Her accents Isis' calm attention caught,
As lonesome, in her secret cell,
In ever-varying hues, as mimic fancy taught,
She rang'd the many-tinctur'd shell:
Then from her work arose the Nais mild;
She rose, and sweetly smil'd
With many a lovely look,
That whisper'd soft consent:
She smil'd, and gave the Goddess in her flood
To dip her casque, tho' dy'd in recent blood;
While Pallas, as the boon she took,
Thus pour'd the grateful sentiment.
For this, thy flood the fairest name
Of all Britannia's streams shall glide,
Best favourite of the sons of fame,
Of every tuneful breast the pride:
For on thy borders, bounteous queen,
Where now the cowslip paints the green
With unregarded grace,
Her wanton herds where nature feeds,
As lonesome o'er the breezy reeds
She bends her silent pace;
Lo! there, to wisdom's goddess dear,
A far-fam'd city shall her turrets rear,
There all her force shall Pallas prove;
Of classic leaf with every crown,
Each olive, meed of old renown,
Each ancient wreath, which Athens wove,
I'll bid her blooming bowers abound;
And Oxford's sacred seats shall tower
To thee, mild Nais of the flood,
The trophy of my gratitude!
The temple of my power!