FOOTNOTES:

FOOTNOTES:[2]JESSE.[3]SOLOMON.[4]JOSAPHAT.[5]ELISHA.[6]JOATHAM.[7]HEZEKIAH.[8]SENNACHERIB.[9]ZOROBABEL.

[2]JESSE.

[3]SOLOMON.

[4]JOSAPHAT.

[5]ELISHA.

[6]JOATHAM.

[7]HEZEKIAH.

[8]SENNACHERIB.

[9]ZOROBABEL.

BY MR. MALLET.

Fair morn ascends: fresh zephyr's breathBlows liberal o'er yon bloomy heath;Where, sown profusely, herb and flower,Of balmy smell, of healing power,Their souls in fragrant dews exhale,And breathe fresh life in ev'ry gale.Here, spreads a green expanse of plains,Where, sweetly-pensive, Silence reigns:And there, at utmost stretch of eye,A mountain fades into the sky;While winding round, diffus'd and deep,A river rolls with sounding sweep.Of human art no traces near,I seem alone with nature here!Here are thy walks, O sacred HEALTH!The Monarch's bliss, the Beggar's wealth;The seasoning of all good below,The sovereign friend in joy or woe.O Thou, most courted, most despis'd:And but in absence duly priz'd!Power of the soft and rosy face!The vivid Pulse, the vermil grace,The spirits when they gayest shine,Youth, beauty, pleasure, all are thine!O sun of life! whole heavenly rayLights up, and chears our various day,The turbulence of hopes and fears,The storm of fate, the cloud of years,Till nature with thy parting light,Reposes late in Death's calm night:Fled from the trophy'd roofs of state,Abodes of splendid pain and hate;Fled from the couch, where, in sweet sleep,Hot Riot would his anguish steep,But tosses through the midnight shade,Of death, of life, alike afraid;For ever fled to shady cell,Where Temperance, where the Muses dwell;Thou oft art seen, at early dawn,Slow-pacing o'er the breezy lawn:Or on the brow of mountain high,In silence feasting ear and eye,With song and prospect, which aboundFrom birds, and woods, and waters round.But when the sun, with noon-tide ray,Flames forth intolerable day;While Heat sits fervent on the plain,With Thirst and Languor in his train;(All nature sickening in the blaze)Thou, in the wild and woody maze,That clouds the vale with umbrage deep,Impendent from the neighbouring sleep,Wilt find betimes a calm retreat,Where breathing Coolness has her seat.There plung'd amid the shadows brown,Imagination lays him down;Attentive in his airy mood,To every murmur of the wood:The bee in yonder flow'ry nook;The chidings of the headlong brook;The green leaf quivering in the gale;The warbling hill, the lowing vale;The distant woodman's echoing stroke;The thunder of the falling oak.From thought to thought in vision led,He holds high converse with the Dead;Sages or Poets. See, they rise!And shadowy skim before his eyes.Hark! Orpheus strikes the lyre again,That softened savages to men:Lo! Socrates, the Sent of Heaven,To whom its moral will was given.Fathers and friends of human kind!They form'd the nations, or refin'd,With all that mends the head and heart,Enlightening truth, adorning art.Thus musing in the solemn shade;At once the sounding breeze was laid:And Nature, by the unknown law,Shook deep with reverential awe.Dumb silence grew upon the hour;A browner night involv'd the bower:When issuing from the inmost wood,Appear'd fair Freedom'sgeniusgood.O Freedom! sovereign boon of Heav'n;Great Charter, with our being given;For which the patriot, and the sage,Have plan'd, have bled thro' ev'ry age!High privilege of human race,Beyond a mortal monarch's grace:Who could not give, who cannot claim,What but from God immediate came!

THE

A N D

ROBIN RED-BREAST.

A FABLE.[10]

BY MR. ARCHIBALD SCOTT.

