Where scarce a pilgrim treads the pathless plain, Content I'll flow; forget that e'er my tide Saw yon majestic structures crown it's side; Forget, that e'er my rapt attention hung Or on the Sage's or the Poet's tongue; Calm and resign'd my humbler lot embrace, And pleas'd, prefer oblivion to disgrace. THE TRIUMPH OF ISIS. OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING POEM. BY MR. THOMAS WARTON, OF OXFORD. _Quid mihi nescio quam, proprio cum Tybride Romam, Semper in ore geris? referunt si vera parentes, Hanc urbem insano nullus qui marte petivit Lætatus violasse redit. Nec numina sedem Destituunt._---- CLAUDIAN. On closing flow'rs when genial gales diffuse The fragrant tribute of refreshing dews; When chaunts the milk-maid at her balmy pail, And weary reapers whistle o'er the vale; Charm'd by the murmurs of the quiv'ring shade, O'er ISIS' willow-fringed banks I stray'd: And calmly musing thro' the twilight way, In pensive mood I fram'd the Doric lay. When lo! from op'ning clouds, a golden gleam Pour'd sudden splendors o'er the shadowy stream; And from the wave arose it's guardian queen, Known by her sweeping stole of glossy 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 flood, The silver-slipper'd ISIS lightly trod, From her loose hair the dropping dew she press'd, And thus mine ear in accents mild address'd. No more, my son, the rural reed employ, Nor trill the trifling strain of empty joy; No more thy love-resounding sonnets suit To notes of pastoral 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 sing, Why stays thy hand to strike the sounding string? While thus, in Freedom's and in Phoebus' spite, The venal sons of slavish CAM, unite; To shake yon tow'rs, when Malice rears her crest, Shall all my sons in silence idly rest? Still sing, O CAM, your fav'rite Freedom's cause; Still boast of Freedom, while you break her laws: To pow'r your songs of Gratulation pay, To courts address soft flattery's soothing lay. What tho' your gentle MASON'S plaintive verse Has hung with sweetest wreaths MUSÆUS' hearse; What tho' your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe, Soft as my stream, in tuneful numbers flow? Yet strove his Muse, by same or envy led, To tear the laurels from a sister's head?---- 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 GRANTA boast the patrons of her name, Each pompous fool of fortune and of fame: Still of preferment let her shine the queen, Prolific parent of each bowing dean: