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ON

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 ISIS' willow-fringed banks I ftray'd: And calmly mufing thro' the twilight way, In penfive mood I fram'd the Doric lay. When lo! from opening clouds a golden gleam Pour'd fudden splendours o'er the shadowy stream; And from the wave arofe 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 filver-flipper'd ISIS lightly trod,

From her loofe hair the dropping dew the prefs'd, And thus mine ear in accents mild addrefs'd.

No more, my fon, the rural reed employ, Nor trill the trifling ftrain of empty joy; No more thy love-refounding fonnets fuit To notes of paft'ral pipe, or oaten flute. For hark! high-thron'd on yon majestic walls, To the dear Mufe afflicted Freedom calls: When Freedom calls, and OXFORD bids thee fing, Why ftays thy hand to strike the founding string? While thus, in Freedom's and in Phoebus' fpite, The venal fons of flavish CAM, unite;

To shake yon tow'rs, when Malice rears her crest, Shall all my fons in filence idly reft?

Still fing, O CAM, your fav'rite Freedom's caufe; Still boaft of Freedom, while you break her laws: To pow'r your fongs of Gratulation pay, To courts addrefs foft flattery's foothing lay. What tho' your gentle MASON's plaintive verfe Has hung with fweeteft wreath's MUSEUS' hearse; What tho' your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe, Soft as my stream, in tuneful numbers flow? Yet ftrove his Mufe, by fame or envy led, To tear the laurels from a fifter's head?.

Mifguided youth! with rude unclaffic rage
To blot the beauties of thy whiter page;
rage that fullies e'en thy guiltless lays,
And blasts the vernal bloom of half thy bays.

A

Let GRANTA boaft 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 fanctify'd and fleek;
Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive
On fat pluralities fupinely thrive:
Still let her fenates titled flaves revere,
Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer;
For tinfel'd courts their laurel'd mount defpife,
In ftars and strings fuperlatively 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 Juftice points the way;
To wear the well-earn'd wreath which merit brings.
And snatch a gift beyond the reach of kings.
Scorning, and fcorn'd by courts, yon Mufes' bow'r
Still nor enjoys, nor asks the smile of pow'r.
Tho' wakeful Vengeance watch my chrystal spring,
Tho' perfecution wave her iron wing,

H

And o'er yon fpiry temples as fhe flies,
"These deftin'd feats be mine" exulting cries;
On ISIS ftill 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 refound;

My Muse divine still keeps her wonted state,
The front erect, and high majeftic gait:
Green as of old each oliv'd portal fmiles,
And ftill the Graces build my Parian piles;
My Gothic fpires in ancient grandeur rife,
And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies.
Ah should'ft thou fall (forbid it heav'nly pow'rs!)
Dash'd into duft 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 proftrate heap!
E'en late when RADCLIFFE'S delegated train
Aufpicious fhone in ISIS' happy plain;
When yon proud * dome, fair Learning's amplest
fhrine,

Beneath it's Attic roofs receiv'd the Nine;
Mute was the voice of joy and loud applause,
To RADCLIFFE due, and ISIS' honour'd caufe?
What free-born crouds adorn'd the festive day,
Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay!

* RADCLIFFE's library.

How each brave breast with honeft ardours heav'd,
When SHELDON's fane the patriot band receiv'd;
While, as we loudly hail'd the chosen few,
Rome's awful fenate rufh'd upon our view!
O may the day in latest annals fhine,

That made a BEAUFORT, and an HARLEY mine:
That bade them leave the loftier scene awhile,
The pomp of guiltless state, the patriot toil,
For bleeding Albion's aid the fage defign,
To hold fhort dalliance with the tuneful Nine.
Then Mufic left her golden sphere on high,
And bore each strain of triumph from the sky;
Swell'd the loud fong, and to my chiefs around,
Pour'd the full Peans of mellifluous found.
My Naiads blythe 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 fofteft 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 hufh'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
Το 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;

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