The Prince of all the feather'd kind,That with spread wings out-flies the wind,And tow'rs far out of human sightTo view the shining orb of light:This Royal Bird, tho' brave and great,And armed strong for stern debate,No tyrant is, but condescendsOft-times to treat inferior friends.One day at his command did flockTo his high palace on a rock,The courtiers of ilk various sizeThat swiftly swim in chrystal skies;Thither the valiant Tarsels doup,And here rapacious Corbies croup,With greedy Gleads, and sly Gormahs,And dinsom Pyes, and chattering Dawes;Proud Peacocks, and a hundred mae,Brush'd up their pens that solemn day,Bow'd first submissive to my Lord,Then took their places at his board.Meantime while feasting on a fawn,And drinking blood from Lamies drawn,A tuneful ROBIN trig and young,Hard-by upon a burr-tree sung.He sang the EAGLE's royal line,His piercing eye, and right divineTo sway out-owre the feather'd thrang,Who dread his martial bill and fang:His flight sublime, and eild renew'd,His mind with clemency endow'd;In softer notes he sang his love,More high, his bearing bolts for Jove.The Monarch Bird with blitheness heardThe chaunting little silvan Bard,Call'd up a Buzzard, who was thenHis favourite, and chamberlain.Swith to my treasury, quoth he,And to yon canty ROBIN gieAs muckle of our current gearAs may maintain him thro' the year;We can well spar't, and it's his due;He bade, and forth the Judas flew,Straight to the branch where ROBIN sung,And with a wicked lying tongue,Said ah! ye sing so dull and rough,Ye've deaf'd our lugs more than enough,His Majesty has a nice ear,And no more of your stuff can bear;Poke up your pipes, be no more seenAt court, I warn you as a frien.He spake, while ROBIN's swelling breast,And drooping wings his grief exprest;The tears ran hopping down his cheek,Great grew his heart, he could not speak,No for the tinsel of reward,But that his notes met no regard:Strait to the shaw he spread his wing,Resolv'd again no more to sing,Where princely bounty is supprestBy such with whom They are opprest;Who cannot bear (because they want it)That ought should be to merit granted.

One day at his command did flockTo his high palace on a rock,The courtiers of ilk various sizeThat swiftly swim in chrystal skies;Thither the valiant Tarsels doup,And here rapacious Corbies croup,With greedy Gleads, and sly Gormahs,And dinsom Pyes, and chattering Dawes;Proud Peacocks, and a hundred mae,Brush'd up their pens that solemn day,Bow'd first submissive to my Lord,Then took their places at his board.Meantime while feasting on a fawn,And drinking blood from Lamies drawn,A tuneful ROBIN trig and young,Hard-by upon a burr-tree sung.He sang the EAGLE's royal line,His piercing eye, and right divineTo sway out-owre the feather'd thrang,Who dread his martial bill and fang:His flight sublime, and eild renew'd,His mind with clemency endow'd;In softer notes he sang his love,More high, his bearing bolts for Jove.The Monarch Bird with blitheness heardThe chaunting little silvan Bard,Call'd up a Buzzard, who was thenHis favourite, and chamberlain.Swith to my treasury, quoth he,And to yon canty ROBIN gieAs muckle of our current gearAs may maintain him thro' the year;We can well spar't, and it's his due;He bade, and forth the Judas flew,Straight to the branch where ROBIN sung,And with a wicked lying tongue,Said ah! ye sing so dull and rough,Ye've deaf'd our lugs more than enough,His Majesty has a nice ear,And no more of your stuff can bear;Poke up your pipes, be no more seenAt court, I warn you as a frien.He spake, while ROBIN's swelling breast,And drooping wings his grief exprest;The tears ran hopping down his cheek,Great grew his heart, he could not speak,No for the tinsel of reward,But that his notes met no regard:Strait to the shaw he spread his wing,Resolv'd again no more to sing,Where princely bounty is supprestBy such with whom They are opprest;Who cannot bear (because they want it)That ought should be to merit granted.

FOOTNOTES:[10]Written before the year 1600.

[10]Written before the year 1600.

FANCY.

BY THE REV. MR. JOSEPH WARTON.

