When first the college rolls receive his name,
The young enthusiast quits his ease for fame;
Through all his veins the fever of renown
Spreads from the strong contagion of the gown;
O’er Bodley’s dome his future labours spread,
And Bacon’s mansion trembles o’er his head. 
Are these thy views?  Proceed, illustrious youth,
And virtue guard thee to the throne of truth! 
Yet should thy soul indulge the generous heat,
Till captive science yields her last retreat;
Should reason guide thee with her brightest ray,
And pour on misty doubt resistless day;
Should no false kindness lure to loose delight,
Nor praise relax, nor difficulty fright;
Should tempting novelty thy cell refrain,
And sloth effuse her opiate fumes in vain;
Should beauty blunt on fops her fatal dart,
Nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart;
Should no disease thy torpid veins invade,
Nor melancholy’s phantoms haunt thy shade;
Yet hope not life from grief or danger free,
Nor think the doom of man reversed for thee: 
Deign on the passing world to turn thine eyes,
And pause awhile from letters, to be wise;
There mark what ills the scholar’s life assail,
Toil, envy, want, the patron, and the jail. 
See nations slowly wise, and meanly just,
To buried merit raise the tardy bust!

* * * * *

On what foundation stands the warrior’s pride,
How just his hopes, let Swedish Charles decide. 
A frame of adamant, a soul of fire,
No dangers fright him, and no labours tire;
O’er love, o’er fear, extends his wide domain,
Unconquered lord of pleasure and of pain. 
No joys to him pacific sceptres yield—­
War sounds the trump, he rushes to the field;
Behold surrounding kings their powers combine,
And one capitulate, and one resign: 
Peace courts his hand, but spreads her charms in vain;
‘Think nothing gained,’ he cries, ’till naught remain! 
On Moscow’s walls till Gothic standards fly,
And all be mine beneath the polar sky!’
The march begins in military state,
And nations on his eye suspended wait. 
Stern Famine guards the solitary coast,
And Winter barricades the realms of frost. 
He comes; nor want nor cold his course delay—­
Hide, blushing Glory, hide Pultowa’s day! 
The vanquished hero leaves his broken bands,
And shows his miseries in distant lands,
Condemned a needy supplicant to wait
While ladies interpose and slaves debate. 
But did not Chance at length her error mend? 
Did no subverted empire mark his end? 
Did rival monarchs give the fatal wound,
Or hostile millions press him to the ground? 
His fall was destined to a barren strand,
A petty fortress, and a dubious hand. 
He left the name at which the world grew pale,
To point a moral or adorn a tale.

* * * * *