Now last, but nearest, of the social band, See honest, open, generous CLEON [17] stand; With scarce one speck, to cloud the pleasing scene, No vice degrades that purest soul serene. On the same day, our studious race begun, On the same day, our studious race was run; 330 Thus, side by side, we pass'd our first career, Thus, side by side, we strove for many a year: At last, concluded our scholastic life, We neither conquer'd in the classic strife: As Speakers, [18] each supports an equal name, [xiii] And crowds allow to both a partial fame: To soothe a youthful Rival's early pride, Though Cleon's candour would the palm divide, Yet Candour's self compels me now to own, Justice awards it to my Friend alone. 340 Oh! Friends regretted, Scenes for ever dear, Remembrance hails you with her warmest tear! Drooping, she bends o'er pensive Fancy's urn, To trace the hours, which never can return; Yet, with the retrospection loves to dwell, [xiv] And soothe the sorrows of her last farewell! Yet greets the triumph of my boyish mind, As infant laurels round my head were twin'd; When PROBUS' praise repaid my lyric song, Or plac'd me higher in the studious throng; 350 Or when my first harangue receiv'd applause, [19] His sage instruction the primeval cause, What gratitude, to him, my soul possest, While hope of dawning honours fill'd my breast! [xv] For all my humble fame, to him alone, The praise is due, who made that fame my own. Oh! could I soar above these feeble lays, These young effusions of my early days, To him my Muse her noblest strain would give, The song might perish, but the theme might live. [xvi] 360 Yet, why for him the needless verse essay? His honour'd name requires no vain display: By every son of grateful IDA blest, It finds an echo in each youthful breast; A fame beyond the glories of the proud, Or all the plaudits of the venal crowd. IDA! not yet exhausted is the theme, Nor clos'd the progress of my youthful dream. How many a friend deserves the grateful strain! What scenes of childhood still unsung remain! 370 Yet let me hush this echo of the past, This parting song, the dearest and the last; And brood in secret o'er those hours of joy, To me a silent and a sweet employ, While, future hope and fear alike unknown, I think with pleasure on the past alone; Yes, to the past alone, my heart confine, And chase the phantom of what once was mine.