O Parent of each lovely muse,Thy spirit o'er my soul diffuse!O'er all my artless songs preside,My footsteps to thy temple guide!To offer at thy turf-built shrine,In golden cups no costly wine;No murder'd fatling of the flock,But flowers and honey from the rock.O nymph with loosely-flowing hair,With buskin'd leg, and bosom bare;Thy waist with myrtle-girdle bound,Thy brows with Indian feathers crown'd,Waving in thy snowy handAn all-commanding magic wand;Of pow'r to bid fresh gardens blow'Mid chearless Lapland's barren snow;Whose rapid wings thy flight convey,Thro' air, and over earth and sea:While the vast various landscape liesConspicuous to thy piercing eyes;O lover of the desart, hail!Say, in what deep and pathless vale:Or on what hoary mountain's side,'Midst falls of water you reside:'Midst broken rocks, a rugged scene,With green and grassy dales between:'Midst forest dark of aged oak,Ne'er echoing with the woodman's stroke;Where never human art appear'd,Nor ev'n one straw-rooft cott was rear'd;Where Nature seems to sit alone,Majestic on a craggy throne.Tell me the path, sweet wand'rer, tell,To thy unknown sequester'd cell,Where woodbines cluster round the door,Where shells and moss o'erlay the floor;And on whose top an hawthorn blows,Amid whose thickly-woven boughsSome nightingale still builds her nest,Each ev'ning warbling thee to rest.Then lay me by the haunted stream,Wrapt in some wild, poetic dream;In converse while methinks I roveWith Spencer thro' a fairy grove;Till suddenly awak'd, I hearStrange whisper'd music in my ear;And my glad soul in bliss is drown'd,By the sweetly-soothing sound!Me, Goddess, by the right-hand lead,Sometimes thro' the yellow mead;Where Joy, and white-rob'd Peace resort,And Venus keeps her festive court,Where Mirth and Youth each evening meet,And lightly trip with nimble feet,Nodding their lilly-crowned heads,Where Laughter rose-lip'd Hebe leads:Where Echo walks steep hills among,List'ning to the shepherd's song.Yet not these flow'ry fields of joy,Can long my pensive mind employ;Haste, FANCY, from the scenes of folly,To meet the matron Melancholy!Goddess of the tearful eye,That loves to fold her arms and sigh;Let us with silent footsteps goTo charnels, and the house of woe;To gothic churches, vaults and tombs,Where each sad night some virgin comes,With throbbing breast and faded cheek,Her promis'd bridegroom's urn to seek.Or to some Abby's mould'ring tow'rs,Where, to avoid cold wintry show'rs,The naked beggar shivering lies,While whistling tempests round her rise,And trembles, lest the tottering wallShould on her sleeping infants fall.Now let us louder strike the lyre,For my heart glows with martial fire;I feel, I feel, with sudden heat,My big tumultuous bosom beat;The trumpet's clangors pierce my ear,A thousand widows' shrieks I hear:Give me another horse I cry,Lo! the base Gallic squadrons fly;Whence is this rage?——what spirit, say,To battle hurries me away?'Tis FANCY, in her fiery car,Transports me to the thickest war;There whirls me o'er the hills of slain,Where tumult and destruction reign;Where mad with pain, the wounded steed,Tramples the dying and the dead;Where giant Terror stalks around,With sullen joy surveys the ground,And pointing to th' ensanguin'd field,Shakes his dreadful Gorgon-shield.O guide me from this horrid sceneTo high-archt walks, and alleys green,Which lovely Laura seeks, to shunThe fervors of the mid-day sun.The pangs of absence, O remove,For thou can'st place me near my love.Can'st fold in visionary bliss,And let me think I steal a kiss;While her ruby lips dispenseLuscious nectar's quintessence.When young-eyed spring profusely throwsFrom her green lap the pink and rose;When the soft turtle of the daleTo Summer tells her tender tale,When Autumn cooling caverns seeks,And stains with wine his jolly cheeks,When Winter, like poor pilgrim old,Shakes his silver beard with cold;At every season, let my earThy solemn whispers, FANCY, hear.O warm enthusiastic maid,Without thy powerful, vital aid,That breathes an energy divine,That gives a soul to every line,Ne'er may I strive with lips profane,To utter an unhallow'd strain;Nor dare to touch the sacred string,Save, when with smiles thou bid'st me sing.O hear our prayer, O hither comeFrom thy lamented Shakespear's tomb,On which thou lov'st to sit at eve,Musing o'er thy darling's grave.O queen of numbers, once againAnimate some chosen swain,Who fill'd with unexhausted fire,May boldly smite the sounding lyre,Who with some new, unequall'd song,May rise above the rhyming throng.O'er all our list'ning passions reign,O'erwhelm our souls with joy and pain:With terror shake, and pity move,Rouze with revenge, or melt with love.O deign t' attend his evening walk,With him in groves and grottos talk;Teach him to scorn, with frigid art,Feebly to touch th' enraptur'd heart;Like light'ning, let his mighty verseThe bosom's inmost foldings pierce;With native beauties win applause,Beyond cold critic's studied laws:O let each Muse's fame encrease,O bid Britannia rival Greece!

