Than whose parental hand to vigour bred
Each infant art, the noble and the wise,
Whose bounty gave yon arching shades to spread,
Yon pointed spires in holy pomp to rise?

Shall war alone loud echoing numbers claim,
And shall the deeds of smiling peace be drown'd
Amid the hero's shouts and trumpet's sound?
These too shall flourish in immortal fame.

When science fled from Latium's polish'd coasts And Grecian groves her long and loved abode, Far from the din of fierce conflicting hosts, Through barbarous realms the weary wanderer trod;

But to what more indulgent sky,

To what more hospitable shade,
Could trembling, bleeding, fainting fly

The helpless and devoted maid ?

Time honour'd Founders! ye the virgin woo'd! 'Twas yours, with souls to native grandeur born,

To bid her radiant beauties shine renew'd,

With wealth to heap, with honours to adorn.

In Granta's happier paths she wept no more; Heal'd were the wounds that scarr'd her gentle breast

Here, still she smiles with Freedom's sons to

rest,

Nor mourns her Attick towers, nor Tuscan shore.

Fathers of Genius! whom the Muse adores,
For sure to you her noblest strains belong,
Beneath whose venerable roofs she pours
The grateful notes of sweetly flowing song,

Th' increase of swift revolving years
With conscious pride exulting view;
How all ye plann'd compleat appears;
How all your virtues bloom anew.

The generous zeal which erst ye felt remains,
Its bounteous beams still ardent to dispense;
While unexhausted to your learned plains

Rolls the rich stream of wide munificence.

Joy to your shades! the great career is run, Reserved by fate for some superiour hand, Confest, the last, the auspicious work shall stand, And statesman, monarch, end what ye begun.

Ye too, once inmates of these walls renown'd, Whose spirits mingling with the ethereal ray, Of universal nature traced the bound,

Or raised in majesty of thought the lay,

See your loved arts this clime to grace
Their rival radiance brighter shed,
While Holles smiles the wreath to place
Upon the youthful Victor's head.

Where Spenser sits among your thrones sublimè,
To the soft musick of his mournful lays
Listening ye weep for his ungrateful time,
And point the better hope of happier days.

If with the dead dishonour's memory dies,
Forget, much injur'd, the unworthy woe!
In strains like thine so may our accents flow,
In nobler numbers yon fair domes arise.

When faction's storms, or some fell tyrants hate Arts join'd with freedom to one grave shall

doom,

Then, though these structures to the hand of fate Bend their proud height, like thine imperial

Rome!

Know, vainly Time, thy rapid rage
Shall point its wide destroying aim!
Since what defies the force of age

Thus consecrates the pile to fame.

Some future eye the ruin'd heap shall trace,
The name of Holles on the stone behold,
Shall point a Brunswick to a distant race
Benign and awful on the swelling gold.

Th' historick page, the poet's tuneful toil,
With these compared, their mutual aid shall raise
To build the records of eternal praise,

And deck with endless wreaths their honour'd soil,

Sweeter than warbled sounds that win the sense, Flows the glad musick of a grateful heart';

Beyond the pomp of wordy eloquence,

Or strains too cold, high wrought with labour'd art.

Though weakly sounds the jarring string;
Though vainly would the Muse explore
The heights, to which with eagle wing
Alone can. heaven-taught genius soar,

Yet shall her hand ingenuous strive to twine
The blooming chaplet for her leaders brow;
While with new verdure graced in glory's shrine,
The ampler palms of civick honours grow;

When he, these favour'd shades appears to bless, Whose guardian counsels guide a nation's fate And with superiour toils for Europe's state Mixes the thought of Granta's happiness.

Hail seats revered! where thoughtful pleasures dwell,

And hovering peace extends her downy wings. Where musing knowledge holds her humble cell, And truth divine unlocks her secret springs :

This verse with mild acceptance deign
To hear, this verse yourselves inspire,
Ere yet within your sacred fane

The Muse suspends her votive lyre.

Thee Granta, thus with filial thanks I greet,

With smiles maternal thou those thanks receive, For learning's humble wealth, for friendship sweet,

For every calmer joy thy scenes could give.

While thus I sport upon thy peaceful strand,
The storms of life at awful distance roar;
And still I dread; still lingering on the shore,
To launch my little bark, and quit the land.