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ENCE! avaunt ! 'tis holy ground,

Comus and his midnight crew,
And Ignorance, with looks profound,

And dreaming Sloth, of pallid hue;
Mad Sedition's cry profane,
Servitude that hugs her chain;

Nor, in the consecrated bowers,
Let painted Flatt'ry hide her serpent train in


CHORUS. Nor Envy base, nor creeping Gain, Dare the Muses walk to ftain; While bright-ey'd Science walks around, Hence ! ayaunt ! 'tis holy ground.

RECITATI V E. From yonder realms of empyrian day,

Bursts on my ear th' indignant lay! There fit the sainted sage, the bard divine,

The few whom Genius gave to shine, Thro' every unborn age and undiscover'd

clime ; Rapt in celestial transport they : Yet higher oft a glance from high

They fend of tender fympathy, To blefs the place, where on their op'ning

fogl First the genaine ardor stole; 'Twas Milton ftruck the deep-con'd shell, And as the choral warblings round him


Meek Newton's self bends from his state

sublime, And nods his hoary head, and listens to the


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A I. R.
• Ye brown o'er-arching groves

« That contemplation loves,
• Where willoway Camus lingers with de-

• Oft at blush of dawn

• I've trode your level lawn,
• Oft would the gleam of Cynthia's filver

light • In cloisters dim, far from the haunts of

Folly, • With freedom by my side, and soft-ey'd


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But hark! the portals found, and pacing

With solemn steps and flow, [forth
High potentates, and dames of royal birth,
And mitred fathers, in long order go;

Great Edward, with the lillies on his brow,

From haughty Gallia tord; And sad Chatillon, on ber bridal morn, That wept her bleeding love ; and princely


And Anjou's heroine; and the paler rose, The rival of her crown and of her woes ;

And either Henry there, The murder'd faint, and the majestic lord

That broke the bonds of Rome. Their tears, their little triumphs o'er,

Their human paffions move no more, Save Charity, that glows beyond the tomb.

All that on Granta's fruitful plain

Rich streams of regal bounty pour'd, And bade their awful fanes and turrets rise, To hail their Fitzroy's feftal morning come.

And thus they speak, in foft accord,
The liquid language of the kies.

What is grandeur ? what is power?
Heavier toil! fuperior pain !

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What the bright reward of gain?
The grateful memory of the good:
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,
The beeś collected treafure sweet;
Sweet Music's fall. ---but sweeter yet,
The ftill, small voice of gratitude !

Foremost and leaning from her golden clou

The venerable Margaret fee
Welcome, my noble Son, the cries aloud,

To this thy kindred train and me;
Pleas'd in thy lineaments to trace
A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace !

A I R.
Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye,
The flower unheeded shall descry,
And bid it round Heav'n's altars Thed
The fragrance of its blushing head,
Shall raise from earth the latent gem,
To glitter on the diadem!

Lo Granta waits to lead her blooming band,

Not obvious, not obtrusive the ;

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