The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound,Awakes the Fellows, slumb'ring o'er their fires,Roused by the 'customed note, each stares around,And sullen from th' unfinished pipe retires.Now from the Common-Hall's restrictions free,The sot's full bottles in quick order move,While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea,And Barbers' daughters soothe with tales of love.Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns,Save where, the broken battlements among,The east wind murmurs through the shattered panes,And hoarser ravens croak their evening song.Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight,Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows,In peaceful pomp, and undisturbed retreat,The labours of our ancestors repose.No longer, sunk in ceaseless, fruitless toil,The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall pore;For them no longer blaze the midnight oil,Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more.For them no more shall booksellers contend,Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim;Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend,While common-sense stands wondering at their fame.Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage,While still they found each meaning but the true;Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page,And give to Virgil words he never knew;Yet ere the partial voice of Critic scornCondemn their memory or their toils deride,Say, have not we had equal cause to mournA waste of words, and learning ill-applied?Can none remember?—yes, I know all can—When readings against different readings jarred,While Bentley led the stem scholastic van,And new editions with the old ones warred.Nor ye, who lightly o'er each work proceed,Unmindful of the graver moral part,Contemn these works, if as you run and read,You find no trophies of th' engraver's art.Can Bartolozzi's all-enrapturing powerTo heavy works the stamp of merit give?Could Grignion's art protract Oblivion's hour,Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live?In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrewed,Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade,Some wondrous legend, filled with death and blood,Some monkish history, perhaps is laid.With store of barbarous Latin at command,Though armed with puns and jingling quibble's might,Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless handOr save their labours from eternal night.Full many an elegy has mourned its fate,Beneath some pasty 'cabined, cribbed, confined';Full many an ode has soared in lofty state,Fixed to a kite, and quivering in the wind.Here too, perhaps, neglected now, may lieThe rude memorial of some ancient song,Whose martial strains, and rugged minstrelsy,Once waked to rapture every listening throng.To trace fair Science through each wildering course,With new ideas to enlarge the mind,With useful lessons drawn from Classic source,At once to polish and instruct mankind,Their times forbade; nor yet alone represtTheir opening fancy; but alike confinedThe senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest,And each low triumph of the vulgar mind;With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, and the tribe,[59]Whom science loathes and scorn disdains to name,To snarl unpaid, or, softened by a bribe,Smear with vile praise, and deem their daubing fame.Their humble science never soared so far,In studious trifles pleased to waste their time,Or wage with common-sense eternal war,In never-ending clink of monkish rhyme.Yet were they not averse to noisy Fame,Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast,But still aspired to raise their sinking name,And fondly hoped that name might ever last.Hence each proud volume to the wondering eye,Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's urn,[60]Where Ships, Wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie,And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.For who with rhymes e'er racked his weary brain,Or spent in search of epithets his days,But from his lengthened labours hoped to gainSome present profit, or some future praise?Though Folly's self inspire each dead-born strain,Still Flattery prompts some blockhead to commend,Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath not toiled in vain,Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath as dull a friend.For thee, whose Muse with many an uncouth rhyme,Doth in these lines neglected worth bewail,If chance (unknowing how to kill the time)Some kindred idler should inquire thy tale;Haply some ancient Fellow may reply—Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day,E'en till the western sun went down the sky,Lounging his lazy, listless hours away.Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat;At noon, at Tom's he caught the daily lie,Or from his window looking o'er the street,Would gaze upon the travellers passing by.At night, encircled with a kindred band,In smoke and ale rolled their dull lives away;True as the College clock's unvarying hand,Each morrow was the echo of to-day.Thus free from cares and children, noise and wife,Passed his smooth moments; till, by Fate's command,A lethargy assailed his harmless life,And checked his course, and shook his loitering sand,Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise,And shed around each soph a deeper gloom,Beneath the centre aisle interred he lies,With these few lines engraved upon his tomb.THE EPITAPH.Of vice or virtue void, here rests a manBy prudence taught each rude excess to shun;Nor love nor pity marred his sober plan,And Dulness claimed him for her favourite son.By no eccentric passion led astray,Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend,Calmly through life he steered his quiet way,Nor made an enemy, nor gained a friend.Seek not his faults—his merits—to explore,But quickly drop this uninstructive tale,His works—his faults—his merits—are no more,Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion's veil.
