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’s[6] Brunck’s[6] 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.]

* * * * *

TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE.

1.

  This faint resemblance of thy charms,
    (Though strong as mortal art could give)
  My constant heart of fear disarms,
    Revives my hopes, and bids me live.

2.

  Here I can trace the locks of gold,
    Which round thy snowy forehead wave,
  The cheeks which sprung from Beauty’s mould,
    The lips which made me Beauty’s slave.