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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 servile lay. What tho' your gentle Mason's plaintive verse Has hung with sweetest wreaths Museus' herse; 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. — 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 *** boast the patrons of her name,
Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive
Though wakeful Vengeance watch my crystal Tho' Persecution wave her iron wing, (spring, And o'er yon spiry temples as she flies, “ Those destin'd seats be mine," exulting cries; Fortune's fair smiles on Isis still attend : And as the dews of gracious Heaven descend
Unask'd, unseen, in still but copious show'rs,
E’en late, when Radcliffe's delegated train Auspicious shone in Isis' happy plain; When yon proud #dome, fair learning's amplest Beneath its attic roofs receiv'd the Nine; (shrine, Was rapture mute, or ceas'd the glad acclaim, To Radcliffe due, and Isis' honour'd name? What free-born crowds adorn'd the festive day, Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay! How each brave breast with honest ardours heav'd, When Sheldon's fane the patriot band receiv'd;
* The Radcliffe Library.
While, as we loudly haild the chosen few,
O may the day in latest annals shine, That made a Beaufort and a Harley mine; That 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 sphere on high, And bore each strain of triumph from the sky, Swell’d the loud song, and to my chiefs around Pour'd the full pæans of melliAuous sound. My Naiads blythe the dying accents caught, And listening danc'd beneath their pearly grot: In gentler eddies play'd my conscious 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 pealing concerts cease, And crowded theatres are hush'd in peace.
See, on yon sage how all attentive stand,
While arms like these my stedfast sages wield, While mine is Truth's impenetrable shield;