necessity that I should be brief: yes indeed, I am too diffuse, seeing that the very subject is cut off from me in which alone I was, and even without irksomeness, able to be prolix. Farewell, most cultured of men, and do not disdain me, so insignificant a suppliant, for daring to honour your tranquil genius, and, since divinity even does not forbid this respecting itself, also to love it. But in the mean while give pardon to the Muse, to such a degree unrestrained as to have dared for this part at least of your praise, which is most due to you on account of sacred things that have been honoured amongst us, to fly towards you with a strain of such kind as this, whatever it may be: Kind Guardian of the Muses' flock, Through whom it breathes in learn'd repose, Whether it choose the dripping rock, Or where the open sunshine glows. Not fairer he through trackless shade Who led Æmonia's flocks of old; Not even Apollo, when he play'd, With defter touch could charm the fold. If thou the eye serene dost grant, Green fields are ours, and streams and hills, And, since no Phœbus else we want, The Muses with their dulcet quills. Religion too with modest grace Through thee assumes a gentler mien; Through thee again can show her face, No more in dust and ashes seen. Her brows crown'd meetly, and, through thee, Her God in sight of all confess'd, She gives in her divinity Meaning and law to garb and vest. Lo, while we gaze, an ample state Adorns thee; what a lustrous sheen Plays on thy lips! with what a weight Thy reverent Genius toils within! For him on whom thy calm glance flows His star sheds down a fuller ray; The light that o'er thine aspect glows Is brighter than the shafts of Day. And there is cause. The Lord of heaven, Whose altar thou hast made so fair, Pours back the light that thou hast given, With glory meets His worshipper. Lo, on the threshold of thy God While thou dost stoop on bended knee, The altar from on high doth nod, Its plausive wings are bent to thee. And, glowing with his duty's worth, Each starry-tressèd chorister With look that savours not of earth Tends like a rosy cherub there. And rightly. For, when ruin-wreck'd, With prayers and outstretch'd hands the fane Bemoan'd itself in all neglect, And sought elsewhere for help in vain,-- To thee by its own vows 'tis bound, And now repays thee. At the shrine Whose cry so well thy ears hath found Long, long may prayer and praise be thine! LECTORI.