EVENING.

BY THE SAME.

Hail meek-ey'd Maiden, clad in sober grey,Whose soft approach the weary wood-man loves;As homeward bent to kiss his prattling babes,Jocund he whistles through the twilight groves.

II.

When Phæbus sinks behind the gilded hills;You lightly o'er the misty meadows walk;The drooping daisies bathe in dulcet dews,And nurse the nodding violet's tender stalk.

III.

The panting Dryads, that in day's fierce heatTo inmost bow'rs, and cooling caverns ran;Return to trip in wanton ev'ning dance,Old Sylvan too returns, and laughing Pan.

IV.

To the deep wood the clamorous rooks repair,Light skims the swallow o'er the watry scene;And from the sheep-cote, and fresh furrow'd-field,Stout ploughmen meet to wrestle on the green.

The swain, that artless sings on yonder rock,His supping sheep, and lengthening shadow spies;Pleas'd with the cool the calm refreshful hour,And with hoarse humming of unnumber'd flies.

VI.

Now ev'ry Passion sleeps: desponding Love,And pining Envy, ever-restless Pride;An holy Calm creeps o'er my peaceful soul,Anger and mad Ambition's storms subside.

VII.

O modest EVENING! oft let me appearA wandering votary in thy pensive train;Listening to every wildly-warbling note,That fills with farewel sweet thy darkening plain.

EVENING.

BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.

If ought of oaten stop, or pastoral song,May hope, chaste Eve, to sooth thy modest ear;Like thy own solemn springs,Thy springs, and dying gales,O Nymph reserv'd, while now the bright-hair'd sunSits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,With brede ethereal wove,O'erhang his wavy bed:Now air is hush'd, save where the weak-ey'd bat,With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,Or where the beetle windsHis small but sullen horn,As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum;Now teach me, Maid compos'd,To breathe some soften'd strain,Whose numbers stealing thro' thy darkening vale,May not unseemly with it's stillness suit,As musing slow, I hailThy genial lov'd return!For when thy folding star arising shewsHis paly circlet, at his warning lampThe fragrant Hours, and ElvesWho slept in flowers the day,And many a Nymph who wreaths her brows with sedge,And sheds the fresh'ning dew, and lovelier still,The Pensive Pleasure's sweetPrepare thy shadowy car.Then lead, calm Votress, where some sheety lakeCheers the lone heath, or some time-hallow'd pile,Or up-land fallows greyReflect its last cool gleam.But when chill blustering winds, or driving rain,Forbid my willing feet; be mine the hut,That from the mountain's side,Views wilds, and swelling floods,And hamlets brown, and dim-discover'd spires,And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er allThy dewy fingers drawThe gradual dusky veil.While spring shall pour his show'rs, as oft he wont,And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!While Summer loves to sport,Beneath thy ling'ring light:While sallow Autumn fills thy lap with leaves;Or Winter yelling through the troublous air,Affrights thy shrinking train,And rudely rends thy robes;So long, sure-found beneath thy sylvan shed,Shall Fancy, Friendship, Science, rose-lip'd Health,Thy gentlest influence own,And hymn thy fav'rite name!

ELEGY.

WRITTEN BY MR. MASON OF CAMBRIDGE, 1748.