The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound,Awakes the Fellows, slumb'ring o'er their fires,Roused by the 'customed note, each stares around,And sullen from th' unfinished pipe retires.Now from the Common-Hall's restrictions free,The sot's full bottles in quick order move,While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea,And Barbers' daughters soothe with tales of love.Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns,Save where, the broken battlements among,The east wind murmurs through the shattered panes,And hoarser ravens croak their evening song.Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight,Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows,In peaceful pomp, and undisturbed retreat,The labours of our ancestors repose.No longer, sunk in ceaseless, fruitless toil,The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall pore;For them no longer blaze the midnight oil,Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more.For them no more shall booksellers contend,Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim;Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend,While common-sense stands wondering at their fame.Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage,While still they found each meaning but the true;Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page,And give to Virgil words he never knew;Yet ere the partial voice of Critic scornCondemn their memory or their toils deride,Say, have not we had equal cause to mournA waste of words, and learning ill-applied?Can none remember?—yes, I know all can—When readings against different readings jarred,While Bentley led the stem scholastic van,And new editions with the old ones warred.Nor ye, who lightly o'er each work proceed,Unmindful of the graver moral part,Contemn these works, if as you run and read,You find no trophies of th' engraver's art.Can Bartolozzi's all-enrapturing powerTo heavy works the stamp of merit give?Could Grignion's art protract Oblivion's hour,Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live?In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrewed,Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade,Some wondrous legend, filled with death and blood,Some monkish history, perhaps is laid.With store of barbarous Latin at command,Though armed with puns and jingling quibble's might,Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless handOr save their labours from eternal night.Full many an elegy has mourned its fate,Beneath some pasty 'cabined, cribbed, confined';Full many an ode has soared in lofty state,Fixed to a kite, and quivering in the wind.Here too, perhaps, neglected now, may lieThe rude memorial of some ancient song,Whose martial strains, and rugged minstrelsy,Once waked to rapture every listening throng.To trace fair Science through each wildering course,With new ideas to enlarge the mind,With useful lessons drawn from Classic source,At once to polish and instruct mankind,Their times forbade; nor yet alone represtTheir opening fancy; but alike confinedThe senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest,And each low triumph of the vulgar mind;With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, and the tribe,[59]Whom science loathes and scorn disdains to name,To snarl unpaid, or, softened by a bribe,Smear with vile praise, and deem their daubing fame.Their humble science never soared so far,In studious trifles pleased to waste their time,Or wage with common-sense eternal war,In never-ending clink of monkish rhyme.Yet were they not averse to noisy Fame,Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast,But still aspired to raise their sinking name,And fondly hoped that name might ever last.Hence each proud volume to the wondering eye,Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's urn,[60]Where Ships, Wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie,And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.For who with rhymes e'er racked his weary brain,Or spent in search of epithets his days,But from his lengthened labours hoped to gainSome present profit, or some future praise?Though Folly's self inspire each dead-born strain,Still Flattery prompts some blockhead to commend,Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath not toiled in vain,Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath as dull a friend.For thee, whose Muse with many an uncouth rhyme,Doth in these lines neglected worth bewail,If chance (unknowing how to kill the time)Some kindred idler should inquire thy tale;Haply some ancient Fellow may reply—Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day,E'en till the western sun went down the sky,Lounging his lazy, listless hours away.Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat;At noon, at Tom's he caught the daily lie,Or from his window looking o'er the street,Would gaze upon the travellers passing by.At night, encircled with a kindred band,In smoke and ale rolled their dull lives away;True as the College clock's unvarying hand,Each morrow was the echo of to-day.Thus free from cares and children, noise and wife,Passed his smooth moments; till, by Fate's command,A lethargy assailed his harmless life,And checked his course, and shook his loitering sand,Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise,And shed around each soph a deeper gloom,Beneath the centre aisle interred he lies,With these few lines engraved upon his tomb.THE EPITAPH.Of vice or virtue void, here rests a manBy prudence taught each rude excess to shun;Nor love nor pity marred his sober plan,And Dulness claimed him for her favourite son.By no eccentric passion led astray,Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend,Calmly through life he steered his quiet way,Nor made an enemy, nor gained a friend.Seek not his faults—his merits—to explore,But quickly drop this uninstructive tale,His works—his faults—his merits—are no more,Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion's veil.
The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound,Awakes the Fellows, slumb'ring o'er their fires,Roused by the 'customed note, each stares around,And sullen from th' unfinished pipe retires.
The chapel bell, with hollow mournful sound,
Awakes the Fellows, slumb'ring o'er their fires,
Roused by the 'customed note, each stares around,
And sullen from th' unfinished pipe retires.
