Quid mihi nefcio quam, proprio cum Tybride Romam,
Semper in ore geris? referunt fi vera parentes,
Hanc urbem infano nullus qui marte petivit
Lætatus violaffe redit. Nec numina fedem
Deftituunt,

ON

CLAUDIAN.

N 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 fhade,
O'er Ifis' willow-fringed banks I ftray'd:
And calmly mufing thro' the twilight way,
In penfive mood I fram'd the Doric lay.
When lo! from op'ning clouds, a golden gleam
Pour'd fudden fplendors o'er the shadowy ftream;
And from the wave arofe its guardian queen,
Known by her sweeping ftole of gloffy green;
While in the coral crown that bound her brow
Was wove the Delphic laurel's verdant bough.

As the fmooth furface of the dimply flood
The filver-flipper'd Ifis lightly trod,

From her loose hair the dropping dew fhe prefs'd:
And thus mine ear in accents mild addrefs'd:
No more, my fon, the rural reed employ,
Nor trill the trifling ftrain of empty joy;
No more thy love-refounding fonnets suit
To note of pastoral pipe or oaten flute.
For hark! high-thron'd on yon majestic walls
To the dear mufe afflicted Freedom calls:

When Freedom calls, and Oxford bids thee fing,
Why ftays thy hand to ftrike the founding ftring?
While thus, in Freedom's and in Phœbus' spite,
The venal fons of flavish Cam unite;

To shake yon tow'rs, when malice rears her crest,
Shall all my fons in filence idly rest?

Still fing, O Cam, your fav'rite Freedom's caufe;
Still boast of Freedom, while you break her laws :
To pow'r your fongs of gratulation pay,
To courts addrefs foft flattery's foothing lay.
What tho' your gentle Mafon's plaintive verfe
Has hung with sweetest wreaths Mufæus' hearfe?
What tho' your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe,
Soft as my ftream, in tuneful numbers flow,
Yet ftrove his mufe, by fame or envy led,
To tear the laurels from a fifter's head ?-
Mifguided youth! with rude unclaffic rage
To blot the beauties of thy whiter page;
A rage that fullies e'en thy guiltless lays,
And blafts the vernal bloom of half thy bays.

Let Granta boaft the patrons of her name,
Each pompous fool of fortune and of fame;
Still of preferment let her fhine 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 exhausted hive,
On fat pluralities fupinely thrive:

Still let her fenates titled flaves revere,

Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer;
For tinfel'd courts their laurel'd mount defpife,
In ftars and ftrings fuperlatively wife:
No longer charm'd by virtue's golden lyre,
Who fung 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 fon, to deal the facred bay,
Where honour calls, and juftice 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 crystal spring,
Tho' perfecution wave her iron wing,
And o'er yon fpiry temples as she flies,
"These deftin'd feats be mine," exulting cries;
On Ifis ftill each gift of fortune waits,
Still peace and plenty deck my beauteous gates.
See fcience walks with fresheft chaplets crown'd;

With fongs of joy my feftal groves refound;

My

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 ftill the graces build my Parian piles:
My Gothic fpires in ancient grandeur rife,
And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies.
Ah fhould't thou fall (forbid it, heav'nly pow'rs!)
Dash'd into duft with all thy cloud-capt tow'rs;
Who but would mourn, to British virtue dear,
What patriot could refufe the manly tear!
What British Marius could refrain to weep
O'er mighty Carthage fall'n, a proftrate heap!
E'en late when Radcliffe's delegated train.
Aufpicious fhone in Ifis' happy plain;

*

When yon proud dome, fair learning's ampleft shrine, Beneath its Attic roofs receiv'd the Nine;

Mute was the voice of joy and loud applause,

To Radcliffe due, and Ifis' 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 chofen few,
Rome's awful fenate rufh'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 fcene awhile,
The pomp of guiltlefs ftate, the patriot toil,

* Radcliffe's library.

For

For bleeding Albion's aid the fage defign,
To hold fhort dalliance with the tuneful Nine.
Then mufic left her golden fphere 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 Peans of mellifluous found.
My Naiads blithe the floating accents caught,
And lift'ning danc'd beneath their pearly grot:
In gentler eddies play'd my wanton wave,
And all my reeds their softest whispers gave;
Each lay with brighter green adorn'd my bow'rs,
And breath'd a fresher fragrance on my flow'rs.
But lo! at once the fwelling concerts cease,
And crouded theatres are hush'd in peace.
See, on yon fage how all attentive stand,
To catch his darting eye, and waving hand.
Hark! he begins, with all a Tully's art
Το pour the dictates of a Cato's heart;

Skill'd to pronounce what nobleft thoughts inspire,
He blends the speaker's with the patriot's fire;
Bold to conceive, nor timʼrous to conceal,
What Britons dare to think, he dares to tell.
"Tis his alike the ear and eye to charm,

To win with action, and with fense to warm ;
Untaught in flow'ry diction to difpenfe
The lulling founds of sweet impertinence ;
In frowns or fmiles he gains an equal prize,
Nor meanly fears to fall, nor creeps to rise;
Bids happier days to Albion be restor❜d,
Bids ancient juftice rear her radiant sword;

From