Far from her hallow'd grot, where mildly bright,The pointed crystals shot their trembling light,From dripping moss where sparkling dew-drops fell,Where coral glow'd, where twin'd the wreathed shell,Pale ISIS lay; a willow's lowly shadeSpread its thin foliage o'er the sleeping maid;Clos'd was her eye, and from her heaving breastIn careless folds loose flow'd her zoneless vest;While down her neck her vagrant tresses flow,In all the awful negligence of woe;Her urn sustain'd her arm, that sculptur'd vaseWhere Vulcan's art had lavish'd all its grace;Here, full with life, was heav'n-taught Science seen,Known by the laurel wreath, and musing mien:There cloud-crown'd Fame, here Peace sedate and bland,Swell'd the loud trump, and wav'd the olive wand;While solemn domes, arch'd shades, and vistas green,At well-mark'd distance close the sacred scene.On this the Goddess cast an anxious look,Then dropt a tender tear, and thus she spoke:Yes, I could once with pleas'd attention traceThe mimic charms of this prophetic vase;Then lift my head, and with enraptur'd eyesView on yon plain the real glories rise.Yes, ISIS! oft hast thou rejoic'd to leadThy liquid treasures o'er yon fav'rite mead;Oft hast thou stopt thy pearly car to gaze,While ev'ry Science nurs'd it's growing bays;While ev'ry Youth with fame's strong impulse fir'd,Prest to the goal, and at the goal untir'd,Snatch'd each celestial wreath, to bind his brow,The Muses, Graces, Virtues could bestow.E'en now fond Fancy leads th' ideal train,And ranks her troops on Mem'ry's ample plain;See! the firm leaders of my patriot line,See!sidney,raleigh,hamden,somersshine.Seehoughsuperior to a tyrant's doomSmile at the menace of the slave of Rome,Each soul whom truth could fire, or virtue move,Each breast, strong panting with it's country's love,All that to Albion gave the heart or head,That wisely counsel'd, or that bravely bled,All, all appear; on me they grateful smile,The well-earn'd prize of every virtuous toilTo me with filial reverence they bring,And hang fresh trophies o'er my honour'd spring.Ah! I remember well yon beachen spray,Thereaddisonfirst tun'd his polish'd lay;'Twas there greatcato'sform first met his eye,In all the pomp of free-born majesty;"My son, he cry'd, observe this mein with awe,"In solemn lines the strong resemblance draw;"The piercing notes shall strike each British ear;"Each British eye shall drop the patriot tear!"And rous'd to Glory by the nervous strain,"Each Youth shall spurn at slav'ry's abject reign,"Shall guard withcato'szeal Britannia's laws,"And speak, and act, and bleed in freedom's cause."The Hero spoke; the bard assenting bow'dThe lay to liberty andcatoflow'd;While Echo, as she rov'd the vale along,Join'd the strong cadence of his Roman song.But ah! how Stillness slept upon the ground,How mute Attention check'd each rising sound;Scarce stole a breeze to wave the leafy spray,Scarce trill'd sweet Philomel her softest lay,Whenlockewalk'd musing forth; e'en now I viewMajestic Wisdom thron'd upon his brow,View Candor smile upon his modest cheek,And from his eye all Judgment's radiance break.'Twas here the sage his manly zeal exprest,Here stript vain falshood of her gaudy vest;Here Truth's collected beams first fill'd his mind,E'er long to burst in blessings on mankind;E'er long to shew to reason's purged eye,That "Nature's first best gift was liberty."Proud of this wond'rous son, sublime I stood,(While louder surges swell'd my rapid flood)Then vain as Niobe, exulting cry'd,Ilissus! roll thy fam'd Athenian tide;Tho' Plato's steps oft mark'd thy neighb'ring glade,Tho' fair Lycæum lent it's awful shade,Tho' ev'ry Academic green imprestIt's image full on thy reflecting breast,Yet my pure stream shall boast as proud a name,And Britain's ISIS flow with Attic fame.Alas! how chang'd! where now that Attic boast?See! Gothic Licence rage o'er all my coast;See! Hydra Faction spread it's impious reign,Poison each breast, and madden ev'ry brain:Hence frontless crouds, that not content to frightThe blushing Cynthia from her throne of night,Blast the fair face of day; and madly bold,To Freedom's foes infernal orgies hold;To Freedom's foes, ah! see the goblet crown'd,Hear plausive shouts to Freedom's foes resound;The horrid notes my refluent waters daunt,The Echoes groan, the Dryads quit their haunt;Learning, that once to all diffus'd her beam,Now sheds, by stealth, a partial private gleam,In some lone cloister's melancholy shade,Where a firm few support her sickly head,Despis'd, insulted by the barb'rous train,Who scour like Thracia's moon-struck rout the plain,Sworn foes like them to all the Muse approves,All Phæbus favours, or Minerva loves.Are these the sons my fost'ring breast must rear,Grac'd with my name, and nurtur'd by my care?Must these go forth from my maternal handTo deal their insults thro' a peaceful land,And boast while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue groans,That "ISIS taught Rebellion to her Sons?"Forbid it heaven! and let my rising wavesIndignant swell, and whelm the recreant slaves!In England's cause their patriot floods employ,As Xanthus delug'd in the cause of Troy.Is this deny'd? then point some secret wayWhere far far hence these guiltless streams may stray;Some unknown channel lend, where Nature spreadsInglorious vales, and unfrequented meads,There, where a hind scarce tunes his rustic strain,Where scarce a pilgrim treads the pathless plain,Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tideSaw yon majestic structures crown it's side;Forget, that e'er my rapt attention hungOr on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue;Calm and resign'd my humbler lot embrace,And pleas'd, prefer oblivion to disgrace.

