The Mortal thought he faw his Goddess fhine, And all the lying Graces look'd divine;
But when with heat he clafp'd her fancied charms,
The empty vapour baulk'd his eager arms.
Loth to depart, I leave th' inviting scene,
Yet fcarce forbear to view it o'er again;
But fill new objects give a new delight,
And various profpects blefs the wandering fight.
Aloft in ftate the airy towers arife,
And with new luftre deck the wondering fkies;
Lo! to what height the fchools afcending reach,
Built with that art which they alone can teach;
The lofty dome expands her spacious gate,
Where all the decent Graces jointly wait;
In every fhape the God of Art reforts,
And crouds of Sages fill th' extended courts. With wonders fraught the bright Museum fee,
Itfelf the greatest curiosity!
Where Nature's choiceft treafure, all combin'd, Delight at once, and quite confound the mind; Ten thousand fplendors ftrike the dazzled eye, And form on earth another galaxy.
Here colleges in fweet confufion rife,
There temples feem to reach their native skies; Spires, towers, and groves, compose the various fhew,
And mingled profpects charm the doubting view;.
Who can deny their characters divine,
Without refplendent, and infpir'd within?
But, fince above my weak and artless lays,
Let their own poets fing their equal praife.
One labour more my grateful verfe renews,
And rears aloft the low-defcending Mufe;
The building, parent of my young effays,
Asks in return a tributary praise.
Pillars fublime bear up the learned weight,
And antique Sages tread the pompous height;
Whilft guardian Mufes fhade the happy piles,
And all around diffuse propitious fmiles.
Here Lancaster, adorn'd with every grace,
Stands chief in merit, as the chief in place:
To his lov'd name our earliest lays belong,
The theme at once, and patron of our fong.
Queen's College Library. See the following Poem. N.
Long may he o'er his much-lov'd Queen's prefide,
Our arts encourage, and our counsels guide;
Till after-ages, fill'd with glad furprize,
Behold his image all majestic rise,
Where now in pomp a venerable band,
Princes and Queens, and holy Fathers, stand.
Good Egglesfield claims homage from the eye,
And the hard ftone feems foft with piety;
The mighty monarchs ftill the fame appear,
And every marble frown provokes the war;
Whilft rugged rocks, mark'd with Philippa's face,
Soften to charms, and glow with new-born grace.
A fight lefs noble did the warriors yield,
Transform'd to ftatues by the Gorgon fhield;
Distorting fear the coward's form confeft,
And fury feem'd to heave the hero's breast;
The lifeless rocks each various thought betray'd,
And all the foul was in the ftone difplay'd.
Too high, my verse, has been thy daring flight,
Thy fofter numbers now the groves invite,
Robert Egglesfield, B. D. the founder, 1340. N.
Where filent fhades provoke the speaking lyre,
And chearful objects happy songs inspire,
At once beflow rewards, and thoughts infufe,
Compofe a garland, and fupply a Mufe.
Behold around, and fee the living green
In native colours paints a blooming scene;
Th' eternal buds no deadly Winter fear,
But fcorn the coldeft feafon of the year;
Apollo fure will blefs the happy place,
Which his own Daphne condefcends to grace;
For here the everlafting laurels grow,
In every grotto, and on every brow.
Profpects fo gay demand a Congreve's ftrains,
To call the gods and nymphs upon the plains;
Pan yields his empire o'er the fylvan throng,
Pleas'd to fubmit to his fuperior fong;
Great Denham's genius looks with rapture down,
And Spenfer's flade refigns the rural crown.
Fill'd with great thoughts, a thoufand Sages
Through every field and folitary grove;
Whofe fouls, afcending an exalted height,
Out-foar the drooping Mufe's vulgar flight,
That longs to fee her darling votaries laid
Beneath the covert of fome gentle shade,
Where purling ftreams and warbling birds con-
spire
To aid th' enchantments of the trembling lyre..
Bear me, fome God, to Chrift-Church, royal
And lay me foftly in the green retreat,
Where Aldrich holds o'er Wit the fovereign
And crowns the Pocts which he taught before.
To Aldrich Britain owes her tuneful Boyle,
The noblest trophy of the conquer'd ifle;
Who adds new warmth to our poetic fire,
And gives to England the Hibernian lyre.
Philips, by Phoebus and his Aldrich taught,
Sings with that heat wherewith his Churchill
fought,
Unfetter'd, in great Milton's strain he writes,
Like Milton's angels whilft his hero fights;
Purfues the Bard, whilft he with honour can,
Equals the Poet, and excels the man.
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