Haste, then, to the pleasant groves, The Muses' favourite haunt; Resume thy station in Apollo's dome, Dearer to him Than Delos, or the forked Parnassian hill! Exulting go, Since now a splendid lot is also thine, And thou art sought by my propitious friend; For there thou shalt be read With authors of exalted note, The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome. _Epode._ Ye, then, my works, no longer vain, And worthless deemed by me! Whate'er this sterile genius has produced Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent, An unmolested happy home, Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend, Where never flippant tongue profane Shall entrance find, And whence the coarse unlettered multitude Shall babble far remote. Perhaps some future distant age, Less tinged with prejudice, and better taught, Shall furnish minds of power To judge more equally. Then, malice silenced in the tomb, Cooler heads and sounder hearts, Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise I merit, shall with candour weigh the claim. W. COWPER. _Translated from Milton._ PINDARIC ODE Hail! Learning's Pantheon! Hail, the sacred Ark, Where all the world of science does embark! Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long withstood, Insatiate time's devouring flood! Hail, Tree of Knowledge! thy leaves fruit! which well Dost in the midst of Paradise arise, Oxford, the Muses' Paradise! From which may never Sword the blest expel. Hail, Bank of all past ages, where they lie To enrich with interest posterity! Hail, Wit's illustrious Galaxy, Where thousand lights into one brightness spread, Hail, living University of the Dead! Unconfused Babel of all Tongues, which e'er The mighty linguist, Fame, or Time, the mighty traveller, That could speak or this could hear! Majestic Monument and Pyramid, Where still the shapes of parted souls abide Embalmed in verse! exalted souls, which now, Enjoy those Arts they wooed so well below! Which now all wonders printed plainly see That have been, are, or are to be, In the mysterious Library, The Beatific Bodley of the Dead!