My copy of this poem bears date 1754, and is not stated to be a second edition. It has "an advertisement" of three pages, deprecatory of the imputation of any personal allusions, or design to encourage school rebellions. It has also a frontispiece ("Jas. Green, sculp., Oxon."), representing two youths, one standing, the other sitting, on a form; and before them the figure of an ass, erect on his hind legs, clothed in a pallium. A birch, doctorial hat, and books, lettered Priscian and {159} Lycophron, form the base; and on a ribbon above is the legend, "An ass in the Greek pallium teaching." In other respects my copy agrees with MR. CROSSLEY'S description of his, except that the argument (p. 7.) commences, "_The great and good_ King Alfred," &c. Perhaps the following lines (though I doubt their having been written at the age of thirteen) may be received as germane to the subject: THE BIRCH: A POEM. _Written by a Youth of thirteen._ Though the _Oak_ be the prince and the pride of the grove, The emblem of power and the fav'rite of Jove; Though Phoebus his temples with _Laurel_ has bound, And with chaplets of _Poplar_ Alcides is crown'd; Though Pallas the _Olive_ has graced with her choice, And old mother Cybel in _Pines_ may rejoice, Yet the Muses declare, after diligent search, That no tree can be found to compare with the _Birch_. The Birch, they affirm, is the true tree of knowledge, Revered at each school and remember'd at college. Though Virgil's famed tree might produce, as its fruit, A crop of vain dreams, and strange whims on each shoot, Yet the Birch on each bough, on the top of each switch, Bears the essence of grammar and eight parts of speech. 'Mongst the leaves are conceal'd more than mem'ry can mention, All cases, all genders, all forms of declension. Nine branches, when cropp'd by the hands of the Nine, And duly arranged in a parallel line, Tied up in nine folds of a mystical string, And soak'd for nine days in cold Helicon spring, Form a sceptre composed for a pedagogue's hand, Like the Fasces of Rome, a true badge of command. The sceptre thus finish'd, like Moses's rod, From flints could draw tears, and give life to a clod. Should darkness Egyptian, or ignorance, spread Their clouds o'er the mind, or envelope the head, The rod, thrice applied, puts the darkness to flight, Disperses the clouds, and restores us to light. Like the Virga Divina, 'twill find out the vein Where lurks the rich metal, the ore of the brain. Should Genius a captive in sloth be confined, Or the witchcraft of Pleasure prevail o'er the mind, The magical wand but apply--with a stroke The spell is dissolved, the enchantment is broke. Like Hermes' caduceus, these switches inspire Rhetorical thunder, poetical fire: And if Morpheus our temples in Lethe should steep, Their touch will untie all the fetters of sleep.