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In some lone cloister's melancholy shade,
Where a firm few support her fickly head,
Despis'd, insulted by the barb'rous train,
Who scour like Thracia's moon-ftruck rout the plain,
Sworn foes like them to all the Muse approves,
All Phæbus favours, or Minerva loves.

Are these the fons my foft'ring breast must rear, Grac'd with my name, and nurtur’d by my care ? Must these go forth from my

maternal hand To deal their insults thro' a peaceful land, And boast while Freedom bleeds, and Virtue groans,

That“ ISIS taught Rebellion to her Sons ?'"
Forbid it heaven ! and let my rising waves
Indignant swell, and whelm the recreant slaves !
In England's cause their patriot floods employ,
As Xanthus delug'd in the cause of Troy.
Is this deny'd ? then point some secret way
Where far far hence these guiltless streams may stray;
Some unknown channel lend, where nature spreads
Inglorious vales, and unfrequented meads,
There, where a Hind scarce tunes his rustic strain,
Where scarce a Pilgrim treads the pathlefs 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 refign'd my humbler lot embrace,
And pleas’d, prefer oblivion to disgrace.

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ON clofing 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 ftray'd: And calmly musing thro’ the twilight way, In pensive mood I fram'd the Doric lay. When lo! from opening clouds a golden gleam Pour'd sudden splendours o'er the shadowy stream; And from the wave arose it's guardian queen, Known by her sweeping stole of glofly 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 filver-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 fonnets fuit To notes of pastral 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 fing, Why stays thy hand to strike the founding string? While thus, in Freedom's and in Phæbus' spite, The venal fons of flavish cam, unite ; To shake yon tow'rs, when Malice rears her crest, Shall all my sons in filence 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 foothing lay. What tho' your gentle mason's plaintive verse Has hung with sweetest wreath's MUSÆUs' hearse ; What tho’your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe, Soft as my stream, in tuneful numbers flow? Yet strove his Muse, by fame or envy led, To tear the laurels from a sister's head ?.....

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Misguided youth! with rude unclassic rage
To blot the beauties of thy whiter page;
A rage that fullies 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 :
Be her's each prelate of the pamper'd cheek,
Each courtly chaplain fanctify'd and fleek;
Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive
On fat pluralities supinely thrive :
Still let her fenates 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, flow winding thro' the breezy reeds,
With kindly wave his groves of laurel feeds.

'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,

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And o'er yon spiry temples as she flies, .
“ These destin'd seats 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 Mufe divine ftill 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 It 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 * dome, fair Learning's ampleft

shrine, Beneath it's 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 !

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