THE

ISIS.

OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING POEM.

BY MR. THOMAS WARTON, OF OXFORD.

Quid mihi nescio quam, proprio cum Tybride Romam,Semper in ore geris? referunt si vera parentes,Hanc urbem insano nullus qui marte petivitLætatus violasse redit. Nec numina sedemDestituunt.——Claudian.

On closing flow'rs when genial gales diffuseThe 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 ISIS' 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 gleamPour'd sudden splendors o'er the shadowy stream;And from the wave arose it's 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 silver-slipper'd ISIS lightly trod,From her loose hair the dropping dew she press'd,And thus mine ear in accents mild address'd.No more, my son, the rural reed employ,Nor trill the trifling strain of empty joy;No more thy love-resounding sonnets suitTo notes 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, andoxfordbids thee sing,Why stays thy hand to strike the sounding string?While thus, in Freedom's and in Phœbus' spite,The venal sons of slavishcam, unite;To shake yon tow'rs, when Malice rears her crest,Shall all my sons in silence idly rest?Still sing, Ocam, your fav'rite Freedom's cause;Still boast of Freedom, while you break her laws:To pow'r your songs of Gratulation pay,To courts address soft flattery's soothing lay.What tho' your gentlemason'splaintive verseHas hung with sweetest wreathsmusæus'hearse;What tho' your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe,Soft as my stream, in tuneful numbers flow?Yet strove his Muse, by same or envy led,To tear the laurels from a sister's head?——Misguided youth! with rude unclassic rageTo blot the beauties of thy whiter page;A rage that sullies e'en thy guiltless lays,And blasts the vernal bloom of half thy bays.Letgrantaboast 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 sleek;Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive,On fat pluralities supinely thrive:Still let her senates titled slaves revere,Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer;For tinsel'd courts their laurel'd mount despise,In stars and strings superlatively wise:No longer charm'd by virtue's golden lyre,Who sung of old amid th'Aonian choir,Wherecam, slow winding thro' the breezy reeds,With kindly wave his groves of laurel seeds.'Tis ours, my son, to deal the sacred 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'rStill nor enjoys, nor asks the smile of pow'r.Tho' wakeful Vengeance watch my chrystal 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 songs of joy my festal 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 rise,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 Britishmariuscould refrain to weepO'er mightycarthagefall'n, a prostrate heap!E'en late whenradcliffe'sdelegated trainAuspicious shone in ISIS' happy plain;When yon proud[11]dome, fair Learning's amplest shrine,Beneath its Attic roofs receiv'd the Nine;Mute was the voice of joy and loud applause,Toradcliffedue, 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,Whensheldon'sfane the patriot band receiv'd;While, as we loudly hail'd the chosen few,Rome's awful senate rush'd upon our view!O may the day in latest annals shine,That made abeaufort, and anharleymine: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 sound.My Naiads blythe the floating accents caught,And list'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 sage how all attentive stand,To catch his darting eye, and waving hand.Hark! he begins, with all atully'sartTo pour the dictates of acato'sheart.Skill'd to pronounce what noblest 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 dispenseThe lulling sounds of sweet impertinence;In frowns or smiles he gains an equal prize,Nor meanly fears to fall, nor creeps to rise;Bids happier days toalbionbe restor'd,Bids ancient Justice rear her radiant sword;From me, as from my country, wins applause,And makes anoxford'sabritannia'scause.While arms like these my steadfast sages wield,While mine is Truth's impenetrable shield;Say, shall thepuny championfondly dareTo wage with force like this, scholastic war?Still vainly scribble on with pert pretence,With all the rage of pedant impotence?Say, shall I foster this domestic pest,This parricide that wounds a mother's breast?Thus in the stately ship that long has boreBritain's victorious cross from shore to shore,By chance, beneath her close sequester'd cells,Some low-born