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Pope's heav'n-ftrung lyre, nor Waller's eafe,
Nor Milton's mighty felf must please:

Instead of these, a formal band

In furs and coifs around me ftand;

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With founds uncouth and accents dry,

That grate the foul of harmony,
Each pedant fage unlocks his store
Of mystic, dark, discordant lore;

And points with tott'ring hand the ways

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That lead me to the thorny maze?

There, in a winding, clofe retreat,
Is Juftice doom'd to fix her feat,
There, fenc'd by bulwarks of the Law,
She keeps the wond'ring world in awe,
And there, from vulgar fight retir'd,
Like eaftern queens is more admir'd.

O let me pierce the secret shade

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Where dwells the venerable maid!

There humbly mark, with rev'rent awe,

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The guardian of Britannia's Law,

Unfold with joy her facred page,

(Th' united boast of many an age,
Where mix'd, yet uniform, appears
The wisdom of a thousand years)
In that pure spring the bottom view,
Clear, deep, and regularly true,

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And other doctrines thence imbibe
Than lurk within the fordid fcribe;

Obferve how parts with parts unite
In one harmonious rule of right;
See countless wheels diftinctly tend
By various laws to one great end;
While mighty Alfred's piercing foul
Pervades, and regulates the whole.

Then welcome bufinefs, welcome ftrife,

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Welcome the cares, the thorns of life,

The vifage wan, the pore-blind fight,

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The toil by day, the lamp at night,
The tedious forms, the folemn prate,
The
pert difpute, the dull debate,
The drowsy bench, the babling Hall,
For thee, fair Juftice, welcome all!

Thus though my noon of life be past,

Yet let my fetting fun, at laft,

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Find out the ftill, the rural cell,

Where fage Retirement loves to dwell!

There let me tafte the homefelt.bliss

Of innocence, and inward peace;
Untainted by the guilty bribe;
Uncurs'd amid the harpy-tribe;

No orphan's cry to wound my ear;
My honour, and my confcience clear;
Thus may I calmly meet my end,
Thus to the grave in peace defcend!

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THE

TRIUMPH OF ISIS.

OCCASIONED BY

ISIS AN ELEGY.

WRITTEN IN 1749.

BY THOMAS WARTON THE YOUNGER,

POET LAUREAT.*

Quid mibi nefcio quam, proprio cum TYBRIDE,

Romam

Semper in ore geris? Referunt fi vera parentes, Hanc Urbem infano Nullus qui Marte petivit, Latatus violaffe redit. Nec Numina Sedem Deftituunt. CLAUDIAN.

ON clofing flowers when genial gales diffuse
The fragrant tribute of refreshing dews;
When chants the milk-maid at her balmy pail,
And weary reapers whistle o'er the vale;
Charm'd by the murmurs of the quivering shade,
O'er Isis' willow-fringed banks I ftray'd:
And calmly mufing through the twilight way,
In penfive mood I fram'd the Doric lay.

• Born 1728; dyed 1790.

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When lo! from opening clouds a golden gleam Pour'd fudden splendors o'er the fhadowy stream; 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 smooth surface of the dimply flood The filver-flipper'd virgin lightly trod,

From her loose hair the dropping dew she press'd, And thus mine ear in accents mild addrefs'd.

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No more, my fon, the rural reed employ, Nor trill the tinkling ftrain of empty joy; No more thy love-refounding fonnets fuit To notes 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, 25 Why stays thy hand to ftrike the founding ftring? While thus, in Freedom's and in Phebus' spite, The venal fons of flavish CAM unite; To shake yon towers when Malice rears her crest, Shall all my fons in filence idly rest?

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Still fing, O CAM, your favorite Freedom's caufe; Still boaft of Freedom, while you break her laws: To power your fongs of Gratulation pay, To courts addrefs foft flattery's fervile lay.

What' though your gentle MASON's plaintive verse

Has hung with fweeteft wreaths Museus' herse;

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What though 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 Sifter's head?
Misguided youth! with rude unclaffic 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 *** boast the patrons of her name,
Each fplendid 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, fanctified and fleek:
Still let the drones of her exhauftlefs hive
On rich pluralities fupinely thrive ;
Still let her fenates titled flaves revere,

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Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer;
No longer charm'd by Virtue's lofty fong,
Once heard fage Milton's manly tones among,
Where CAM, meandering thro' the matted reeds,
With loitering wave his grove of laurel feeds.
'Tis ours, my fon, to deal the facred bay,
Where honour calls, and juftice points the way; 60
To wear the well earn'd wreath that merit brings,
And fnatch a gift beyond the reach of kings.
Scorning and fcorn'd by courts, yon Mufe's bower
Still nor enjoys, nor feeks, the fmile of power.

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