Whilft liftening crowds confefs the sweet furprize, With pleasure in their breafts, and wonder in their eyes.

Here curious minds the latent feeds difclofe, And Nature's darkest labyrinths expose; Whilft greater fouls the diftant worlds defcry, Pierce to the out-ftretch'd borders of the sky, Enlarge the fearching mind, and broad expand the eye.

O you, whofe rifing years fo great began,
In whose bright youth I read the fhining man,
Lonsdale, know what noblest minds approve,
The thoughts they cherish, and the arts they
love:

Let these examples your young bosom fire,
And bid your foul to boundless height afpire.
Methinks I fee you in our fhades retir'd,
Alike admiring, and by all admir'd:

Your eloquence now charms my ravifli'd ear,
Which future fenates fhall transported hear,
Now mournful verfe inspires a pleasing woe,
And now your cheeks with warlike fury glow,
Whilst on the paper fancy'd fields appear,

And profpects of imaginary war;

Your martial foul fees Hockstet's fatal plain,
Or fights the fam'd Ramilia o'er again.

But I in vain these lofty names rehearse,
Above the faint attempts of humble verse,
Which Garth fhould in immortal strains design,
Or Addifon exalt with warmth divine;
A meaner fong my tender voice requires,
And fainter lays confefs the fainter fires,
By Nature fitted for an humble theme,
A painted profpect, or a murmuring stream,
To tune a vulgar note in Echo's praise,
Whilft Echo's felf refounds the flattering lays;
Or, whilst I tell how Myra's charms furprize,
Paint rofes on her cheeks, and funs within her
eyes.

Ó, did proportion'd height to me belong, Great Anna's name fhould grace th' ambitious fong;

Illuftrious dames fhould round their Queen re

fort,

And Lonídale's mother crown the fplendid court; Her noble fon fhould boast no vulgar place,

But share the ancient honours of his race;

I

Whild

Whilst each fair daughter's face and conquering

eyes

To Venus only should submit the prize.

O matchless beauties! more than heavenly fair, Your looks refiftlefs, and divine your air,

Let your bright eyes their bounteous beams diffuse,

And no fond Bard fhall afk an useless Mufe;
Their kindling rays excite a noble fire,
Give beauty to the fong, and mufic to the lyre.
This charming theme I ever could pursue,
And think the infpiration ever new,
Did not the God my wandering pen reftrain,
And bring me to his Oxford back again.

Oxford, the Goddefs Mufe's native home, Infpir'd like Athens, and adorn'd like Rome! Hadft thou of old been Learning's fam'd re

treat,

And Pagan Mufes chofe thy lovely feat,

O, how unbounded had their fiction been!
What fancy'd visions had adorn'd the scene!
Upon each hill a Sylvan Pan had stood,
And every thicket boafted of a God;

Satyrs had frisk'd in each poetic grove,

And not a stream without its Nymphs could'

move;

Each fummit had the train, of Mufes fhew'd,
And Hippocrene in every fountain flow'd;
The tales, adorn'd with each poetic grace,,
Had look'd almoft as charming as the place.
Ev'n now we hear the world with transports

own

Thofe fictions by more wond'rous truths out

done;

Here pure Eufebia keeps her holy feat,,

And Themis fmiles from Heaven on this retreat; Our chafter Graces own refin'd defires,

And all our Mufes burn with veftal fires;
Whilft Guardian-angels our Apollo's ftand,
Scattering rich favours with a bounteous
hand,

To bless the happy air, and fanctify the land.
O pleafing fhades! O ever-green retreats!
Ye learned grottoes! and ye facred feats!
Never may you politer arts refuse,
But entertain in peace the bafhful Mufe!

So

So may you be kind Heaven's diftinguish'd care,
And may your fame be lafting, as 'tis fair!!
Let greater Bards on fam'd Parnaffus dream,.
On taste th' infpiring Heliconian stream;
Yet, whilft our Oxford is the blefs'd abode
Of every Mufe, and every tuneful God,
Parnaffus owns its honours far outdone,.
And Ifis boafts more Bards than Helicon..

A thousand bleffings I to Oxford owe,

But you, my Lord, th' inspiring Mufe bestow; Grac'd with your name th' unpolish'd poem fhines,

You guard its faults, and confecrate the lines.. O might you here meet my defiring eyes,

My drooping fong to nobler heights would rife: Or might I come to breathe your Northern air,

Yet fhould I find an equal pleasure there;.
Your prefence would the harfher climate footh,
Huth every wind,, and every mountain smooth;
Would bid the groves in springing pomp arise,
And open charming vifta's to the eyes;

Would