Classic Poem

On the Jubilee at Pembroke-College Cambridge, in 1743

I

God of science, light divine,
O'er all the world of learning shine;
Shine fav'ring from th' etherial way:
But here with tenfold influence dwell,
Here all thy various rays compell
To dignify this joyful day
Nor thou, Melpomene, thy aid refuse,
Nor leave behind the comic muse;
Mirthful mild, and gravely gay,
Hither from your thrones away
And thou, jolly Bacchus, shalt haste to come down,
While the full-flowing cup with fresh flow'rets we crown;
But boast not here thy madding influence,
For close beside thee Pallas' self shall stand,
And hold thy temerarious hand,
Forbidding rage to triumph over sense
And ye, illustrious-sacred shades,
Who whilom in these muse-resounding glades,
High in rapture wont to stray,
Or trim the learned lamp, till dawn of day,
Ye blessed sons of happier fates,
Deign to look down from heav'n and see
How lasting sweet the memory,
Which to eternal fame fair virtue consecrates
See, still fresh bloom your names thro' every age,
Still greatly live along the speaking page.

II

But chiefly thou, Dan Spencer, peerless bard,
Sith in these pleasaunt groves you 'gan devise,
Of Red-cross knight, and virtue's high reward,
And here first plann'd thy works of vast emprize,
Descend! nor thy inferior sons despise,
Chaunting her praises on his festal day,
Who taught us, where the road to honour lies,
Her steps still marking out the arduous way:
Blest is the theme I ween, and blessed be the lay.

III

Behold, in virtue, and in beauty's pride,
Behold, at once, a widow and a bride!
See all the nuptial revels at a stand,
And Hymen's torch in Libitina's hand.
O what a scene! — —
But, yonder, from on high, descend
Religion, orphan-virtue's firmest friend,
And laurell'd learning, mistress of the muse,
Who, o'er the arts, sits on an eminence,
By genius erected, and by sense,
And with unbounded prospect all things views.
With gentle hands they raise her drooping head,
And bid her trust in heav'n, nor wail the happy dead
All that is great and good she now pursues;
She meditates a mansion for the muse,
Nor will she lose a day;
To you, religion, wisdom and to you
She gives that prime, which pleasure calls her due,
And folly wastes in wantonness away
She, by no specious flow'rs beguil'd,
That deck imagination's wild ,
And witless youth decoy,
Chose learning's cultivated glades,
And virtue's ever-blooming shades,
That give alone true joy.

IV .

To Granta now, where gentle Camus laves
The reedy shore, and rolls his silver waves,
She flies, and executes, with bounteous hand,
The work her mighty soul had plann'd,
And unborn minds she forms, and future souls she saves.
And to ensure that work to endless fame,
Left what can never die, her own illustrious name.
Let others, with enthusiasm fill'd,
Nunneries and convents build;
Where, decay'd with fasts and years,
Melancholy loves to dwell,
Moaping in her midnight cell,
And counts her beads, and mumbles o'er th' unmeaning pray'rs
Religious joy, and sober pleasure,
Virtuous ease, and learned leisure,
Society and books, that give
Th' important lesson how to live:
These are gifts, are gifts divine,
For, fair Pembroke, these were thine.