Now from the Common-Hall's restrictions free,The sot's full bottles in quick order move,While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea,And Barbers' daughters soothe with tales of love.
Now from the Common-Hall's restrictions free,
The sot's full bottles in quick order move,
While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea,
And Barbers' daughters soothe with tales of love.
Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns,Save where, the broken battlements among,The east wind murmurs through the shattered panes,And hoarser ravens croak their evening song.
Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns,
Save where, the broken battlements among,
The east wind murmurs through the shattered panes,
And hoarser ravens croak their evening song.
Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight,Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows,In peaceful pomp, and undisturbed retreat,The labours of our ancestors repose.
Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned weight,
Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows,
In peaceful pomp, and undisturbed retreat,
The labours of our ancestors repose.
No longer, sunk in ceaseless, fruitless toil,The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall pore;For them no longer blaze the midnight oil,Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more.
No longer, sunk in ceaseless, fruitless toil,
The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall pore;
For them no longer blaze the midnight oil,
Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more.
For them no more shall booksellers contend,Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim;Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend,While common-sense stands wondering at their fame.
For them no more shall booksellers contend,
Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim;
Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend,
While common-sense stands wondering at their fame.
Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage,While still they found each meaning but the true;Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page,And give to Virgil words he never knew;
Oft did the Classics mourn their Critic rage,
While still they found each meaning but the true;
Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page,
And give to Virgil words he never knew;
Yet ere the partial voice of Critic scornCondemn their memory or their toils deride,Say, have not we had equal cause to mournA waste of words, and learning ill-applied?
Yet ere the partial voice of Critic scorn
Condemn their memory or their toils deride,
Say, have not we had equal cause to mourn
A waste of words, and learning ill-applied?
Can none remember?—yes, I know all can—When readings against different readings jarred,While Bentley led the stem scholastic van,And new editions with the old ones warred.
Can none remember?—yes, I know all can—
When readings against different readings jarred,
While Bentley led the stem scholastic van,
And new editions with the old ones warred.
Nor ye, who lightly o'er each work proceed,Unmindful of the graver moral part,Contemn these works, if as you run and read,You find no trophies of th' engraver's art.
Nor ye, who lightly o'er each work proceed,
Unmindful of the graver moral part,
Contemn these works, if as you run and read,
You find no trophies of th' engraver's art.
Can Bartolozzi's all-enrapturing powerTo heavy works the stamp of merit give?Could Grignion's art protract Oblivion's hour,Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live?
Can Bartolozzi's all-enrapturing power
To heavy works the stamp of merit give?
Could Grignion's art protract Oblivion's hour,
Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live?
In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrewed,Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade,Some wondrous legend, filled with death and blood,Some monkish history, perhaps is laid.
In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrewed,
Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade,
Some wondrous legend, filled with death and blood,
Some monkish history, perhaps is laid.
With store of barbarous Latin at command,Though armed with puns and jingling quibble's might,Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless handOr save their labours from eternal night.
With store of barbarous Latin at command,
Though armed with puns and jingling quibble's might,
Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless hand
Or save their labours from eternal night.
Full many an elegy has mourned its fate,Beneath some pasty 'cabined, cribbed, confined';Full many an ode has soared in lofty state,Fixed to a kite, and quivering in the wind.
Full many an elegy has mourned its fate,
Beneath some pasty 'cabined, cribbed, confined';
Full many an ode has soared in lofty state,
Fixed to a kite, and quivering in the wind.
Here too, perhaps, neglected now, may lieThe rude memorial of some ancient song,Whose martial strains, and rugged minstrelsy,Once waked to rapture every listening throng.
Here too, perhaps, neglected now, may lie
The rude memorial of some ancient song,
Whose martial strains, and rugged minstrelsy,
Once waked to rapture every listening throng.
To trace fair Science through each wildering course,With new ideas to enlarge the mind,With useful lessons drawn from Classic source,At once to polish and instruct mankind,
To trace fair Science through each wildering course,
With new ideas to enlarge the mind,
With useful lessons drawn from Classic source,
At once to polish and instruct mankind,
Their times forbade; nor yet alone represtTheir opening fancy; but alike confinedThe senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest,And each low triumph of the vulgar mind;
Their times forbade; nor yet alone represt
Their opening fancy; but alike confined
The senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest,
And each low triumph of the vulgar mind;
With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, and the tribe,[59]Whom science loathes and scorn disdains to name,To snarl unpaid, or, softened by a bribe,Smear with vile praise, and deem their daubing fame.
