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Quid mihi nescio quam, proprio cum Tybride, Romam Semper in ore geris? Referunt si vera parentes, Hanc Urbem insano nullus qui Marte petivit, Lætatus violasse redit. Nec Numina Sedem Destituent.


ON closing flow’rs when genial gales diffuse
The fragrant tribute of refreshing dews ;
When chants the milk-maid at her balmy pail,
And weary reapers whistle o'er the vale ;
Charm'd by the murmurs of the quivering shade,
O'er Isis' willow-fringed banks I stray’d:
And calmly musing through the twilight way,
In pensive mood I fram’d the Doric lay.
When, lo! from op'ning clouds a golden gleam
Pour'd sudden 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 silver-slipper'd virgin 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 tinkling strain of empty joy ; No more thy love-resounding sonnets suit To 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, and Oxford bids thee sing, Why stays thy hand to strike the sounding string? While thus, in Freedom's and in Phæbus' spite, The venal sons of slavish Cam unite; To shake yon towers when malice rears her crest, Shall all my sons in silence idly rest?

Still sing, O Cam, 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 fattery's servile lay. What tho' your gentle Mason's plaintive verse Has hung with sweetest wreaths Museus' herse ; 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 sullies e’en thy guiltless lays, And blasts the vernal bloom of half thy bays.

Let *** boast the patrons of her name,
Each splendid fool of fortune and of fame :
Still of preferment let her shine the queen,
Prolific parent of each bowing dean:
Be hers each prelate of the pamper’d cheek,
Each courtly chaplain, sanctify’d and sleek :

Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive
On rich pluralities supinely thrive:
Still let her senates titled slaves revere,
Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer ;
No longer charm’d by virtue's lofty song,
Once heard sage Milton's manly tones among,
Where Cam, meand’ring thro' the matted reeds,
With loit'ring wave his groves of laurel feeds.
'Tis ours, my son, to deal the sacred bay,
Where honour calls, and justice points the way;
To wear the well-earn'd wreath that merit brings,
And snatch a gift beyond the reach of kings.
Scorning and scorn’d by courts, yon Muse's bow'r
Still nor enjoys nor seeks the smile of pow'r.


Though wakeful Vengeance watch my crystal Tho' Persecution wave her iron wing, (spring, And o'er yon spiry temples as she flies, “ Those destin'd seats be mine,” exulting cries ; Fortune's fair smiles on Isis still attend : And as the dews of gracious Heaven descend

Unask'd, unseen, in still but copious show'rs,
Her stores on me spontaneous bounty pours.
See, Science walks with recent chaplets crown'd;
With Fancy's train my fairy shades resound;
My Muse divine still keeps her custom'd state,
The mein erect, and high majestic gait :
Green as of old each oliv'd portal smiles,
And still the graces build my Grecian piles:
My gothic spires in ancient glory rise,
And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies,

E'en late, when Radcliffe's delegated train Auspicious shone in Isis' happy plain; When yon proud #dome, fair learning's amplest Beneath its attic roofs receiv'd the Nine; (shrine, Was rapture mute, or ceas’d the glad acclaim, To Radcliffe due, and Isis' honour'd name? What free-born crowds adorn’d the festive day, Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay! How each brave breast with honest ardours heav’d, When Sheldon's fane the patriot band receiv'd;

• The Radcliffe Library.

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