Pope's heav'n-strung lyre, nor Waller's case,
Nor Milton's mighty self must please :
Instead of these, á formal band
In furs and coifs around me stand;
With sounds uncouth and accents dry,
That grate the soul of harmony,
Each pedant fage únlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore ;
And points with tott'ring hand the ways
That lead me to the thorny maze ?

There, in a winding, close retreat,
Is Justice doom'd to fix her seat,
There, fenc'd by bulwarks of the Law,
She keeps the wond'ring world in awe,
And there, from yulgar sight retir'd,
Like eastern queens is more admir’d.

O let me pierce the secret shade
Where dwells the venerable maid !
There humbly mark, with rev'rent awe,
The guardian of Britannia's Law,
Unfold with joy her facred page,
(Th' united boast of many an age,
Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years)
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true,
And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the fordid (cribę;







Observe how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels distinctly tend
By various laws to one great end ;
While mighty Alfred's piercing foul
Pervades, and regulates the whole.

Then welcome business, welcome strife,
Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,
The visage wan, the pore-blind fight,
The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the folemn prate,
The pert dispute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babling Hall,
For thee, fair Justice, welcome all !

Thus though my noon of life be past,
Yet let my setting fun, at laft,
Find out the still, the rural cell,
Where fage Retirement loves to dwell!
There let me taste the homefelt, bliss
Of innocence, and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe;
Uncurs'd amid the harpy-tribe ;
No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour, and my conscience clear;
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the


descend !



grave in


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Quid mibi nescio quan, proprio cum TYBRIDI,

Semper in ore geris? Referunt fi vera parentes,
Hanc Urbem infano Nullus qui Marte petivit,
Lætatus violafle redit. Nec Numina Sedem


On closing Aowers 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 ftray'd :
And calmly mufing through the twilight way,
In penfive mood I fram'd the Doric lay.

Born 1728; dyed 1990.


When lo! from opening 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 gloffy 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 food The filver-Nipper'd virgin lightly trod, From her loose hair the dropping dew the 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 fonnets fuit To notes of paftoral 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, 25 Why stays thy hand to strike the founding ftring? While thus, in Freedom's and in Phebus' spite, The venal sons of slavilh Cam unite ; To shake yon towers when Malice rears her crest, Shall all my fons in silence idly reft?

30 Still fing, O CAM, your favorite Freedom's cause; Still boast of Freedom, while you break her laws: To power your songs of Gratulation pay, To courts address soft flattery's servile lay. What' though your gentle Mason's plaintive

verse Has hung with Sweetest wreaths Museus' herse;

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What though your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe,
Soft as my stream, in tuneful numbers Aow ;
Yet strove his Muse, by fame or envy led,
To tear the laurels from a Sister's head ? 40
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, 45
Each splendid 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, sanctified and fleek :

Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive
On rich pluralities sapinely thrive ;
Still let her senates titled flaves revere,
Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer ;
No longer charm’d by Virtue's lofty song, 55
Once heard fage Milton's manly tones among,
Where Cam, meandering thro' the matted reeds,
With loitering wave his grove of laurel feeds.
'Tis ours, my son, to deal the facred bay,
Where honour calls, and justice points the way; 60
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 bower
Still nor enjoys, nor seeks, the smile of power

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