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Joy to your shades! the great career is run,

Reserv'd by Fate for some superior hand,

Confest, the last, th'auspicious work shall stand, And Statesman, Monarch end what ye begun.

Ye too, once Inmates of these walls renown'd,

Whose spirits, mingling with th’ ethereal ray, Of universal Nature trac'd the bound,

Or rais'd in majesty of thought the lay,

See your lov'd Arts this clime to grace,

Their rival radiance brighter shed, While Holles smiles the wreath to place

Upon the youthful Victor's head.

Where Spenser sits among your thrones sublime,

To the soft music of his mournful lays Listening ye weep for his ungrateful time,

And point the better hope of happier days.

If with the dead dishonour's memory dies,

Forget, much injur'd Name, th’unworthy woe;

In strains like thine so may our accents flow, In nobler numbers yon fair domes arise.

When Faction's storms, or some fell Tyrant's hate

Arts join'd with Freedom to one grave shall doom, Then tho' these structures to the hand of Fate

Bend their proud height, like thine, imperial Rome,

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Know, vainly, Time, thy rapid rage

Shall point its wide destroying aim,
Since what defies the force of age

Thus consecrates the pile to Fame;

Some future eye the ruin'd heap shall trace,

The name of Holles on the stone behold, Shall point a Brunswic to a distant race,

Benign, and awful on the swelling gold.

Th’historic page, the poet's tuneful toil,

With these compar'd, their mutual aid shall raise

To build the records of eternal praise, And deck with endless wreaths their honour'd soil.

Sweeter than warbled sounds that win the sense

Flows the glad music of a grateful heart, Beyond the pomp of wordy eloquence,

Or strains too cold, high-wrought with labour'd art.

Tho' weakly sounds the jarring string;

Tho'vainly would the Muse explore
The heights to which with eagle wing

Alone can heaven-taught Genius soar;

Yet shall her hand ingenious strive to twine

The blooming chaplet for her Leader's brow; While with new verdure grac'd, in Glory's shrine,

The ampler Palms of civic Honours grow;

When he, these favour'd shades appears to bless,

Whose guardian counsels guide a nation's fate,

And with superior toils for Europe's state Mixes the thought of Granta's happiness.

Hail seats rever'd I where thoughtful pleasures dwell,

And hovering Peace extends her downy wings, Where musing Knowledge holds her humble cell,

And Truth divine unlocks her secret springs;

This verse with mild acceptance deign

To hear; this verse yourselves inspire,
Ere yet within your sacred fane

The Muse suspends her votive lyre.

Thee, Granta, thus with filial thanks I greet,

With smiles maternal thou those thanks receive, For Learning's humble wealth, for friendship sweet,

For every calmer joy thy scenes could give.

While thus I sport upon thy peaceful strand,

The storms of life at awful distance roar;

And still I dread, still lingering on the shore, To launch my little bark, and quit the land.




Supposed to have been found in a dark Passage in the




Rise, winds of night! relentless tempests, rise !

Rush from the troubled clouds, and o'er me roll; In this chill pause a deeper horror lies,

A wilder fear appals my shudd'ring soul.'Twas on this day, this hour accurst,

That Nature starting from repose
Heard the dire shrieks of murder burst-
From infant innocence they rose,

And shook these solemn towers!
I shudd'ring pass that fatal room
For ages wrapt in central gloom ;-
I shudd'ring pass that iron door

Which Fate perchance unlocks no more;
Death smear'd with blood o'er the dark portal lowesrs.

How fearfully my step resounds

Along these lonely bounds:
Spare, savage blast! the taper's quiv'ring fires,
Deep in these gath’ring shades its flame expires.

Ye host of heaven! the door recedes-
It mocks my grasp—what unseen hands
Have burst its iron bands?
No mortal force this gate unbarr'd

Where danger lives, which terrors guard-
Dread powers! its screaming hinges close

On this dire scene of impious deeds-
My feet are fix'd! - Dismay has bound

My step on this polluted ground-
But lo! the pitying moon, a line of light

Athwart the horrid darkness dimly throws, And from yon grated window chases night.

ye seem

Ye visions that before me roll,
That freeze my blood, that shake my soull
Are ye the phantoms of a dream ?
Pale spectres, are ye

They glide more near-

Their forms unfold! Fix'd are their eyes, on

they bendTheir glaring look is cold !

And hark !-I hear
Sounds that the throbbing pulse of life suspend.

"No wild illusion cheats thy sight
• With shapes that only live in night

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