OXFORD'.

INSCRIBED TO LORD LONSDALE,

MDCCVII2.

Unum opus est, intactæ Palladis urbem
Carmine perpetuo celebrare.

HOR. I. Ode vii.

WHILST you, my lord, adorn that stately seat
Where shining Beauty makes her soft retreat,
Enjoying all those graces, uncontrol'd,
Which noblest youths would die but to behold;
Whilst you inhabit Lowther's awful pile,
A structure worthy of the founder's toil,
Amazed we see the former Lonsdale shine
In each descendant of his noble line;
But most transported and surprised we view
His ancient glories all revived in you,

Where charms and virtues join their equal race, Your father's godlike soul, your mother's lovely face.

1 This poem is subjoined to Dr. Johnson's Life of Tickell 2 Richard, second Lord Viscount Lonsdale. He died of the small-pox, Dec. 1, 1713.

3 Sir John Lowther, one of the early promoters of the Revolution, was constituted Vice Chamberlain to King William and Queen Mary on their advancement to the throne, created Baron Lowther and Viscount Lonsdale in 1696, and appointed Lord Privy Seal in 1699. He died July 10, 1700.

Me fortune and kind Heaven's indulgent care To famous Oxford and the Muses bear, Where of all ranks the blooming youths combine To pay due homage to the mighty Nine, And snatch with smiling joy the laurel crown, Due to the learned honours of the gown: Here I, the meanest of the tuneful throng, Delude the time with an unhallow'd song ; Which thus my thanks to much-loved Oxford pays, In no ungrateful, though unartful lays.

Where shall I first the beauteous scene disclose, And all the gay variety expose?

For wheresoe'er I turn my wondering eyes
Aspiring towers and verdant groves arise;
Immortal greens the smiling plains array,
And mazy rivers murmur all the way.

O! might your eyes behold each sparkling dome,
And freely o'er the beauteous prospect roam,
Less ravish'd your own Lowther you 'd survey,
Though pomp and state the costly seat display;
Where Art so nicely has adorn'd the place,
That Nature's aid might seem an useless grace;
Yet Nature's smiles such various charms impart
That vain and needless are the strokes of Art.
In equal state our rising structures shine,
Framed by such rules and form'd by such design,
That here, at once surprised and pleased, we view
Old Athens lost and conquer'd in the new ;

More sweet our shades, more fit our bright abodes For warbling Muses and inspiring gods.

Great Vanburgh's self might own each artful draught

Equal to models in his curious thought.

4 Sir John Vanburgh.

Nor scorn a fabric by our plans to frame,
Or in immortal labours sing their fame:
Both

ways he saves them from destroying Fate, If he but praise them, or but imitate.

See where the sacred Sheldon's haughty domes
Rivals the stately pomp of ancient Rome,
Whose form so great and noble seems design'd
To' express the grandeur of its founder's mind:
Here in one lofty building we behold

Whate'er the Latian pride could boast of old.
True, no dire combats feed the savage eye,
And strew the sand with sportive cruelty;
But more adorn'd with what the Muse inspires,
It far outshines their bloody theatres.

Delightful scene! when here in equal verse
The youthful bards their godlike queen rehearse,
To Churchill's wreaths Apollo's laurel join,
And sing the plains of Hochstet and Judoign.
Next let the Muse record our Bodley's seat',
Nor aim at numbers like the subject great.
All hail! thou fabric sacred to the Nine,
Thy fame immortal and thy form divine!
Who to thy praise attempts the dangerous flight
Should in thy various tongues be taught to write;
His verse, like thee, a lofty dress should wear,
And breathe the genius which inhabits there;
Thy proper lays alone can make thee live,
And pay that fame which first thyself did give:
So fountains which through secret channels flow,
And pour above, the floods they take below,
Back to their father Ocean urge their way,
And to the sea the streams it gave repay.
6 The Bodleian Library

5 The Theatre.

No more we fear the military rage Nursed up in some obscure barbarian age, Nor dread the ruin of our arts divine

From thick-skull'd heroes of the gothic line,
Though pale the Romans saw those arms advance,
And wept their learning lost in ignorance.
Let brutal rage around its terrors spread,
The living murder, and consume the dead,
In impious fires let noblest writings burn,
And, with their authors, share a common urn,
Only, ye fates! our loved Bodleian spare,
Be It, and Learning's self shall be, your care;
Here every art and every grace shall join,
Collected Phoebus here alone shall shine,
Each other seat be dark, and this be all divine
Thus when the Greeks imperial Troy defaced,
And to the ground its fatal walls debased,
In vain they burn the work of hands divine,
And vow destruction to the Dardan line,
Whilst good Æneas flies the' unequal wars,
And with his guardian gods Iülus bears ;
Old Troy for ever stands in him alone,
And all the Phrygian kings survive in one.

Here still presides each sage's reverend shade, In soft repose and easy grandeur laid;

Their deathless works forbid their fame to die,
Nor Time itself their persons shall destroy,
Preserved within the living Gallery".

What greater gift could bounteous Heaven bestow
Than to be seen above, and read below?
With deep respect I bend my duteous head
To see the faithful likeness of the dead;

7 The Picture-Gallery.

But O! what Muse can equal warmth impart?
The painter's skill transcends the poet's art.
When round the pictured founders I descry,
With goodness soft and great with majesty,
So much of life the artful colours give,
Scarce more within their colleges they live;
My blood begins in wilder rounds to roll,
And pleasing tumults combat in my soul,
An humble awe my downcast eyes betray,
And only less than adoration
pay.
Such were the Roman fathers when, o'ercome,
They saw the Gauls insult o'er conquer'd Rome,
Each captive seem'd the haughty victor's lord,
And prostrate chiefs their awful slaves adored.
Such art as this adorns your Lowther's Hall,
Where feasting gods canonse upon the wall;
The nectar which creating paint supplies
of eating
Intoxicates each pleased spectator's eyes,
Who view amazed the figures, heavenly fair,
And think they breathe the true Elysian air :
With strokes so bold, great Verrio's hand has drawn
The gods in dwellings brighter than their own.
Fired with a thousand raptures, I behold
What lively features graced each bard of old;
Such lips I think did guide his charming tongue,
In such an air as this the poet sung;

Such eyes as these glow'd with the sacred fire,
And hands like these employ'd the vocal lyre.
Quite ravish'd 1 pursue each image o'er,

And scarce admire their deathless labours more.
See, where the gloomy Scaliger appears,
Each shade is critic and each feature sneers!
The artful Ben so smartly strikes the eye,
I more than see a fancied comedy;