While, as we loudly hail'd the chosen few,
Rome's awful senate rush'd upon the view!
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 mellifluous 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,
To catch his parting eye, and waving hand.
Hark! he begins, with all a Tully's art,
the dictates of a Cato's heart.
Skill'd to pronounce what noblest thoughts
He blends the speaker's with the patriot's fire;
Bold to conceive, nor tim'rous to conceal,
What Britons dare to think he dares to tell.
'Tis his alike the ear and eyes to charm,
To win with action, and with sense to warm.
Untaught in flow'ry periods to dispense
The lulling sounds of sweet impertinence :
In frowns or smiles he gains an equal prize,
Nor meanly fears to fall, nor creeps to rise;
Bids happier days to Albion be restor❜d,
Bids ancient justice rear her radiant sword;
From me, as from my country, claims applause,
And makes an Oxford's a Britannia's cause.
While arms like these my stedfast sages wield, While mine is Truth's impenetrable shield;
Say, shall the puny champion fondly dare
To wage with force like this scholastic war?
Still vainly scribble on with pert pretence,
With all the rage of pedant impotence?
Say, shall I foster this domestic pest,
This parricide, that wounds a mother's breast?
Thus in some gallant ship, that long has bore
Britain's victorious cross from shore to shore,
By chance, beneath her close sequester'd cells
Some low-born worm, a lurking mischief dwells;
Eats his blind way, and saps with secret guile
The deep foundations of the floating pile.
In vain the forest lent its stateliest pride,
Rear'd her tall mast, and fram'd her knotty side;
The martial thunder's rage in vain she stood,
With ev'ry conflict of the stormy flood;
More sure the reptile's little arts devour
Than wars, or waves, or Eurus' wint'ry pow'r.
Ye fretted pinnacles, ye fanes sublime,
Ye tow'rs that wear the mossy vest of time!
Ye massy piles of old munificence,
At once the pride of learning and defence;
Ye cloisters pale, that length'ning to the sight
To contemplation, step by step, invite ;
Ye high-arch'd walks, where oft the whispers clear
Of harps unseen have swept the poet's ear;
Ye temples dim, where pious duty pays
Her holy hymns of ever-echoing praise;
Lo! your lov'd Isis, from the bord❜ring vale,
With all a mother's fondness bids you hail!-
Hail, Oxford, hail! of all that's good and great,
Of all that's fair, the guardian and the seat;
Nurse of each brave pursuit, each gen'rous aim,
By truth exalted to the throne of fame!
Like Greece in science and in liberty,
As Athens learn'd, as Lacedemon free!
Ev'n now, confess'd to my adoring eyes,
In awful ranks thy gifted sons arise.
Tuning to knightly tale his British reeds,
Thy genuine bards immortal Chaucer leads:
His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing quire,
And beams on all around celestial fire.
With graceful step see Addison advance,
The sweetest child of Attic elegance:
See Chillingworth the depths of doubt explore,
And Seldon ope the rolls of ancient lore:
To all but his belov'd embrace deny'd,
See Lock lead Reason, his majestic bride:
See Hammond pierce Religion's golden mine,
And spread the treasur'd stores of Truth divine.
All who to Albion gave the arts of peace, And best the labours plann'd of letter'd ease; Who taught with truth, or with persuasion mov'd; Who sooth'd with numbers,or with sense improv'd; Who rang'd the pow'rs of reason, or refin'd All that adorn'd or humaniz'd the mind; Each priest of health, that mix'd the balmy bowl, To rear frail man, and stay the fleeting soul; All crowd around, and echoing to the sky, Hail! Oxford, hail! with filial transport cry.
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