LINES OCCASIONED BY SOME FRIENDS SAYING

"Throw away that worthless shell, it disgraces the collection."

'Worthless," indeed! Long cherish'd shell
They little know what charms are thine;

Thy hist'ry 'tis not their's to tell,

Nor can they half thy worth define.

They do not see thee polish'd bright,
Nor art thou of a species rare ;
No brilliant hue attracts the sight,
Nor spot, nor shape, bespeaks thee fair.

'Tis not thy beauty makes thee dear,

Thy scarceness, nor thy glitt'ring hue-
Worthless" in these thou may'st appear,
Yet still there is why worth's thy due.

External beauties often lie,

Concealing baseness, woe, and sin;
Whilst meaner things offend the eye,
But have a native worth within.

Who ne'er has known a simple flow'r,
A wither'd leaf, that might impart,
When thickest clouds above us low'r,

An instant sunshine to the heart?

Such but to see, has from the soul,
When sorrowing, chas'd all grief away;

And may, when gayest moments roll,
More softly gild the brightest day.

Such thou to me !-Let others say

Thy worth is poor, thy beauty less; Thou call'st my thoughts from griefs away, To scenes of purest happiness.

In mem❜ry oft I seek the spot,

From whence thou cam'st; that long-past hour

Will never, never be forgot,

While thought retains its wonted pow'r.

The shore on which we idly stroll'd,
My fancy's eye does often meet;
The billows that around us roll'd,
Are yet to my remembrance sweet.

That hour-that shore-that wave-for me
Possess a charm that mocks at care,

I see them all when seeing thee,

And think who was beside me there,

Thee, from her hand, 'twas mine to take,
Minutely 'tis remember'd yet;
Thou 'rt dearly valu'd for her sake,
Nor shall I e'er that hour forget.

Oh! let them take what here is bright,
Or rich, or rare, or gay, for me:

I'd rather lose o'er all my right,
Than part, dear little shell, from thee.

C.

ΤΟ

AT THE APPROACH OF DEATH.

So, thou must yield to death's subduing sway;
A ling'ring paleness o'er each feature steals,

Quick and irregular thy pulses play,

And all thy frame a listless languor feels.

The frowns of censure and the smiles of praise,
And all that fortune, and that fate decree,
The same indiff'rence in thy bosom raise,
For all, alas! is vanity to thee.

No med'cine mix'd with Esculapian art
Can raise thy spirits or assuage thy pain,

For life's warm tide scarce issues through thy heart
And slowly creeps meand'ring through each vein.

Dim are those eyes which once with brightness shone,
And faint the throbbings of that aching breast;
Thy falt❜ring voice hath lost its wonted tone,
And all thy sorrows are by sighs exprest.

Alike regardless of thy friends or foes,

You wait the dawning of that awful hour, Which to affliction brings a welcome close, And lifts the soul above misfortune's power.

Then, when exempt from ev'ry earthly tie,
Thy spirit soars to regions far above,

Let smiling angels quit their native sky

And bear thee to the realms of bliss and love.

L.

TO THE FIRST VOLUME OF THE
"HORE SARISBURIENSES."

Adieu, thou little book, adieu !
One humble lay I'll tune to you,
Ere your last pages close;

I'll raise to you a grateful strain,
For often have you sooth'd the pain
That sadness o'er me throws.

Thou wast my solace, aye, in woe,
Oft didst thou teach my thoughts to flow
And set my sorrow free;

For, when the vacant time of grief
Stole on my mind, I found relief
In telling all to thee.

But chief of all, I own thee dear,
For thou hast brought my fancy near
To all my earthly joy;

And taught my pensive soul to stray
To her, who though so far away,

Is all "my thoughts' employ."

Oh! should that page e'er meet her eye,
There may be seen the swelling sigh,
That rises in each thought;

Though "Latham" may not there be sign'd
Those are the strains which warm'd his mind,
In hours with sorrow fraught.

And though upon thy page no more
My pen, as oft' it did before,

;

May trace the plaintive line
Yet may she know I ne'er can change,
And nought from her can e'er estrange
A single thought of mine!

G G

LATHAM.

THE EDITORS' SCRAP-BOOK.

April 2, Noon.-The dedication of our First Volume, has employed the leisure of this morning: would that our language could adequately express the sincerity and respect of our feelings.

8 o'clock, P. M.-Ordinary business, avaunt! Here sit we down to address a few words to our schoolfellows.

April 3.—Very busily engaged in revising and correcting the past numbers. In many papers we have made a strange alteration-we trust, not all in vain. Where we have omitted to do so, we plead guilty, and hope to be forgiven. Of one paper it is necessary to say a few words. A friend in Devonshire will see his hint on Cricket, No.1," was not lost upon us, nor received with ingratitude. The members of the "R.C.C." will pardon our putting initials only-they know all. To our other friends, and more especially to those of the fair sex, we are sorry we can offer no better apology, than that Dashwood will, (if the interrogator be a pretty girl, and in most other cases any other of that gallant community will,) with pleasure, give that explanation, personally, which here we dare not afford.

April 7.-Our friends at Oxford and Bath are gratefully remembered. has our warmest thanks for his acceptable lines. We do not esteem the favor the less, that it is his first, though we would hope, not his last, contribution. Our friend at H-w is thanked. We pity the squeamish sensibility of Cornubianus,' and, while we blush for him, can instance those, at first as utterly strangers to cricket as himself, who, under the fostering care of the Radcliffe Club, have often made the playfield "resound" with applause for skill as well as courage. The only redress we can now afford him, is the insertion of this letter. For the rest he need not fear. April 8.-In daily expectation of receiving papers from

our friends, 'Dashwood,' 'Wentworth,' and