The Marlburian

To the Editor of the Marlburian. SIR, The following somewhat truculent allocution is a version from Tyrtæus, the lame but spirited schoolmaster of old; the original, very likely, is familiar to many of the accomplished readers of the Marlburian.

No local or temporal reference to ourselves is designed by the translator; unless indeed the toothand-nail conflict of an examination calls for such fierce hortatives. But, happily, by the time you go to press the struggle will be over: teeth unclenched; the 'plumed horrors' on the eager candidate's head brushed and combed; and the 'ported pens' of hostile scribes laid aside, as harmless as that of TYRTEUS MINIMUS.

But who shall count the sorrows, cach and all,-
Pains, deaths, and laughter,-that the coward befal?
Oh last extreme! to run, and feel the spear

Bite as he runs, and take the heart in rear!
Oh shame! a corpse face-foremost on the ground,
Ripped by the lance, and with a backward wound!
Take thou thy stand-the lip clenched in thy teeth;
Thy feet fast rooted to the ground beneath;
Then port the lance, that quivers, not with dread;
While the plumed horrors toss upon thy head:
Nor shun the missile hail, nor trust the shield;
And be thy school of arms the battle-field!