THE TRIUMPH OF ISIS. OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING POEM. Thomas Warton Alexander Huber Editor Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford
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Oxford This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. T116245 1122 K093079.001 Pearch, G. A collection of poems in four volumes. By several hands. Vol. I. [The second edition]. London printed for G. Pearch 1770 pp. 205-213. 4v. ; 8⁰.

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THE TRIUMPH OF ISIS . OCCASIONED BY THE FOREGOING POEM . BY DR. THOMAS WARTON . ON closing flowers when genial gales diffuse The fragrant tribute of refreshing dews ; When chaunts the milk-maid at her balmy pail , And weary reapers whistle o'er the vale ; Charm'd by the murmurs of the quivering shade , O'er Isis' willow-fringed banks I stray'd : And calmly musing thro' the twilight way , In pensive mood I fram'd the Doric lay . When lo ! from opening clouds , a golden gleam Pour'd sudden splendors o'er the shadowy stream ; And from the wave arose its guardian queen , Known by her sweeping stole of glossy green ; While in the coral crown that bound her brow , Was wove the Delphic laurel's verdant bough . As the smooth surface of the dimply flood , The silver-slipper'd Isis lightly trod , From her loose hair the dropping dew she press'd , And thus mine ear in accents mild address'd . No more , my son , the rural reed employ , Nor trill the trifting strain of empty joy ; No more thy love-resounding sonnets suit To notes of pastoral pipe or oaten flute . For hark ! high-thron'd on you majestic walls , To the dear Muse afflicted Freedom calls : When Freedom calls , and Oxford bids thee sing , Why stays thy hand to strike the sounding string ? While thus , in Freedom's and in Phoebus' spite , The venal sons of slavish Cam , unite ; To shake yon towers , when Malice rears her crest , Shall all my sons in silence idly rest ? Still sing , O Cam , your favourite Freedom's cause ; Still boast of Freedom , while you break her laws : To power your songs of gratulation pay , To courts address soft Flattery's soothing lay . What tho' your gentle Mason's plaintive verse Has hung with sweetest wreaths Musaeus' hearse ; What tho' your vaunted bard's ingenuous woe , Soft as my stream , in tuneful numbers flow ? Yet strove his Muse , by Fame or Envy led , To tear the laurels from a sister's head ? — Misguided youth ! with rude unclassic rage To blot the beauties of thy whiter page ; A rage that sullies ev'n thy guiltless lays , And blasts the vernal bloom of half thy bays . Let Granta boast the patrons of her name , Each pompous fool of Fortune and of Fame : Still of preferment let her shine the queen , Prolific parent of each bowing dean : Be hers each prelate of the pamper'd cheek , Each courtly chaplain sanctify'd and sleek ; Still let the drones of her exhaustless hive On fat pluralities supinely thrive : Still let her senates titled slaves revere , Nor dare to know the patriot from the peer ; For tinsel'd courts their laurel'd mount despise , In stars and strings superlatively wise : No longer charm'd by Virtue's golden lyre , Who sung of old amid th' Aonian choir , Where Cam , slow winding thro' the breezy reeds , With kindly wave his groves of laurel feeds . 'Tis ours , my son , to deal the sacred bay , Where Honour calls , and Justice points the way ; To wear the well-earn'd wreath which Merit brings , And snatch a gift beyond the reach of kings . Scorning , and scorn'd by courts , yon Muses' bower Still nor enjoys , nor asks the smile of power . Tho' wakeful Vengeance watch my crystal spring . Tho' Persecution wave her iron wing , And o'er yon spiry temples as she flies , " These destin'd seats be mine , " exulting cries ; On Isis still each gift of Fortune waits , Still Peace and Plenty deck my beauteous gates . See Science walks with freshest chaplets crown'd ; With songs of joy my festal groves resound ; My Muse divine still keeps her wonted state , The front erect , and high majestic gait : Green as of old , each oliv'd portal smiles , And still the Graces build my Parian piles : My Gothic spires in ancient grandeur rise , And dare with wonted pride to rush into the skies ; Ah ! should'st thou fall ( forbid it heavenly powers ! ) Dash'd into dust with all thy cloud-capt towers ; Who but would mourn to British virtue dear , What patriot could refuse the manly tear ! What British Marius could refrain to weep O'er mighty Carthage fall'n , a prostrate heap ! Ev'n late when Radcliffe's delegated train Auspicious shone in Isis' happy plain ; When yon proud Radcliffe's library . dome , fair Learning's amplest shrine ; Beneath its Attic roofs receiv'd the nine ; Mute was the voice of joy and loud applause , To Radcliffe due , and Isis' honour'd cause ? What free-born crowds adorn the festive day , Nor blush'd to wear my tributary bay ! How each brave breast with honest ardors heav'd , When Sheldon's fane the patriot band receiv'd ; While , as we loudly hail'd the chosen few , Rome's awful senate rush'd upon our view ! O may the day in latest annals shine , That made a Beaufort , and an Harley mine : Then bade them leave the lostier scene awhile , The pomp of guiltless state , the patriot toil , For bleeding Albion's aid the sage design , To hold short dalliance with the tuneful nine . Then Music left her golden sphere on high , And bore each strain of triumph from the sky : Swell'd the full song , and to my chiefs around Pour'd the full Paeans of mellifluous sound , My Naiads blythe the floating accents caught , And listening danc'd beneath their pearly grot : In gentler eddies play'd my wanton wave , And all my reeds their softest whispers gave ; Each lay with brighter green adorn'd my bowers , And breath'd a fresher fragrance on my flowers . But lo ! at once the swelling concerts cease , And crowded theatres are hush'd in peace , See , on yon Sage how all attentive stand , To catch his darting eye , and waving hand . Hark ! he begins , with all a Tully's art To pour the dictates of a Cato's heart . Skill'd to pronounce what noblest thoughts inspire , He blends the speaker's with the patriot's fire ; Bold to conceive , nor timorous to conceal , What Britons dare to think , he dares to tell . 