The sweetest child of Attic elegance:
See Chillingworth the depths of doubt explore,
And Selden ope the rolls of ancient lore:
To all but his beloved embrace denied,
See Locke lead Reason, his majestic bride:
See Hammond pierce Religion's golden mine,
And spread the treasured stores of truth divine.
Thomas Warton.
OXFORD! let delivered Britain know
From thy famed seats her several blessings flow.
The accoutred barons and assisting knights
In thee prepared for council or for fights,
Planned and obtained her civil liberty:
Truth found her fearless witnesses in thee;
When, tried as gold, saints, from thy tottering pyres,
Rose up to heaven, Elijah-like, in fires!
Peace to thy walls! and honor to thy name!
May age to age record thy gathering fame!
While thy still favored seats pour forth their youth,
Brave advocates of liberty and truth!
In fair succession rise to bless the realm!
Fathers in church, and statesmen at the helm!
OXFORD, MAY 30, 1820.
E sacred nurseries of blooming youth!
In whose collegiate shelter England's flowers Expand, enjoying through their vernal hours The air of liberty, the light of truth;
Much have ye suffered from Time's gnawing tooth,
Yet, O ye spires of Oxford! domes and towers!
Gardens and groves! your presence overpowers
The soberness of reason; till, in sooth,
Transformed, and rushing on a bold exchange,
I slight my own belovéd Cam, to range
Where silver Isis leads my stripling feet;
Pace the long avenue, or glide adown
The stream-like windings of that glorious street, -
An eager novice robed in fluttering gown!
NEVER hear the sound of thy glad bells, Oxford! and chime harmonious, but I say (Sighing to think how time has worn away), "Some spirit speaks in the sweet tone that swells, Heard after years of absence, from the vale
Where Cherwell winds." Most true it speaks the tale
Of days departed, and its voice recalls
Hours of delight and hope in the gay tide
Of life, and many friends now scattered wide
By many fates. Peace be within thy walls!
I have scarce heart to visit thee; but yet,
Denied the joys sought in thy shades, - denied
Each better hope, since my poor died,
What I have owed to thee my heart can ne'er forget!
FOR A MONUMENT AT OXFORD.
TERE Latimer and Ridley in the flames
Bore witness to the truth. If thou hast walked
Uprightly through the world, just thoughts of joy
May fill thy breast in cóntemplating here
Congenial virtue. But if thou hast swerved
From the strait path of even rectitude,
Fearful in trying seasons to assert
The better cause, or to forsake the worse
Reluctant, when perchance therein enthralled
Slave to false shame, O, thankfully receive
The sharp, compunctious motions that this spot
May wake within thee, and be wise in time,
And let the future for the past atone!
OT with that breathless haste and startling knock
With which, old Gateway, in the days of yore
I thundered nightly at your wicket door,
Rousing the sleepy porter with the shock,
While midnight chimes rang out from many a clock,
If e'er from India's plains returning home,
Before thy venerable arch I come,
Shall I make clank thy chains, and hinges rock :
But should my footfall be no longer bold,
My hand strike weakly, my thin locks be gray,
My eye shine dim, my weary heart feel old
In the long path to wealth, a weary way,
Dear porch, still on thee shall I fondly gaze,
With all the love, not dread, of earlier days.
HALL! where an Emperor deigned to feast, I see
Thy lofty roof, thy giant hearth, where blazed
Too liberal flame: thy haughty dais, raised
O'er the stone floor with proud distinction, free
Only for social foot of high degree:
Thy polished tables, and the Tutor's chair,
This for long lecture, those for simple fare,
Thy portraits, all are present; but for me
Gone is thy magic with the vanished crowd
Who met light-hearted at the daily board,
When thou didst ring with jest and laughter loud.
Far parted now, we toil no more to meet
What care I though through thee light laugh be poured, And thou dost echo still to youthful feet?
QUAINT gloomy chamber, oldest relic left
Of monkish quiet; like a ship thy form,
Stranded keel upward by some sudden storm,
Now that a safe and polished age hath cleft
Locks, bars, and chains, that saved thy tomes from theft,
May Time, a surer robber, spare thine age,
And reverence each huge black-lettered page,
Of real boards and gilt-stamped leather reft.
Long may ambitious student here unseal
The secret mysteries of classic lore;
Though urged not by that blind and aimless zeal
With which the Scot within these walls of yore
Transcribed the Bible without breaking fast,
Toiled through each word, and perished at the last.
FILL high the tankard; crown the silver bowl
With bright October's foaming amber; spread
The ashen board with manchets white of bread;
For hark! the hour of noon; and forth the whole
Dry Lecture rushes with a thirsty soul.
Up the hall-stairs the merry youths draw near,
And throng the buttery for noontide cheer.
See Charon comes to claim his weekly dole:
O grim old ferryman,' how oft my boat,
Through the long summer eve, on Isis' wave,
Beside thy fearful barge would careless float,
While thou o'er thy kind-cruel weapons sate,
And, with an artist's fondness, didst relate
Of drowning youths saved from a watery grave.
1 An old man, a servant of the Humane Society, stationed on the river, for the prevention of accidents. His punt was filled with horrid-looking implements, the drags, hooks, etc. of his calling.
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