Be her's each prelate of the pamper'd cheek, Each courtly chaplain sanctify'd and sleek; Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive, On fat pluralities supinely thrive: Still let her senates titled slaves revere, Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer; For tinsel'd courts their laurel'd mount despise, In stars and strings superlatively wise: No longer charm'd by virtue's golden lyre, Who sung of old amid th'Aonian choir, Where CAM, slow winding thro' the breezy reeds, With kindly wave his groves of laurel seeds. 'Tis ours, my son, to deal the sacred bay, Where Honour calls, and Justice points the way; To wear the well-earn'd wreath which merit brings. And snatch a gift beyond the reach of kings. Scorning, and scorn'd by courts, yon Muses' bow'r Still nor enjoys, nor asks the smile of pow'r. Tho' wakeful Vengeance watch my chrystal spring, Tho' persecution wave her iron wing, And o'er yon spiry temples as she flies, "These destin'd feats be mine" exulting cries; On ISIS still each gift of fortune waits, Still peace and plenty deck my beauteous gates. See Science walks with freshest chaplets crown'd; With songs of joy my festal groves resound; My muse divine, still keeps her wonted state, The front erect, and high majestic gait: Green as of old, each oliv'd portal smiles, And still the graces build my Parian piles: My Gothic spires in ancient grandeur rise, And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies. Ah should'st thou fall (forbid it heav'nly pow'rs!) Dash'd into dust with all thy cloud-capt tow'rs; Who but would mourn to British virtue dear, What patriot could refuse the manly tear! What British MARIUS could refrain to weep O'er mighty CARTHAGE fall'n, a prostrate heap! E'en late when RADCLIFFE'S delegated train Auspicious shone in ISIS' happy plain; When yon proud [11]dome, fair Learning's amplest shrine, Beneath its Attic roofs receiv'd the Nine; Mute was the voice of joy and loud applause, To RADCLIFFE due, and ISIS' honour'd cause? What free-born crouds adorn'd the festive day, Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay! How each brave breast with honest ardors heav'd, When SHELDON'S fane the patriot band receiv'd; While, as we loudly hail'd the chosen few, Rome's awful senate rush'd upon our view! O may the day in latest annals shine, That made a BEAUFORT, and an HARLEY mine: Then bade them leave the loftier scene awhile, The pomp of guiltless state, the patriot toil, For bleeding Albion's aid the sage design, To hold short dalliance with the tuneful Nine. Then Music left her golden sphere on high, And bore each strain of triumph from the sky; Swell'd the full song, and to my chiefs around, Pour'd the full Pæans of mellifluous sound. My Naiads blythe the floating accents caught,