'Tis his alike the ear and eye to charm , To win with action , and with sense to warm ; Untaught in flowery diction to dispense The lulling sounds of sweet impertinence ; In frowns or smiles he gains an equal prize , Nor meanly fears to sall , not creeps to rise ; Bids happier days to Albion be restor'd , Bids ancient Justice rear her radiant sword ; From me , as from my country , wins applause , And makes an Oxford's a Britannia's cause . While arms like these my stedfast sages wield , While mine is Truth's impenetrable shield ; Say , shall the puny champion fondly dare To wage with force like this , scholastic war ? Still vainly scribble on with pert pretence , With all the rage of pedant impotence ? Say , shall I suffer this domestic pest , This parricide that wounds a mother's breast ? Thus in the stately ship that long has bore Britain's victorious cross from shore to shore , By chance , beneath her close sequester'd cells , Some low-born worm , a lurking mischief dwells ; Eats his blind way , and saps with secret toil The deep foundations of the watry pile . In vain the forest lent its stateliest pride , Rear'd her tall mast , and fram'd her knotty side ; In vain the thunder's martial rage she stood , With each fierce conflict of the stormy flood ; More sure the reptile's little arts devour , Than waves , or wars , or Eurus' wintry power . Ye venerable bowers , ye seats sublime , Clad in the mossy vest of fleeting time ; Ye stately piles of old munificence , At once the pride of learning and defence , Where ancient Piety , a matron hoar , Still seems to keep the hospitable door ; Ye cloisters pale , that length'ning to the sight , Still step by step to musings mild invite ; Ye high arch'd walks , where oft the bard has caught The glowing sentiment , the lofty thought ; Ye temples dim , where pious duty pays Her holy hymns of ever-echoing praise ; Lo ! your lov'd Isis , from the bordering vale , With all a mother's fondness bids you hail ! — Hail , Oxford , hail ! of all that's good and great , Of all that's fair , the guardian and the seat ; Nurse of each brave pursuit , each generous aim , By Truth exalted to the throne of Fame ! Like Greece in science and in liberty , As Athens learn'd , as Lacedaemon free ! Ev'n now , confess'd to my adoring eyes , In awful ranks thy sacred sons arise ; With every various flower their temples wreath'd , That in thy gardens green its fragrance breath'd . Tuning to knightly tale his British reeds , Thy crowding bards immortal Chaucer leads : His hoary head o'erlooks the gazing choir , And beams on all around celestial fire : With graceful step see Addison advance , The sweetest child of Attic elegance : To all , but his belov'd embrace , deny'd , See Locke leads Reason , his majestic bride : See sacred Hammond , as he treads the field , With godlike arm uprears his heavenly shield . All who , beneath the shades of gentle Peace , Best plann'd the labours of domestic ease ; Who taught with truth , or with persuasion mov'd ; Who sooth'd with numbers , or with sense improv'd ; Who told the powers of reason , or refin'd , All , all that strengthen'd or adorn'd the mind ; Each priest of Health , who mix'd the balmy bowl , To rear frail man , and stay the fieeting soul ; All crowd around , and echoing to the sky , Hail , Oxford , hail ! with filial transport cry . And see you solemn band ! with virtuous aim , 'Twas theirs in thought the glorious deed to frame : With pious plans each musing feature glows , And well-weigh'd counsels mark their meaning brows : " Lo ! these the leaders of thy patriot line , " Hamden and Hooker , Hyde and Sidney shine . These from thy source the fires of Freedom caught : How well thy sons by their example taught ! While in each breast th' hereditary flame Still blazes , unextinguish'd and the same ! Nor all the toils of thoughtful Peace engage , 'Tis thine to form the hero as the sage . I see the sable-suited prince advance With lillies crown'd , the spoils of bleeding France , Edward — the Muses in you hallow'd shade Bound on his tender thigh the martial blade : Bade him the steel for British Freedom draw , And Oxford taught the deeds that Cressy saw . And see , great father of the laureat band , The Alfred . Regis Romani . V. Virg. Aen. 6. British King before me seems to stand . He by my plenty-crowned scenes beguil'd , And genial influence of my seasons mild , Hither of yore ( forlorn , forgotten maid ) The Muse in prattling infancy convey'd ; From Gothic rage the helpless virgin bore , And fix'd her cradle on my friendly shore : Soon grew the maid beneath his fostering hand , Soon pour'd her blessings o'er th' enlighten'd land . Tho' rude the — Ad Capitolia ducit Aurea nunc , olim sylvestribus horrida dumis . VIRG. Aen. dome , and humble the retreat , Where first his pious care ordain'd her seat , Lo ! now on high she dwells in Attic bowers , And proudly lifts to heaven her hundred towers . He first fair Learning's and Britannia's cause Adorn'd with manners , and advanc'd with laws : He bade relent the Briton's savage heart , And form'd his soul to social scenes of art , Wisest and best of kings ! — with ravish'd gaze Elate the long procession he surveys : Joyful he smiles to find , that not in vain He plann'd the rudiments of Learning's reign : Himself he marks in each ingenuous breast , With all the founder in the race exprest : With rapture views , fair Freedom still survive In you bright domes ( ill-fated fugitive ) ( Such seen , as when the goddess pour'd the beam Unsullied on his ancient diadem ) Well-pleas'd that in his own Pierian seat She plumes her wings , and rests her weary feet ; That here at last she takes her favourite stand , " Here deigns to linger , ere she leave the land . "