At two he would creep to his desolate bed,

But sleep was, alas, denied him;

And he lay like a questionist tossing his head,
With his formula-book beside him.

He thought, 'Oh! how happy a man should I be,

Might I find some kind comforter that'll

Be boiling my egg, or be making my tea,

While I'm far away in the battle.'

He thought how his friends had grown distant and cool;

How his rudeness had forced them to cut him;

But he'll never heed if he look not a fool,

In the bracket where Whewell* shall put him.—

He started aghast;-his musings were flown ;—
The blankets asunder were riven;

For he knew, as his 'larum was running down,

That it wanted a quarter to seven.

• Dr. Whewell was Moderator in the year the author took his B.A. degree.

-His face was beheld on the coach full soon,

As long as an old maid's story;

For his toils being crowned with the wooden spoon, He was trundling off home in his glory.

1827.

TO A HONEYSUCKLE,

GATHERED AT HACKFALL, AND PLANTED AT

WEST BILNEY, IN NORFOLK, SEPT. 16TH, 1828.

DEAR little plant! thine artless sympathy
Might almost win a tear, but that mine eye
Hath felt the vanity of weeping. Yet

Thy leaves with bright and dewy tears are wet,
As though e'en now thou hadst not quite forgot
The wild lone beauty of thy natal spot,
And would'st not choose but pine in memory still
For thy fresh stream, grey rock, and woody hill.
Winter hath breathed on them his ruthless power-
Hath stripped the forest and hath spoiled the bower;

But thy frail form, amid the dreary scene,

Still rears its summer coronal of green,

And heedless of his power to lay thee low, Smiles on his rugged face, and bids him blow.

West Bilney Lodge,

Dec. 1828.

PLEASURES OF THE VISIBLE WORLD.

"Beautiful!

How beautiful is all this visible world,

How glorious in its action and itself!"

BYRON.

Do you love to walk at the blush of dawn,

Where the grim rock frowns o'er the joyous sea?

Do you love to ride o'er the dewy lawn,

Where the deer springs by in its reckless glee?

Or to view the hill ere its veil be drawn,

Enrobed in its cloudy drapery?

Do you love the fir-groves' sombre shade,
When noon her fiercest radiance flings;
And to drink the pleasant murmur made

By the young Zephyrs' purple wings?