With Griffiths, Langhorne, Kenrick, and the tribe,[59]
Whom science loathes and scorn disdains to name,
To snarl unpaid, or, softened by a bribe,
Smear with vile praise, and deem their daubing fame.
Their humble science never soared so far,In studious trifles pleased to waste their time,Or wage with common-sense eternal war,In never-ending clink of monkish rhyme.
Their humble science never soared so far,
In studious trifles pleased to waste their time,
Or wage with common-sense eternal war,
In never-ending clink of monkish rhyme.
Yet were they not averse to noisy Fame,Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast,But still aspired to raise their sinking name,And fondly hoped that name might ever last.
Yet were they not averse to noisy Fame,
Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast,
But still aspired to raise their sinking name,
And fondly hoped that name might ever last.
Hence each proud volume to the wondering eye,Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's urn,[60]Where Ships, Wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie,And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.
Hence each proud volume to the wondering eye,
Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's urn,[60]
Where Ships, Wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie,
And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn.
For who with rhymes e'er racked his weary brain,Or spent in search of epithets his days,But from his lengthened labours hoped to gainSome present profit, or some future praise?
For who with rhymes e'er racked his weary brain,
Or spent in search of epithets his days,
But from his lengthened labours hoped to gain
Some present profit, or some future praise?
Though Folly's self inspire each dead-born strain,Still Flattery prompts some blockhead to commend,Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath not toiled in vain,Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath as dull a friend.
Though Folly's self inspire each dead-born strain,
Still Flattery prompts some blockhead to commend,
Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath not toiled in vain,
Perhaps e'en Kenrick hath as dull a friend.
For thee, whose Muse with many an uncouth rhyme,Doth in these lines neglected worth bewail,If chance (unknowing how to kill the time)Some kindred idler should inquire thy tale;
For thee, whose Muse with many an uncouth rhyme,
Doth in these lines neglected worth bewail,
If chance (unknowing how to kill the time)
Some kindred idler should inquire thy tale;
Haply some ancient Fellow may reply—Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day,E'en till the western sun went down the sky,Lounging his lazy, listless hours away.
Haply some ancient Fellow may reply—
Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day,
E'en till the western sun went down the sky,
Lounging his lazy, listless hours away.
Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat;At noon, at Tom's he caught the daily lie,Or from his window looking o'er the street,Would gaze upon the travellers passing by.
Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat;
At noon, at Tom's he caught the daily lie,
Or from his window looking o'er the street,
Would gaze upon the travellers passing by.
At night, encircled with a kindred band,In smoke and ale rolled their dull lives away;True as the College clock's unvarying hand,Each morrow was the echo of to-day.
At night, encircled with a kindred band,
In smoke and ale rolled their dull lives away;
True as the College clock's unvarying hand,
Each morrow was the echo of to-day.
Thus free from cares and children, noise and wife,Passed his smooth moments; till, by Fate's command,A lethargy assailed his harmless life,And checked his course, and shook his loitering sand,
Thus free from cares and children, noise and wife,
Passed his smooth moments; till, by Fate's command,
A lethargy assailed his harmless life,
And checked his course, and shook his loitering sand,
Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise,And shed around each soph a deeper gloom,Beneath the centre aisle interred he lies,With these few lines engraved upon his tomb.
Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise,
And shed around each soph a deeper gloom,
Beneath the centre aisle interred he lies,
With these few lines engraved upon his tomb.
THE EPITAPH.
Of vice or virtue void, here rests a manBy prudence taught each rude excess to shun;Nor love nor pity marred his sober plan,And Dulness claimed him for her favourite son.
Of vice or virtue void, here rests a man
By prudence taught each rude excess to shun;
Nor love nor pity marred his sober plan,
And Dulness claimed him for her favourite son.
By no eccentric passion led astray,Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend,Calmly through life he steered his quiet way,Nor made an enemy, nor gained a friend.
By no eccentric passion led astray,
Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend,
Calmly through life he steered his quiet way,
Nor made an enemy, nor gained a friend.
Seek not his faults—his merits—to explore,But quickly drop this uninstructive tale,His works—his faults—his merits—are no more,Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion's veil.
Seek not his faults—his merits—to explore,
But quickly drop this uninstructive tale,
His works—his faults—his merits—are no more,
Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion's veil.