immortalized by the song of the bard and the eloquence of the orator; the walls of his native city were thrown down to receive his triumphal chariot, and amid the admiration or the envy of surrounding multitudes he was conducted home, exalted in the opinion of the Greek, to the highest degree of felicity, man is capable of attaining. The brightest emanations of Grecian genius shed their lustre on these great national festivals. There Pindar and Bacchylides sung. Herodotus and Thucydides recited their immortal histories. During their continuance an universal armistice prevailed; friend and foe, neighbour and kinsman, from Mount Homus to the farthest verge of Peloponnesus assembled on amicable

and peaceful terms. There the hopes of the religious and the zeal of the devout were kindled, the aspirations of youthful talent cherished, and the character of the Greek, ennobled by the severe course of discipline and selfdenial, which the candidate for honour underwent.*

The confined nature of these subjects obliged the bard to have recourse to every artifice, every digression and allusion that could enhance the dignity of his theme. He assumes the tone of a monitor rather than of a panegyrist; he excites the "hero of his song" to noble deeds by denunciations of divine wrath, and allusions to the instability of human pursuits; turning from the victor himself, he celebrates his forefathers; and offers at the shrine of the deity whose rites were venerated by the hero and his family, his tribute of homage and praise. From the turbulence of human passion, the scenes of war and rapine, he transports us to the "islands of the blest," or to the calm and peaceful abode of the Hyperborei.

Pindar is the minstrel and the champion of the religion of Greece; stripping it of the meretricious ornaments, with which the vulgar had arrayed it, he displays it in its native purity, and spiritualizes the grossness of rites, which were fast degenerating into the wildest fanaticism, and the most disgusting licentiousness. "His supreme

Wheelright's Transl. 10 Pyth.

deity," says Bishop Heber, "is as much superior to Homer's Zeus, as the doctrines of Pindar are inferior to the majesty of revelation." He is not a capricious tyrant, but a just and benignant ruler of the universe, directing all things according to his will, exalting the humble, and debasing the proud. The immortality of the soul, and a

Epictetus. c. 55.