High in the midst surrounded by his peers,
M—ns—l his ample front sublime
uprears; Plac’d on his chair of state, he
seems a God, While Sophs and Freshmen, tremble at
his nod. Whilst all around sit wrapt in speechless
gloom, His voice in thunder shakes the sounding
dome; Denouncing dire reproach, to luckless fools,
Unskill’d to plod in mathematic rules.
Happy the youth! in Euclid’s axioms
tried,
Though little vers’d in any art
beside;
Who with scarce sense to pen an English
letter,
Yet with precision, scans an attic
metre.
What! though he knows not how his fathers
bled,
When civil discord pil’d the fields
with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands
advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France;
Though marvelling at the name of Magna
Charta,
Yet, well he recollects the laws of
Sparta.
Can tell what edicts sage Lycurgus
made,
Whilst Blackstone’s on the
shelf neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless
fame,
Of Avon’s bard, remembering
scarce the name.
Such is the youth, whose scientific pate,
Class honours, medals, fellowships await;
Or even perhaps the declamation
prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his
eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope;
Not that our heads much eloquence
require,
The ATHENIAN’s glowing style, or
TULLY’s fire.
The manner of the speech is nothing,
since
We do not try by speaking to convince;
Be other orators of pleasing proud,
We speak to please ourselves, not
move the crowd.
Our gravity prefers the muttering
tone,
A proper mixture of the squeak and
groan;
No borrow’d grace of action,
must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the
dean.
Whilst every staring graduate would prate,
Against what, he could never imitate.
The man, who hopes t’ obtain the
promis’d cup,
Must in one posture stand, and
ne’er look up,
Nor stop, but rattle over every
word,
No matter what, so it can not
be heard;
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest,
Who speaks the fastest, ’s
sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space,
May safely hope to win the wordy race.
The sons of Science these, who
thus repaid,
Linger in ease, in Granta’s sluggish
shade;
Where on Cam’s sedgy banks supine
they lie,
Unknown, unhonour’d live, unwept
for, die.
Dull as the pictures, which adorn their
halls,
They think all learning fix’d within
their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts, affecting to despise.
Yet prizing Bentley’s6 Brunck’s6
or Porson’s[7] note,
More than the verse, on which the critic
wrote;
With eager haste, they court the tool
of power,
(Whether ’tis PITT or PETTY rules
the hour:)
To him, with suppliant smiles they
bend the head,
Whilst mitres, prebends, to their eyes
are spread.
But should a storm o’erwhelm him
with disgrace,
They’d fly to seek the next, who
fill’d his place;
Such are the men who learning’s
treasures guard,
Such is their practice,
such is their reward;
This much at least we may presume
to say,
Th’ reward’s scarce
equal, to the price they pay.
1806.
[Footnote 6: Celebrated Critics.]
[Footnote 7: The present Greek
Professor at Cambridge.]
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