worm, a lurking mischief dwells;Eats his blind way, and saps with secret toilThe deep foundations of the watry pile.In vain the forest lent its stateliest pride,Rear'd her tall mast, and fram'd her knotty side;In vain the thunder's martial rage she stood,With each fierce conflict of the stormy flood;More sure the reptile's little arts devour,Than waves, or wars, or Eurus' wintry pow'r,Ye venerable bow'rs, ye seats sublime,Clad in the mossy vest of fleeting time;Ye stately piles of old munificence,At once the pride of Learning and defence,Where ancient Piety, a matron hoar,Still seems to keep the hospitable door;Ye cloisters pale, that length'ning to the sight,Still step by step to musings mild invite;Ye high-archt walks where oft the bard has caughtThe glowing sentiment, the lofty thought;Ye temples dim, where pious duty paysHer holy hymns of ever-echoing praise;Lo! your lov'd ISIS, from the bord'ring vale,With all a mother's fondness bids you hail!——Hail,oxford, hail! of all that's good and great,Of all that's fair, the guardian and the seat;Nurse of each brave pursuit, each generous aim,By truth exalted to the throne of fame!Like Greece in science and in liberty,As Athens learn'd, as Lacedæmon free!Ev'n now, confess'd to my adoring eyes,In awful ranks thy sacred sons arise;With ev'ry various flower their temples wreath'd,That in thy gardens green its fragrance breath'd,Tuning to knightly tale his British reeds,Thy crouding bards immortalchaucerleads:His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing choir,And beams on all around celestial fire:With graceful step seeaddisonadvance,The sweetest child of Attic Elegance:To all, but his belov'd embrace deny'd,Seelockeleads reason, his majestic bride:See sacredhammond, as he treads the field,With godlike arm uprears his heav'nly shield.All who, beneath the shades of gentle peace,Best plan'd the labours of domestic ease;Who taught with truth, or with persuasion mov'd;Who sooth'd with numbers, or with sense improv'd;Who told the pow'rs of reason or refin'd,All, all that strengthen'd or adorn'd the mind;Each priest of health, who mix'd the balmy bowl,To rear frail man, and stay the fleeting soul;All croud around, and echoing to the sky,Hail,oxford, hail! with filial transport cry.And see yon solemn band! with virtuous aim,'Twas theirs in thought the glorious deed to frame:With pious plans each musing feature glows,And well weigh'd counsels mark their meaning brows:"Lo! these the leaders of thy patriot line,"hamden, andhooker,hyde, andsidneyshine.These from thy source the fires of freedom caught:How well thy sons by their example taught!While in each breast th' hereditary flameStill blazes, unextinguish'd and the same!Nor all the toils of thoughtful peace engage,'Tis thine to form the hero as the sage.I see the sable-suited prince advanceWith lillies crown'd, the spoils of bleeding France,edward——the Muses in yon hallow'd shadeBound on his tender thigh the martial blade:Bade him the steel for British freedom draw,Andoxfordtaught the deeds thatcressysaw.And see, great father of the laureat band,The[12]british kingbefore me seems to stand.He by my plenty-crowned scenes beguil'd,And genial influence of my seasons mild,Hither of yore (forlorn, forgotten maid)The Muse in prattling infancy convey'd;From Gothic rage the helpless virgin bore,And fix'd her cradle on my friendly shore:Soon grew the maid beneath his fost'ring hand,Soon pour'd her blessings o'er th' enlighten'd land.Tho rude the[13]dome, and humble the retreat,Where first his pious care ordain'd her seat,Lo! now on high she dwells in Attic bow'rs,And proudly lifts to heav'n her hundred tow'rs.He first fair Learning's and Britannia's causeAdorn'd with manners, and advanc'd with laws;He bade relent the Briton's savage heart,And form'd his soul to social scenes of art,Wisest and best of kings!—--with ravish'd gazeElate the long procession he surveys:Joyful he smiles to find, that not in vainHe plan'd the rudiments of Learning's reign:Himself he marks in each ingenuous breast,With all the founder in the race exprest:With rapture views, fair Freedom still surviveIn yon bright domes (ill-fated fugitive)(Such seen, as when the goddess pour'd the beamUnsullied on his ancient diadem)Well-pleas'd that in his own Pierian seatShe plumes her wings, and rests her weary feet;That here at last she takes her fav'rite stand,"Here deigns to linger, ere she leave the land."

Back to Index Next