And see, great father of the laureat band,
The 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 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."