From yonder realms of empyrean day Bursts on my ear the indignant lay; There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine, The few whom Genius gave to shine Through every unborn age and undiscover'd clime. Rapt in celestial transport they, Yet hither oft a glance from high They send of tender sympathy, 20 To bless the place where on their opening soul First the genuine ardour stole. 'Twas Milton struck the deep-toned shell, And, as the choral warblings round him swell, Meek Newton's self bends from his state sublime, And nods his hoary head, and listens to the rhyme. III. Ye brown o'er-arching groves! That Contemplation loves, Where willowy Camus lingers with delight; Oft at the blush of dawn 30 I trod your level lawn, Oft wooed the gleam of Cynthia, silver-bright, In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of Folly, With Freedom by my side, and soft-eyed Melancholy. IV. But hark! the portals sound, and pacing forth, With solemn steps and slow, High potentates, and dames of royal birth, And mitred fathers, in long orders go: Great Edward,[2] with the Lilies on his brow From haughty Gallia torn, 40 And sad Chatillon,[3] on her bridal morn, That wept her bleeding love, and princely Clare,[4] And Anjou's heroine,[5] and the paler Rose,[6] The rival of her crown, and of her woes, And either Henry[7] there, The murder'd saint, and the majestic lord That broke the bonds of Rome,-- (Their tears, their little triumphs o'er, Their human passions now no more, Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb,) 50 All that on Granta's fruitful plain Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd, And bade those awful fanes and turrets rise, To hail their Fitzroy's festal morning come; And thus they speak in soft accord The liquid language of the skies: V. 'What is grandeur, what is power? Heavier toil, superior pain, What the bright reward we gain? The grateful memory of the good. 60 Sweet is the breath of vernal shower, The bee's collected treasures sweet, Sweet Music's melting fall, but sweeter yet The still small voice of Gratitude.' VI. Foremost, and leaning from her golden cloud, The venerable Margaret[8] see! 'Welcome, my noble son!' she cries aloud, 'To this thy kindred train, and me: Pleased, in thy lineaments we trace A Tudor's[9] fire, a Beaufort's grace. 70 Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye, The flower unheeded shall descry, And bid it round Heaven's altars shed The fragrance of its blushing head; Shall raise from earth the latent gem To glitter on the diadem. VII.