Quid mihi nefcio quam, proprio cum Tybride Romam,
Semper in ore geris ? referunt fi vera parentes,
Hanc urbem infano nullus qui marte petivit
Lætatus violasse redit. Nec numina fedem
Deftituunt,
N closing flow'rs when genial gales diffuse
The fragrant tribute of refreshing dews;
When chaunts the milk-maid at her balmy pail,
And weary reapers whistle o'er the vale;
Charm'd by the murmurs of the quiv'ring shade,
O'er Ifis' willow-fringed banks I stray'd:
And calmly musing thro' the twilight way,
In pensive mood I fram'd the Doric lay.
When lo! from op'ning clouds, a golden gleam
Pour'd fudden splendors o'er the shadowy stream;
And from the wave arose its guardian queen,
Known by her sweeping stole of glossy green;
While in the coral crown that bound her brow
Was wove the Delphic laurel's verdant bough.
As the smooth surface of the dimply flood
The filver-flipper'd Isis lightly trod,
From her loofe hair the dropping dew she press'd:
And thus mine ear in accents mild address'd :
No more, my fon, the rural reed employ,
Nor trill the trifling strain of empty joy;
No more thy love-resounding sonnets suit
To note of pastoral pipe or oaten flute.
For hark! high-thron'd on yon majestic walls
To the dear muse afflicted Freedom calls:
When Freedom calls, and Oxford bids thee fing,
Why stays thy hand to strike the founding string?
While thus, in Freedom's and in Phœbus' spite,
The venal fons of slavish Cam unite;
To shake yon tow'rs, when malice rears her crest,
Shall all my fons in filence idly rest?
Still fing, O Cam, your fav'rite Freedom's cause;
Still boaft of Freedom, while you break her laws :
To pow'r your songs of gratulation pay,
To courts address soft flattery's foothing lay.
What tho' your gentle Mason's plaintive verse
Has hung with sweetest wreaths Musæus' hearse?
What tho' your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe,
Soft as my stream, in tuneful numbers flow,
Yet strove his muse, by fame or envy led,
To tear the laurels from a sister's head?
Misguided youth! with rude unclassic rage
To blot the beauties of thy whiter page;
A rage that fullies e'en thy guiltless lays,
And blasts the vernal bloom of half thy bays.
Let Granta boast the patrons of her name,
Each pompous fool of fortune and of fame;
Still of preferment let her shine the queen,
Prolific parent of each bowing dean:
Be her's each prelate of the pamper'd cheek,
Each courtly chaplain sanctify'd and fleek;
Still let the drones of her exhausted hive,
On fat pluralities supinely thrive:
Still let her fenates titled slaves revere,
Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer;
For tinfel'd courts their laurel'd mount despise,
In stars and strings superlatively wife :
No longer charm'd by virtue's golden lyre,
Who fung of old amid th' Aonian choir,
Where Cam, flow winding thro' the breezy reeds,
With kindly wave his groves of laurel feeds.
'Tis ours, my fon, to deal the facred bay,
Where honour calls, and justice points the way;
To wear the well-earn'd wreath which merit brings,
And snatch a gift beyond the reach of kings.
Scorning, and scorn'd by courts, yon muses' bow'r
Still nor enjoys, nor asks the fmile of pow'r.
Tho' wakeful vengeance watch my crystal spring,
Tho' persecution wave her iron wing,
And o'er yon spiry temples as she flies,
"These destin'd feats be mine," exulting cries;
On Isis still each gift of fortune waits,
Still peace and plenty deck my beauteous gates.
See science walks with freshest chaplets crown'd;
With fongs of joy my feftal groves resound;
My muse divine still keeps her wonted state,
The front erect, and high majestic gait :
Green as of old, each oliv'd portal smiles,
And still the graces build my Parian piles :
My Gothic spires in ancient grandeur rife,
And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies.
Ah! should'st thou fall (forbid it, heav'nly pow'rs!)
Dash'd into dust with all thy cloud-capt tow'rs;
Who but would mourn, to British virtue dear,
What patriot could refuse the manly tear!
What British Marius could refrain to weep
O'er mighty Carthage fall'n, a prostrate heap!
E'en late when Radcliffe's delegated train
Aufpicious shone in Isis' happy plain;
When yon proud * dome, fair learning's amplest shrine,
Beneath its Attic roofs receiv'd the Nine;
Mute was the voice of joy and loud applause,
To Radcliffe due, and Isis' honour'd cause;
What free-born crouds adorn'd the festive day,
Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay!
How each brave breast with honest ardors heav'd,
When Sheldon's fane the patriot band receiv'd;
While, as we loudly hail'd the chofen few,
Rome's awful fenate rush'd upon our view!
O may the day in latest annals shine,
That made a Beaufort, and an Harley mine:
Then bade them leave the loftier scene awhile,
The pomp of guiltless state, the patriot toil,
For bleeding Albion's aid the sage design,
To hold short dalliance with the tuneful Nine.
Then music left her golden sphere on high,
And bore each strain of triumph from the sky;
Swell'd the full song, and to my chiefs around
Pour'd the full Pæans of mellifluous found.
My Naiads blithe the floating accents caught,
And lift'ning danc'd beneath their pearly grot:
In gentler eddies play'd my wanton wave,
And all my reeds their softest whispers gave;
Each lay with brighter green adorn'd my bow'rs,
And breath'd a fresher fragrance on my flow'rs.
But lo! at once the swelling concerts cease,
And crouded theatres are hush'd in peace.
See, on yon fage how all attentive stand,
To catch his darting eye, and waving hand.
Hark! he begins, with all a Tully's art
To pour the dictates of a Cato's heart;
Skill'd to pronounce what nobleft thoughts inspire,
He blends the speaker's with the patriot's fire;
Bold to conceive, nor tim'rous to conceal,
What Britons dare to think, he dares to tell.
"Tis his alike the ear and eye to charm,
To win with action, and with sense to warm;
Untaught in flow'ry diction to dispense
The lulling sounds of sweet impertinence;
In frowns or smiles he gains an equal prize,
Nor meanly fears to fall, nor creeps to rife;
Bids happier days to Albion be restor'd,
Bids ancient justice rear her radiant fword;
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